I've decided that if I could just stay off of the highway, my life (and my temperament) would improve immensely. Driving crosstown every day during rush hour traffic is a horrific way to start and end each work day. It's not that I necessarily mind bumper to bumper traffic or even a long commute. If I'm listening to some good tunes or immersed in John MacArthur I don't even notice what's going on around me...that is until that idiot beside me veers over, having waited until the last second to merge. My uncle Ricky used to read those yellow warning signs along the side of the road when a lane ends as: Murdering Traffic; and for me, it isn't far from the truth.
You see, when it comes to merging, everyone seems to have their own set of rules. And so even though you may be playing by YOUR set of rules, if it breaks MY set of rules, then of course I'm horribly livid. It's kind of like my 'roast' example...everyone thinks THEIR set of rules is the correct one. Some folks out there have one set of rules (we can call them the 'A' rules), and I have a set (that we can call the 'B' rules). For example, when two lanes merge into one lane...most of us follow the 'B' rules (as in 'B' considerate) and go ahead and get into the 'surviving lane' long before the 'merging' lane ends. Shoot, if you believe what the signs say, there's even a STATE LAW that says to do it that way! But there's always those few folks that don't feel like they should have to fall into place, and they drive as fast as they can, as long as they can, as long as their asphalt lasts and then they whip into whatever 'hole' they can find (usually right in front of me, since I usually try to leave a car length or so of bumper room between myself and 'happy tappy break feet' ahead of me).
Sometimes I will amend my 'B' rules and use the 'C' rules (let's 'C' you try that now) and park my obstinate auto in the middle of the highway when there's less than two lanes left, but more than one lane available; so that when those aforementioned 'A' drivers come flying into my rearview mirror looking for a hole to pull into, I've blocked the 'A' holes (so to speak) that they were hoping to squeeze into and force them to find a 'B' hole to merge into in front of the 'B' folks 'B'-hind me ('C' what I mean?). So whether you're talking about the 'A' holes or the 'B' holes, what it comes down to is that we pretty much 'merge' our rules to fit the 'hole' we are in and to justify how we got there.
The whole world is becoming more and more like this. We have a set of rules we're supposed to follow, but those rules have been deemed 'out of date' and not in vogue any longer (aka: not PC). So, if I'm Tiger or Jesse, Elton or Ellen or any of the other 'first name famous' people, (or even if I'm Tom, Dick or Harry met Sally for that matter) I can play by my own rules or at least have a double set of them. A prime example of this is what the Pope is dealing with right now. But it's not restricted to the Catholic priests...the politicians do it, their constituents do it, the teachers, the preachers, the folks in the bleachers, the speakers, the hearers, those guys in the mirrors ("if you want to make the world a bettuh place, take a look at yourself and make that...change!"). Everybody's doing it. But it's nothing new...ask Bathsheba (or her first husband...or her second husband).
What's just as frustrating are the ones out there that actually do have a single set of rules, but they're so busy applying the rules they see as important to everyone else, they don't notice all the ones that they're obliterating. It's the old 'get that speck out of your eye' from Matthew 7:3 that I paraphrase in one of my songs this way: "We're busy pickin' up specks of sand, meanwhile we're trippin' over piles of wood", aka: the pot calling the kettle black, the overeater calling the smoker unhealthy, the early riser calling the night owl lazy, the adulterer calling the slanderer names, the unhappy people trying to bring down the king of the Happy Meals ("Love You, Ronald"), and especially anyone who is critical of the poor Hippopotamus and any Christian not showing grace (both of the last two make you Hippo Critical).
So no doubt you're wondering (as I've been wandering), "are there merging tips in the Bible?" Well, of course! But I suggest you NOT use the King James Mergin' because "many there be which go in thereat," will just confuse you. Using the New International Mergin' (some of my Blog readers ARE overseas you know), I can actually give you a few of them. First of all, don't even attempt to merge until you Clear Your Blind Spot ("remove the plank from your own eye"). Secondly, always be on the look out for the Yellow Sign (aka: the Golden Sign - Merge Into Others As You Would Have Them Merge Into You!). And lastly, the road to Heaven is a narrow one...so as the throngs of Christians maneuver their way, there's bound to be few that cut in front of you right before you reach the narrow gate. Now before you're tempted to shout in your best King James voice, "Get thee behind me, Satan," I perhaps should remind you of a paraphrase from the New American Randym Mergin' that says: The last shall be first, and the first shall be...passed. In other words, get over...and get over it. I'll do my best to remember that tomorrow morning on my way to work.
Monday, May 3, 2010
Friday, April 23, 2010
PUT ANOTHER BLOG ON THE FIRE
I always encouraged my kids to go to college. Not because of the old accepted adage that "you can't get a good job without a degree" but because I knew that it would make them better writers, increase their vocabularies, and teach them concepts and curriculum never even approached in high school. Just as important was the maturing that I knew they’d get there. The REAL axiom that comes into play here regarding college is: "What doesn't kill you, makes you smarter". But above that, just being exposed to a vast melting pot of kids from all different walks of life, different parts of the country, and different socio-economic backgrounds is First Grade in learning that 'the way I grew up doing it' doesn't make it the right way (or the best way).
