Joke of the Day, 7/26/07
There’s a nudist colony for communists, and two old men were sitting out on the front porch.
One man turned to the other and said, “I say, ol’ boy, have you read Marx?”
And the other answered, “Why yes! I believe they’re from these wicker chairs!”
Best of Bweinh! — Grammar and Anticipation
Originally published on April 17, 2007.
My grandfather gave me my first grammar lesson when I was seven years old, after I had asked him if I could play on his old green Chevy truck. “I don’t know, can you?,” he asked, home from his bike shop for lunch, an empty plate and half a can of beer in front of him.
“Yes,” I said slowly, wary of my grandfather and his tricks: how he gave me something shiny and yellow and called it fool’s gold only after I had told him all the things I would buy with it, and how he convinced me that I could buy a miniature collar and lead for the tarantula I had just captured so I could show it around town as my pet.
My grandfather took a final swig of beer and swiped his sleeve across his mouth, which earned a sour look from my grandmother, who did his laundry.
“Yes, you can.”
“Thank you!,” I yelled, already at the back door.
“Chloe!” I reluctantly returned to his chair and waited as attentively as a seven-year-old in the summertime can wait. My grandfather pondered me for a moment, scratching the peppery stubble on his chin. I waited patiently because I knew instinctively that something important was going to happen, just like when he let me help him mix concrete and put up the dog pen, even though as a rule, he preferred to do work around the land alone, and a little girl would only get in the way. Though he firmly believed a woman’s place was in the kitchen, we eventually completed many projects together, the last a door installation cut short after he severed most of the top part of his thumb and bled all over my mother’s white carpet because he was too manly to feel pain.
“Chloe,” he repeated after several long tick-tocks of the grandfather clock, “I’m trying to teach you something here. You say ‘can’ when you are able. You say ‘may’ when you want permission. So:” He waved his hand at me and the smell of the oil he used on the chains and gears in his bike shop wafted towards me. It smelled like a car. Or a big green Chevy.
“Can I go play on your truck?” At this point I was fidgeting like I was about to wet my pants, but still he spoke slowly, in a gravelly voice that sounded like he had worked hard his whole life, and would continue to do so until the day he died. “You are able to play on my truck, but you have to ask me if you may get permission to go do it.”
“M…may I…?” I trailed off, and he nodded encouragingly while my grandmother audibly rolled her eyes. “May I go play on the truck?”
He folded his newspaper and stood. “No, I have to go back to work. But you can give my plate to your grandmother and throw my can away.”
A Brand New OOCCTE Answer!
On a special day! Look for a new tract excerpt next week!
What threatens Charlie’s “little friends”??
 |
If you picked “Flooding from a new lake,” you’re a winner!!
©1984-2007 Chick Publications, Inc. Reprinted without permission as fair use (parody).
Best of Bweinh! — Evolution Evolution Redux
Originally published on April 4, 2007.
First, a quick recap. In case you missed our previous installment here, we decided that the relative ease with which anyone can pass on his or her genes has effectively eliminated conventional microevolution of our species. The hopes and dreams of dozens of science fiction fans eagerly awaiting uber-humans have been dashed. In light of this supreme manifestation of man’s dominance over nature, how can mankind rise to meet new challenges?
The answer, regrettably, is not genetic engineering. As much as it makes my scientific nose twitch eagerly to scent its sweet aroma on the winds of societal acceptance, Western society (for better or worse, the dominant school of thought worldwide) values individuality too much to surrender it to the whims of a white-coated pipette monkey. Instead, humanity will have to change together.
People are more than the sums of the interactions of their genes. We can’t help but also be the sum of our interactions with each other. Every time two people interact, they change each other. Sometimes that change leads to good, to the betterment of mankind. An interesting parallel can be drawn between a societal evolutionary model and the Catholic priesthood. Despite the fact they’ve willingly surrendered from the “gene” race completely, a vast number of people have been improved by their interactions with priests. A vast number of people even acknowledge this change, and take steps to share it with others. Then again, a vast number of people have been hurt by priests, and not only in Springeresque ways.
Every time we interact, each of us is improving or worsening. Our task is, through our daily lives, to make the positive outweigh the negative. In the same way “natural” evolution is based on individual genes interacting and changing, societal evolution is based on the collective effect we have on each other. Evolution has become synonymous with improvement, but the sad fact is that change in either direction is part of evolution.