Now I'm not talking about the 'train up a child...he will not depart from it' Proverbs core beliefs and core values here (at least not in this post). I'm talking about the every day things like a shoe then a sock, or both socks then both shoes, or the above the roll or below the roll in each one of our lives, and how quickly our eyes are opened when we observe behavior totally foreign to our own.
My kids have all left home, gone to college, and then returned (for visits only, mind you) with strange habits, likes and desires that they never acquired under my roof; disgusting habits that I would had hoped they would avoid. Things like sushi, and coffee, pizza dipped in ranch dressing, Red Bull and enery drinks, not to mention bad language habits like, well like, you know, like, oh like this one, like you know what I mean?
Honestly, many of my famous Whittern home recipes are variations and deviations on what I learned from my college roommates. First year in college, you eat in the dorms. This of course is one of the first things that make you smarter, if you don't die from it. You learn during times of stress (like finals week) to order Hideaway Pizza, or head to the Town Talk Cafe at midnight. My first year out of the dorms about all my roommate and I had figured out we could cook were grilled cheese sandwiches (the old gas stove we had was equipped with a griddle in the middle of it). We soon learned that even cheap Buddig meat was edible between buttered and grilled bread surrounded by melted cheese. The next year I lived in a townhouse with two other guys, and we decided that each night, one of us would be in charge of the meal. Still being somewhat of a picky eater at that stage in my life (learning to eat new things is another thing you pick up rapidly in college), I would usually hang around to ‘help’ in the preparation of the food; mostly I was there to see what ingredients were going into the concoction I was going to be expected to eat. One night, my roommate (Boyd) and I decided we were going to fix up a roast. We went to the grocery store, bought cow, spuds and rabbit food (roast, potatoes and carrots) and headed back to the kitchen. As we prepared to start the process, I immediately grabbed our biggest pot (the one we used for spaghetti noodles) and plopped it on top of the stove. At the same time, my roommate grabbed the biggest and deepest baking pan he could find. In unison, we asked each other, "What are you doing?" Boyd added, "You put a roast in the oven, you fool!" I replied, "No idiot, you cook a roast on the stove!" We had lived together for three years, so we were pretty much in the 'too many cooks spoil the batter' stage of our relationship (and were familiar enough with each other to use pet names, like 'fool' and 'idiot'. For some reason after all these years my wife and I haven't become that familiar yet.)
You see in my house, my mom fixed her roast on top of the stove (almost like a stew, but without all the stew stuff, and simmered to perfection). Boyd's mom had always fixed a pot roast in the oven, like a turkey, baked to perfection. Each method was the only method we knew...the only 'roast' we understood...the only way to do it. And since every boy's mom was the best cook he knew, you didn't dare question her methods. (Girls, take note when you get married. Don't get between a boy and his mom's cooking).
So what's best (besides "momma knows...")??? "A crockpot, stupid," you may yell at your computer screen. Shoot, I once ate a 'campfire pot roast' individually wrapped in foil and fixed beneath the coals of a campfire that rocked my culinary world (but when I build a campfire in the backyard, the Fire Marshall shows up). It's not up to me to diss (or dish) your pot roast. You know what you like. You know what fits your lifestyle. You know what particular preparation style takes you back to momma's table. We musn't be too quick to judge others and their ways. There is so much that goes into who we are that isn't apparent on the surface...and we are all SO different.
We in America are quick to point out rights and wrongs. We in the church are quick to point out rights and wrongs, too. The Bible is really clear about many things. But look around at the differences in Christianity, the differences in denominations and theologies, the difference between one Southern Baptist Church and another, and you can see the many offshoots and embellishments of those fundamental truths. Take that a step further, and you can see the difference in the people sitting in front of you and the ones sitting behind you in church on Sundays. One especially enjoys children; one is drawn to seniors. One is analytical and is great with computers; one loves to get dirty in the garden. One is uncomfortable in crowds; one asks people over to the house nightly. It's how God planned it.
1 Corinthians 12:14 For in fact the body is not one member but many. :17 If the whole body were an eye, how could it hear?
:18 But now God has set the members, each one of them, in the body just as He pleased.
Obviously, a well-rounded church should have lots of ministries, each one born of a specific need, desire or calling of someone in the church, thus allowing 'service opportunities' for each different part of the body. A Christian not involved in a local church ministry is somewhat of an oxymoron. Each of us has to follow our calling in that respect. If you don’t like what ministries you see, then start a new one…but find something. Conversely, I don't believe you can be involved in every ministry of a church. Have you seen Undercover Boss? These guys are great CEOs, and obviously know how to run a major company...but when they get in the trenches, most of them are enthusiastic and they're available; but they're often inept. The other jobs just weren’t their calling. In addition to that, I've seen way too many people come into the church, get involved in everything and then disappear into nothing.
Remember that a lack of caring and a lack of calling to a given ministry look exactly the same on the outside. Don't be too quick to judge someone's heart, because they don't participate or aren't drawn to your ministry. You can elevate or revere it so much that it borders upon becoming a sacred cow. So then what do you do??? Well, my advice is to slowly cook it on the stove (the way my momma used to cook her cow). Personally I think it gets too dry in the oven or the crockpot!
Put Another Log On The Fire (the song)
For your listening enjoyment...the inspiration for this BLOG TITLE!!
Now I'm not talking about the 'train up a child...he will not depart from it' Proverbs core beliefs and core values here (at least not in this post). I'm talking about the every day things like a shoe then a sock, or both socks then both shoes, or the above the roll or below the roll in each one of our lives, and how quickly our eyes are opened when we observe behavior totally foreign to our own.
My kids have all left home, gone to college, and then returned (for visits only, mind you) with strange habits, likes and desires that they never acquired under my roof; disgusting habits that I would had hoped they would avoid. Things like sushi, and coffee, pizza dipped in ranch dressing, Red Bull and enery drinks, not to mention bad language habits like, well like, you know, like, oh like this one, like you know what I mean?
Honestly, many of my famous Whittern home recipes are variations and deviations on what I learned from my college roommates. First year in college, you eat in the dorms. This of course is one of the first things that make you smarter, if you don't die from it. You learn during times of stress (like finals week) to order Hideaway Pizza, or head to the Town Talk Cafe at midnight. My first year out of the dorms about all my roommate and I had figured out we could cook were grilled cheese sandwiches (the old gas stove we had was equipped with a griddle in the middle of it). We soon learned that even cheap Buddig meat was edible between buttered and grilled bread surrounded by melted cheese. The next year I lived in a townhouse with two other guys, and we decided that each night, one of us would be in charge of the meal. Still being somewhat of a picky eater at that stage in my life (learning to eat new things is another thing you pick up rapidly in college), I would usually hang around to ‘help’ in the preparation of the food; mostly I was there to see what ingredients were going into the concoction I was going to be expected to eat. One night, my roommate (Boyd) and I decided we were going to fix up a roast. We went to the grocery store, bought cow, spuds and rabbit food (roast, potatoes and carrots) and headed back to the kitchen. As we prepared to start the process, I immediately grabbed our biggest pot (the one we used for spaghetti noodles) and plopped it on top of the stove. At the same time, my roommate grabbed the biggest and deepest baking pan he could find. In unison, we asked each other, "What are you doing?" Boyd added, "You put a roast in the oven, you fool!" I replied, "No idiot, you cook a roast on the stove!" We had lived together for three years, so we were pretty much in the 'too many cooks spoil the batter' stage of our relationship (and were familiar enough with each other to use pet names, like 'fool' and 'idiot'. For some reason after all these years my wife and I haven't become that familiar yet.)
You see in my house, my mom fixed her roast on top of the stove (almost like a stew, but without all the stew stuff, and simmered to perfection). Boyd's mom had always fixed a pot roast in the oven, like a turkey, baked to perfection. Each method was the only method we knew...the only 'roast' we understood...the only way to do it. And since every boy's mom was the best cook he knew, you didn't dare question her methods. (Girls, take note when you get married. Don't get between a boy and his mom's cooking).
So what's best (besides "momma knows...")??? "A crockpot, stupid," you may yell at your computer screen. Shoot, I once ate a 'campfire pot roast' individually wrapped in foil and fixed beneath the coals of a campfire that rocked my culinary world (but when I build a campfire in the backyard, the Fire Marshall shows up). It's not up to me to diss (or dish) your pot roast. You know what you like. You know what fits your lifestyle. You know what particular preparation style takes you back to momma's table. We musn't be too quick to judge others and their ways. There is so much that goes into who we are that isn't apparent on the surface...and we are all SO different.
We in America are quick to point out rights and wrongs. We in the church are quick to point out rights and wrongs, too. The Bible is really clear about many things. But look around at the differences in Christianity, the differences in denominations and theologies, the difference between one Southern Baptist Church and another, and you can see the many offshoots and embellishments of those fundamental truths. Take that a step further, and you can see the difference in the people sitting in front of you and the ones sitting behind you in church on Sundays. One especially enjoys children; one is drawn to seniors. One is analytical and is great with computers; one loves to get dirty in the garden. One is uncomfortable in crowds; one asks people over to the house nightly. It's how God planned it.
1 Corinthians 12:14 For in fact the body is not one member but many. :17 If the whole body were an eye, how could it hear?
:18 But now God has set the members, each one of them, in the body just as He pleased.
Obviously, a well-rounded church should have lots of ministries, each one born of a specific need, desire or calling of someone in the church, thus allowing 'service opportunities' for each different part of the body. A Christian not involved in a local church ministry is somewhat of an oxymoron. Each of us has to follow our calling in that respect. If you don’t like what ministries you see, then start a new one…but find something. Conversely, I don't believe you can be involved in every ministry of a church. Have you seen Undercover Boss? These guys are great CEOs, and obviously know how to run a major company...but when they get in the trenches, most of them are enthusiastic and they're available; but they're often inept. The other jobs just weren’t their calling. In addition to that, I've seen way too many people come into the church, get involved in everything and then disappear into nothing.