So visit that shut-in! Tutor that wayward youth. Tell the smarmy clerk at the record store that emo is “so yesterday.” Take it upon yourself to be a beneficial mutation — change our societal DNA.
Quote of the Day, 7/25/07
“I’m glad I did it, partly because it was well worth it, but chiefly because I shall never have to do it again.” — S. Clemens
Best of Bweinh! — A Third Son?
Originally published on June 6, 2007.
Tell me what you think of this story: A man had two sons. He went up to the first and said, ‘Son, go out for the day and work in the vineyard.’ The son answered, ‘I don’t want to.’ Later on he thought better of it and went. The father gave the same command to the second son. He answered, ‘Sure, glad to.’ But he never went. Which of the two sons did what the father asked? They said, ‘The first.’ Jesus said, ‘Yes, and I tell you that crooks and whores are going to precede you into God’s kingdom. John came to you showing you the right road. You turned up your noses at him, but the crooks and whores believed him. Even when you saw their changed lives, you didn’t care enough to change and believe him.’
I’m sharing this story from Matthew because Steve asked me if I wanted to write something in my recent free time, and this is how God has been challenging me lately. As you can see, it’s the parable of the two sons, who, when asked by their father to go work for him for the day, ironically responded opposite to their eventual decision.
Matthew Henry tells us it speaks of the response to God of John’s ministry of baptism by the sinners as opposed to the religious Pharisees and Sadducees. Everyone was suspicious at first, but the sinners ended up coming and receiving, whereas the religious people of the day said one thing, then did quite another by hardening their hearts toward God’s mercy.
Oddly enough, God didn’t give me that insight, seeing as how He’d already given it to Mr. Henry and all. I did glean from it that we need to be careful as longtime Christians not to assume that we know everything already, thereby missing what God is trying to say to us. Maybe we should spend some time around newbies, to make sure we’re not getting hard-hearted and crusty. Maybe we need to go through a few verses of Keith Green’s “My Eyes Are Dry,” and get our hearts softened up again.
But anyhoo, the point He impressed on me was that maybe there was a third son. And if not, there should be. That child should be the one who says, “Yes, I’ll go,” and then goes and does it. What could God do with a church filled with obedient children like that?
Does that challenge you? I know it challenged me. If you need a song or verse to start you off, try this one: “Create in me a clean heart, O God, and renew a right spirit within me.”
Best of Bweinh! — PC v. Apple Clash
Originally published on March 17, 2007.
| In this corner, arguing for the PC, we have Tom! | And in this corner, arguing for Apple, is Djere! | |
|
The question of which platform is superior between PC and Macintosh is not a trivial matter. Thousands of lines of text in forums decry one, exalt the other, each citing a myriad of reasons their chosen platform is the best. Although the question of platformital superiority can be approached from a number of avenues, many of them are simply unimportant. For example, one completely irrelevant way the platforms can be compared is the breadth of the software libraries available to each. What difference does it make that (as of press time) popular freeware/shareware website C-net.com listed a staggering 55,822 titles under “All Windows Software,” and just a paltry 4,603 listings for “All Mac Software”? What difference does it make that twelve times as many downloads were available on this popular and influential e-hemoth? Another boneheaded way to compare operating systems is by looking at their popularity, relative to each other. Who on earth would think it relevant in any way to a real, honest debate about platforms that Apple had a paltry 2.4% of the market share in 2006 — in terms of real, worldwide shipments — versus a combined 50.6% for just the top 5 PC manufacturers? What do we care who the world trusts for its computing needs? Likewise unimportant is the ability to customize your computer whenever you want. No one cares about upgrading a computer without replacing it, or performing system repairs on your own, or being taken seriously by friends, relatives, and co-workers. No, the computer debate is about one thing — trust. Do you trust your children’s computing lives to a bunch of rag-tag, animating, photo-editing, long-haired, music-sharing hippie freaks? Or do you trust the welcoming, all-encompassing embrace of Windows and its industrial brotherhood, the PC manufacturers? PC. People Caring. |
Failure reading drive C: Oh, hello there! I was just spending some time getting to know the zeroes and ones, first strung together in the 80s, that still form the foundation of the average Windows PC. While Microsoft prides itself on polishing its rubbish to a sheen gloss, mimicking the refined, elegant lines and textures of Mac OS X, what lies beneath is the same slathering of spaghetti code Bill Gates cooked up when Carter was in office. Until recently, a head-to-head comparison of Mac to PC compared apples to oranges. But with Apple’s recent switch from IBM’s Power PC processors to Intel’s x86 architecture, direct comparisons can be made. Will I make them? No! I’m not a ‘Mac Evangelist.’ If you’re looking for one of those, check your local community college art department. What I will tell you is this — Macs are more reliable because you have one source for a Mac: Apple. You can buy a Dell, an HP, an IBM, or you could build your own PC capable of running Windows. All those vendors and their configurations add lines of code to Windows’ OS, each zero and every one cutting into your performance. Apple has limited its hardware support to keep your Mac running smoothly every time you turn it on. And Mac OS X is based on the rock-solid UNIX operating system, so you’ll never have to see one of Bill Gates’ famous ‘Blue Screens of Death.’ Even if you ignore pro-Mac arguments like ease of use, lack of viruses, reliability, stability, power, and originality, you could still use Apple’s Boot Camp software, allowing you to run Windows on your Apple. Purchasing an Apple computer literally can give you the best of both worlds. Now if you’ll excuse me….. Failure reading drive C: |
Best of Bweinh! — Focus on the Fancy-Free
Originally published on May 1, 2007.