Remember that a lack of caring and a lack of calling to a given ministry look exactly the same on the outside. Don't be too quick to judge someone's heart, because they don't participate or aren't drawn to your ministry. You can elevate or revere it so much that it borders upon becoming a sacred cow. So then what do you do??? Well, my advice is to slowly cook it on the stove (the way my momma used to cook her cow). Personally I think it gets too dry in the oven or the crockpot!
Put Another Log On The Fire (the song)
For your listening enjoyment...the inspiration for this BLOG TITLE!!
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
YOUR WRIGHT
My Grandfather (on my mom’s side) was a very quiet man. “What are you doing boy?” is about the only thing I can remember him saying even remotely directed towards me...kind of the patriarchal version of “How’s the weather down there?” He wasn’t a tall man, but fat, and I can remember him completely filling the old Lazyboy style rocker that sat in the corner; and we kind of ignored him like he was actually a piece of furniture. His name was Orville but everyone called him O.W. which stood for Orville Wright. I thought it odd that he was named after the first man to fly, because other than the occasional tractor ride on the farm during planting season, he and that rocker seemed like they weren’t destined to leave the ground anytime soon. I'm sure he enjoyed the farming season because it allowed him to get out of that chair (and out of the house - he and my grandmother had a somewhat tumultuous relationship). Perhaps he was just sitting there, rocking away, reflecting on the last farming season, and looking forward to the next one.
Probably because of his name, I’ve always remembered the saying “Two wrongs don’t make a right, but two Wrights made an airplane,” or at least I thought it was a good dismantling of that old cliché. At one point I was determined to stick with ‘one word’ titles for these BLOGs, because too often I can get too clever with titles and give it all away before you’ve even started reading (kind of like the dreaded movie preview). But hopefully when you read this title you shuddered because it appears to break a half dozen spelling and grammar rules using only those two words.
When my daughter Rachel got married it was not without some consternation. She was only twelve at the time…well maybe 19, but the point is I wanted her to wait. Not because I didn’t approve of her ‘man’ or because I didn’t think that they were right for each other; I trusted her judgment there completely. Certainly part of it came from a father’s perspective of how mature you think you are at that age, but how young you really are; but more importantly it emanated from something I preached to my kids from grade school. Enjoy the season.
I always warned my kids that when you’re in grade school you can’t wait to get to junior high (mid high). While you’re in junior high, you can’t wait to get to highschool; you can’t wait to drive; you can’t wait to date; you can’t wait to graduate; you can’t wait to go to college and so on and so on. Each stage in life can very easily be a holding cell for being released into the wild of the next season. I cautioned them to enjoy the trip and not to be so concerned with the next destination.
I think that’s why I always preferred ‘car vacations’ versus ‘plane vacations’. Sure, there’s some enjoyment (not as much as it used to be) to boarding a plane, flying and landing, as well as being trapped in a small space with strangers, crying babies, loud talkers and fighting over the armrest with the largest person you’ve ever rubbed elbows with. But the car vacation, in addition to being way cheaper for a family of six, forces you to notice and pay attention to the ride, and makes the next phase of the trip that much more appreciated. Nice thing about a vacation is you get to go back home…in fact your house is usually somewhat frozen in time from when you left.
In life, you really can’t go back. You think junior high, going from room to room to room is so hard compared to grade school, until you get to High School, and then you see how easy you had it and now High School is the hardest thing you’ve ever endured. But then, college comes along with its dorms, finals, term papers, etc. and you understand just how easy (and fun) High School was. For the most part my children listened to me about this, but I heard older brother reiterating that same message to younger sisters a few years ago and was reminded that you just don’t fully appreciate the snow until it’s 105 degrees outside.
Matthew 6:34 So do not worry or be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will have worries and anxieties of its own. Sufficient for each day is its own trouble.
Rachel admitted to me years later that it was tougher than she thought it would be in those early years. I knew it’d be tough, but the first years of marriage are always tough at any age. That wasn’t the issue (for me). I just knew that one year in college (before marriage) was not ideal. It’s like a two day trip to Maui. Yeah, you went there, but your ‘mahalos’ were too close together. Rachel was ‘right’ to get married when she did. I was ‘right’ to want her not to rush through the college ‘year(s)’. Two ‘Wrights’ made an airplane, and back then, two ‘rights’ didn't make a 'wrong', it just made for a bumpy take-off. But a decade (and three or four grandkids) later I couldn’t be any prouder of her (and her family) or love her any more than I do as I hit this period.
Probably because of his name, I’ve always remembered the saying “Two wrongs don’t make a right, but two Wrights made an airplane,” or at least I thought it was a good dismantling of that old cliché. At one point I was determined to stick with ‘one word’ titles for these BLOGs, because too often I can get too clever with titles and give it all away before you’ve even started reading (kind of like the dreaded movie preview). But hopefully when you read this title you shuddered because it appears to break a half dozen spelling and grammar rules using only those two words.
When my daughter Rachel got married it was not without some consternation. She was only twelve at the time…well maybe 19, but the point is I wanted her to wait. Not because I didn’t approve of her ‘man’ or because I didn’t think that they were right for each other; I trusted her judgment there completely. Certainly part of it came from a father’s perspective of how mature you think you are at that age, but how young you really are; but more importantly it emanated from something I preached to my kids from grade school. Enjoy the season.
I always warned my kids that when you’re in grade school you can’t wait to get to junior high (mid high). While you’re in junior high, you can’t wait to get to highschool; you can’t wait to drive; you can’t wait to date; you can’t wait to graduate; you can’t wait to go to college and so on and so on. Each stage in life can very easily be a holding cell for being released into the wild of the next season. I cautioned them to enjoy the trip and not to be so concerned with the next destination.
I think that’s why I always preferred ‘car vacations’ versus ‘plane vacations’. Sure, there’s some enjoyment (not as much as it used to be) to boarding a plane, flying and landing, as well as being trapped in a small space with strangers, crying babies, loud talkers and fighting over the armrest with the largest person you’ve ever rubbed elbows with. But the car vacation, in addition to being way cheaper for a family of six, forces you to notice and pay attention to the ride, and makes the next phase of the trip that much more appreciated. Nice thing about a vacation is you get to go back home…in fact your house is usually somewhat frozen in time from when you left.
In life, you really can’t go back. You think junior high, going from room to room to room is so hard compared to grade school, until you get to High School, and then you see how easy you had it and now High School is the hardest thing you’ve ever endured. But then, college comes along with its dorms, finals, term papers, etc. and you understand just how easy (and fun) High School was. For the most part my children listened to me about this, but I heard older brother reiterating that same message to younger sisters a few years ago and was reminded that you just don’t fully appreciate the snow until it’s 105 degrees outside.
Matthew 6:34 So do not worry or be anxious about tomorrow, for tomorrow will have worries and anxieties of its own. Sufficient for each day is its own trouble.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
TRUST
I’d have to say my father was a pretty good ‘dad’. I think one of the top attributes of a good father is trust. In the very purest sense of the word, I always believed that my father never had ulterior motives, a hidden agenda, or any thought in his mind of anything but my utmost well-being. As a child when he spanked me for my own good, or uttered the dreaded, “this is going to hurt me more than it’s going to hurt you,” I admit I found it hard to trust him then. And when he chose not to allow me to do something or to go somewhere, and I would ask him, “Dad, why?” often the reply was, “because I’m dad,” and in his mind he didn’t need to give me the reason; just the answer. I certainly found it hard to trust that logic.
When trust is betrayed it can be devastating. Certainly this is a part of the ‘sadness’ of child abuse. The destroying of the trust that once existed (or should have existed) between a parent and a child is like a once strong ship being bashed against the rocks until it ultimately falls to pieces (or like singing “I Fall to Pieces” on the Idol stage as they are booting you off and then literally ‘falling to pieces’).
Recently during a Bible study, the subject of Adam and Eve came up, and the discussions drifted to the oft accepted reason as to ‘why’ Eve ate the apple as being the sin of pride (versus Eve having an apple fetish or ‘an apple a day keeps the dogma away’). No doubt pride was an element of it. The allure of power perhaps; maybe even the excitement of the unknown. But there had to be a moment of sadness with Eve; suddenly a shadow of doubt had been cast on the sincerity of her Father. The trust she had experienced there in the Garden was being undermined. Would her Father, the only father she had ever known deceive her and withhold something from her? Would He be selfish and stingy? Did the One who provided for her every need not actually have her best interests at heart? Was He lying?
You look through the Bible and you don’t really find God specifically telling us to trust Him but it’s definitely implied. God often warns of the consequences of trusting in ourselves, or trusting in weapons or gold. In Micah 7:5 we are warned even about trusting a friend (see previous blog ;). He often tells us of the rewards we can expect when we do trust Him, but you just don’t see where he comes out and says, “Trust me.” The fact is, when someone says, “Trust me,” that’s the moment I get suspicious. If something in their words, or actions or even the tone of their voice causes my countenance to change to the point that they feel it necessary to ask me to ignore what I’m feeling and/or seeing and just ‘trust them’, I immediately look for my wallet and the nearest exit (or for Ashton Kutcher).
God expecting us to trust Him and rely on Him is very real. It’s implied in His actions and inherent in His very being. It’s outwardly apparent as the world around us; yet it’s taken for granted like the delicate balance maintained in the earth’s rotation, the climate, and the seasons; it’s inconspicuous and subtle as the beat of a heart or the moment of conception. When we err, when we doubt, when we show despair; those are the times we haven’t trusted. I’m not even talking (blogging/rambling) so much about trusting for ‘provision’ like the ‘lilies in the field’ that Jesus talked about in the 12th chapter of Luke. I’m referring to Job saying, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” It’s the undying, never failing, it’s for my own good type of trust that I have in my earthly father…to the omnipotent power. Once the serpent destroys that trust, then we'll usually feed ourselves the 'poison' apple.
I always know that when my life starts feeling like an old knock-knock joke and I hear “Knock knock,” and I reply “Who’s there?” and then I receive the answer “God”, that the minute I blurt out, “God who?” or “God why?”…I know that I’ve blown it. May in the future my answer be “I thought that was You!” or better yet, “I trusted that was You!”
When trust is betrayed it can be devastating. Certainly this is a part of the ‘sadness’ of child abuse. The destroying of the trust that once existed (or should have existed) between a parent and a child is like a once strong ship being bashed against the rocks until it ultimately falls to pieces (or like singing “I Fall to Pieces” on the Idol stage as they are booting you off and then literally ‘falling to pieces’).
Recently during a Bible study, the subject of Adam and Eve came up, and the discussions drifted to the oft accepted reason as to ‘why’ Eve ate the apple as being the sin of pride (versus Eve having an apple fetish or ‘an apple a day keeps the dogma away’). No doubt pride was an element of it. The allure of power perhaps; maybe even the excitement of the unknown. But there had to be a moment of sadness with Eve; suddenly a shadow of doubt had been cast on the sincerity of her Father. The trust she had experienced there in the Garden was being undermined. Would her Father, the only father she had ever known deceive her and withhold something from her? Would He be selfish and stingy? Did the One who provided for her every need not actually have her best interests at heart? Was He lying?
You look through the Bible and you don’t really find God specifically telling us to trust Him but it’s definitely implied. God often warns of the consequences of trusting in ourselves, or trusting in weapons or gold. In Micah 7:5 we are warned even about trusting a friend (see previous blog ;). He often tells us of the rewards we can expect when we do trust Him, but you just don’t see where he comes out and says, “Trust me.” The fact is, when someone says, “Trust me,” that’s the moment I get suspicious. If something in their words, or actions or even the tone of their voice causes my countenance to change to the point that they feel it necessary to ask me to ignore what I’m feeling and/or seeing and just ‘trust them’, I immediately look for my wallet and the nearest exit (or for Ashton Kutcher).
God expecting us to trust Him and rely on Him is very real. It’s implied in His actions and inherent in His very being. It’s outwardly apparent as the world around us; yet it’s taken for granted like the delicate balance maintained in the earth’s rotation, the climate, and the seasons; it’s inconspicuous and subtle as the beat of a heart or the moment of conception. When we err, when we doubt, when we show despair; those are the times we haven’t trusted. I’m not even talking (blogging/rambling) so much about trusting for ‘provision’ like the ‘lilies in the field’ that Jesus talked about in the 12th chapter of Luke. I’m referring to Job saying, “Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him.” It’s the undying, never failing, it’s for my own good type of trust that I have in my earthly father…to the omnipotent power. Once the serpent destroys that trust, then we'll usually feed ourselves the 'poison' apple.
I always know that when my life starts feeling like an old knock-knock joke and I hear “Knock knock,” and I reply “Who’s there?” and then I receive the answer “God”, that the minute I blurt out, “God who?” or “God why?”…I know that I’ve blown it. May in the future my answer be “I thought that was You!” or better yet, “I trusted that was You!”
Saturday, March 20, 2010
PRIES EGGS
Both of my parents were born on a farm, so I never understood why they cared when I left doors open. “No I wasn’t born in a barn, but YOU were!” They failed to see the humor or relevance in that, so to this day I shut doors (and turn off lights). My dad’s parents lived on a farm (east of Shawnee, out in the country) until the day they died. There were always lots of cats and chickens running around and of course a dog or two. Not inside the house, but outside, in and out of barns and living beneath the sheds. To this day, I’m an ‘outside dog’ person, much to the chagrin of my kids, especially my son.
My grandmother always warned me to stay away from the hens because as she put it, “they’ll flog ya!!!” I never knew what that meant, but it didn’t sound good, so I stayed away from them (did that suddenly sound like Andy Rooney?). Their backyard was basically like the barnyard in Charlotte’s Web, so it was a fun place to play. It was a safe haven for the animals, and other than that slight ‘flogging’ risk, a safe place to run around and be a boy.
When I think of Easter, my mind takes me back to that farm. My grandmother always bought Easter baskets. The kind you find at Wal-Mart and Walgreens now, but were found then at the TG&Y and the Woolworths five and dime stores. They were packed full of goodies and candy and I looked forward every year to that trip to the farm. I was her only grandchild for over a dozen years, so she didn’t have to buy a bunch of baskets…just one lollapalooza sized basket that I got to enjoy. (Yes, you can call me spoiled. I prefer to use the adjectives ‘privileged’ or ‘blessed’.)
The town of Shawnee always had a huge Easter Egg hunt at Woodland Park the Saturday before Easter. Mostly they gave out those nasty tasting, baby-powdered textured eggs that were hardly worth chasing after. But spread throughout the grassy field there at the park, were ‘prize eggs’ and one year in particular, the prize that awaited you when and if you found one was in fact a live, brightly Easter-Egg-colored baby chick. When the gun sounded, the kids spread out willy nilly across the park, trying to locate a ‘prize egg’. Naturally, a large throng of kids headed right down the middle, and although there would be a certain amount of jostling and jockeying for position going on there, I followed, knowing that the majority of the eggs (both prize and otherwise) would be there and I was willing to deal with the eggs-tra resistance to get what I wanted (He who pries the most eggs gets the most prize eggs!). Sure enough, I found not ‘one’ prize egg, but THREE prize eggs, and left for home that afternoon with three baby chicks, a purple one, a green one, and a blue one (aka: Larry, Moe and Curly). Our small tiny bathroom in our small tiny house on East Wallace became the new home for those little chickens. What a mess! I honestly don’t remember going to any more Easter Egg hunts after that, and I can only guess why.
I’ll spare you the details, but before long it was decided that the best place for Larry, Moe and Curly was my Grandparent’s farm. After all, they’d have more ‘peeps’ to mingle with (now c’mon, you gotta love that line ;), and would have lots of room to run and play. Besides, each day, new feathers were coming in, and they were quickly losing their color (and their cuteness); and my parents were quickly losing their patience.
What I didn’t realize was the farm was not nearly as safe a haven as my young naïve self had thought it to be. In fact, to my horror I learned (from my Grandfather) that the ‘coons’ had been ‘getting’ some the chickens. Now as a young six year old I didn’t really know what the ‘coons’ were, but imagined them to be a cross between the ‘big bad wolf’ and the ‘flying monkeys’ from the Wizard of Oz; certainly not sweet little Rory Raccoon from Saturday morning cartoons! And alas, within a few weeks, I found out that Larry and Curly had indeed been snatched up by these mutant killer beasts, dying a horrific death that I could only imagine in my nightmares. To make matters worse (and to finally end this blog), I found out during one Sunday lunch at Grandma’s, that when I asked for ‘mo chicken please’, I was indeed getting ‘Moe Chicken’! The explanation was simple: rather than let the ‘coons’ get him, Grandma had gone ahead and fixed Moe for lunch; and in my strange ‘lesser of two evils’ mentality, having Moe for lunch seemed fitting (and darned tasty).
So I pose the Easter question: Feel safe in church? I look around at the number of pastors who have been devoured and the number of church splits and fallen members we see littered across the backyard of the bible belt and it certainly causes me to pause. Why does the raccoon head towards the henhouse? Why do the spoiled little kids head to the middle of the park? Why did the chicken cross the road? (Ignore that last one.) The barnyard is where the chickens are. The lush, grassy center of the park is where the prize eggs are. Here is the church. Here is the steeple. Open it up and see all the people.
1 Peter 5:8 Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.
The devil wants to serve us up for Sunday lunch. No need for him to go anyplace else. He can head straight for the church, jump right in the middle of the flock and watch the feathers fly (like a roaring lion or a Rory Raccoon).
As Larry, Moe and Curly would say, “the NOIVE o’ dat guy!!!”
My grandmother always warned me to stay away from the hens because as she put it, “they’ll flog ya!!!” I never knew what that meant, but it didn’t sound good, so I stayed away from them (did that suddenly sound like Andy Rooney?). Their backyard was basically like the barnyard in Charlotte’s Web, so it was a fun place to play. It was a safe haven for the animals, and other than that slight ‘flogging’ risk, a safe place to run around and be a boy.
When I think of Easter, my mind takes me back to that farm. My grandmother always bought Easter baskets. The kind you find at Wal-Mart and Walgreens now, but were found then at the TG&Y and the Woolworths five and dime stores. They were packed full of goodies and candy and I looked forward every year to that trip to the farm. I was her only grandchild for over a dozen years, so she didn’t have to buy a bunch of baskets…just one lollapalooza sized basket that I got to enjoy. (Yes, you can call me spoiled. I prefer to use the adjectives ‘privileged’ or ‘blessed’.)
The town of Shawnee always had a huge Easter Egg hunt at Woodland Park the Saturday before Easter. Mostly they gave out those nasty tasting, baby-powdered textured eggs that were hardly worth chasing after. But spread throughout the grassy field there at the park, were ‘prize eggs’ and one year in particular, the prize that awaited you when and if you found one was in fact a live, brightly Easter-Egg-colored baby chick. When the gun sounded, the kids spread out willy nilly across the park, trying to locate a ‘prize egg’. Naturally, a large throng of kids headed right down the middle, and although there would be a certain amount of jostling and jockeying for position going on there, I followed, knowing that the majority of the eggs (both prize and otherwise) would be there and I was willing to deal with the eggs-tra resistance to get what I wanted (He who pries the most eggs gets the most prize eggs!). Sure enough, I found not ‘one’ prize egg, but THREE prize eggs, and left for home that afternoon with three baby chicks, a purple one, a green one, and a blue one (aka: Larry, Moe and Curly). Our small tiny bathroom in our small tiny house on East Wallace became the new home for those little chickens. What a mess! I honestly don’t remember going to any more Easter Egg hunts after that, and I can only guess why.
I’ll spare you the details, but before long it was decided that the best place for Larry, Moe and Curly was my Grandparent’s farm. After all, they’d have more ‘peeps’ to mingle with (now c’mon, you gotta love that line ;), and would have lots of room to run and play. Besides, each day, new feathers were coming in, and they were quickly losing their color (and their cuteness); and my parents were quickly losing their patience.
What I didn’t realize was the farm was not nearly as safe a haven as my young naïve self had thought it to be. In fact, to my horror I learned (from my Grandfather) that the ‘coons’ had been ‘getting’ some the chickens. Now as a young six year old I didn’t really know what the ‘coons’ were, but imagined them to be a cross between the ‘big bad wolf’ and the ‘flying monkeys’ from the Wizard of Oz; certainly not sweet little Rory Raccoon from Saturday morning cartoons! And alas, within a few weeks, I found out that Larry and Curly had indeed been snatched up by these mutant killer beasts, dying a horrific death that I could only imagine in my nightmares. To make matters worse (and to finally end this blog), I found out during one Sunday lunch at Grandma’s, that when I asked for ‘mo chicken please’, I was indeed getting ‘Moe Chicken’! The explanation was simple: rather than let the ‘coons’ get him, Grandma had gone ahead and fixed Moe for lunch; and in my strange ‘lesser of two evils’ mentality, having Moe for lunch seemed fitting (and darned tasty).
So I pose the Easter question: Feel safe in church? I look around at the number of pastors who have been devoured and the number of church splits and fallen members we see littered across the backyard of the bible belt and it certainly causes me to pause. Why does the raccoon head towards the henhouse? Why do the spoiled little kids head to the middle of the park? Why did the chicken cross the road? (Ignore that last one.) The barnyard is where the chickens are. The lush, grassy center of the park is where the prize eggs are. Here is the church. Here is the steeple. Open it up and see all the people.
1 Peter 5:8 Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.
The devil wants to serve us up for Sunday lunch. No need for him to go anyplace else. He can head straight for the church, jump right in the middle of the flock and watch the feathers fly (like a roaring lion or a Rory Raccoon).
As Larry, Moe and Curly would say, “the NOIVE o’ dat guy!!!”
Saturday, March 13, 2010
TILIKUM
Most of us haven’t had the opportunity to study Greek. We will acknowledge that we know the word ‘agape’ but we will emphatically deny that we know the word ‘pornos’ (but I digress). Here’s a word you probably don’t know. The word is ‘tilikum’. It means ‘friend’. All of us have friends and they’re pretty easy to spot. We hang around them. We text them. They pop up on our ‘facebook’ wall. Jesus in fact called us His friend (John 15:15). Unfortunately, in many of our lives, He’s not that easy to spot (but I digress again). We have good friends and bad friends. In tough times, our friends will rally around us and support us. But during day to day living, we just hang. And it is during this most common, sharing of lives, when our friends affect us both positively and negatively.
As parents, we concern ourselves with the friends our children have. To quote the great old Coasters song: “Tell your hoodlum friends outside, you ain’t got time to take no ride!” We try to put our children in the best schools, the best neighborhoods, and get them to church so that they surround themselves with positive influences so that their lives are filled with good ‘tilikum’.
As Christians we try to do the same. Some of that is out of our control for example, like the jobs we take or even where we can afford to live (but I digress for the last time). Some of the ‘things’ we surround ourselves with don’t start out as friends. In fact we know we “ain’t got time” and shouldn’t be taking a ride with them, but we figure we’re strong enough and hip enough (“your daddy’s hip he knows what cooks”) to handle it (wow, I’ve covered about four blog topics so far). But before long, we’re full blown ‘tilikum’ with them and these ‘things’ have become a part of our inner ‘tilikum’ circle and can really be a huge negative influence on our lives (finally I’m getting to the point).
Many of you may have figured out by now that ‘tilikum’ is not a Greek word at all (put the Strong’s down and step away from the Concordance) but is actually a Chinook word (Native American). And if you’re really up on your news stories, you’ll know it’s also the name of the Killer Whale that recently killed its trainer, Dawn Brancheau. Many of the more cynical among us has probably remarked, “There’s a reason they call them Killer Whales, people” and with a ‘that’s what you get’ attitude we watched the news stories in hopes of seeing the poor lady take her final swim. When we realized there was nothing to see, we switched channels. But let’s wade in a little deeper (pardon the pun).
There were some basic rules (commandments). One of them was you don’t get in the water and lay around with the 12,000 pound whales. (After all, “Where does a 6 ton whale sleep?”) No doubt, early in her career, Dawn followed the rules. I’m sure she was also very cautious and felt like she could “handle the truth” (or handle the girth). But in the end, her guard was relaxed, her diminutive body cuddled up next to this huge danger and without warning, according to some reports, Tilikum grabbed Dawn’s ponytail and drug her under the water.
Here’s my point and it’s pretty simple. Casual sin, habitual sin can easily become a friend. Familiar and comfortable…but still just as ‘killer’ as it was when we looked at it from the stands or were first introduced to it. Are you palling around with an old sin? Have you gotten really ‘friendly’ with something that years ago you wouldn’t even hang with or were afraid of? Is there a ‘Tilikum’ in your life??
Maybe it’s time to get out of the water!
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