Q. What should a young bachelor wear to church?
A. When I wore a younger man’s Chuck Taylor All-Stars, my mother always dressed me for church. Clip-on ties, penny loafers and “stick-um” (hair gel) were the ingredients in my preparation for Sunday worship. My father was the pastor of our church in Washington D.C., and as a good preacher’s son, it was impossible for me to wear my usual Ocean Pacific in the pews.
But now I’m 27, and while my mom wishes she could still dress me, I’m an adult and she can’t. I’ve morphed into what our society might call “offbeat” — I wear a lot of denim, often hold my long hair in place with a bandanna, and sport shirts with paint and other stains whose origin I have long since forgotten. I don’t roll into church looking homeless, but I certainly don’t look ready for court.
Basically on Sunday, I look like I do the other six days of the week. I know this offends some people, and the instinct in such situations is to remedy that offense as quickly as possible by taking the time to noose up a tie and tuck in a clean white shirt. But I love these people I offend, so I won’t gratify their sinful nature. That’s right. I’m calling all of you smirkers and sighers out.
It doesn’t matter a mite what I wear to church; deal.
Pressure to dress up for church is one of those elements of Christianity that has taken on Scriptural authority while actually running contrary to the Word; it’s more about humanity than Godliness. Peter wrote, “Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” (1 Peter 3:3-4)
Immodesty is not just reserved for outfits that expose or enhance; I think carefully coiffed hair in concert with dry-cleaned dresses and suits trots the border with sinful ambition. The generic defense is that it shows respect to God, which offends my intelligence because you want to show man you have respect for God. That’s vanity.
“So, Job, you would dress up for a wedding but not for worship in the house of God?”
Eight days a week. Dressing up for those instances is part of a societal expectation, exactly the thing I don’t want in my worship. I want to be comfortable, modest and undistracted. If you’re concerned by what you’re wearing and/or distracted by what others are wearing, then — I’ll say it — your heart is not in the right place. I own ties, clean shirts and slacks (thanks Mom!) but in a society that expects this from me in social gatherings, it should be in church that I feel the least pressure to please men with color coordination and smart, flattering lines.
And, well . . . I rebuke thee.
These questions and answers are from the book Complete Young Adult Home Reference Guide and Recipe Compendium, published by Bweinh! Job Tate is founder and chairman of the board of Focus on the Fancy-Free, a nonprofit organization devoted to the encouragement and preservation of the unmarried twentysomething. His weekly radio program was heard on 1 radio station in the U.S. and Canada.
Joke of the Day, 7/24/07
Why can’t Episcopalians play chess?
They can’t tell the difference between a bishop and a queen!
Best of Bweinh! — The Palms
Originally published on April 2, 2007.
I was talking with our church’s associate pastor yesterday. Steve and his wife Francesca served as missionaries for eleven years — four in the Dominican Republic and seven in Bolivia. We were talking about the palms, as yesterday was Palm Sunday. I’m not sure if the churches of other Bweinh!tributors hand out palms, but our church does.
As Steve and I broke apart the palms to hand out after the service, he told me that in Bolivian Catholicism, the tradition is that the palms are woven into crosses and then kept all year. The following Ash Wednesday (forty-six and a half weeks later), the palms are brought back to the church and burned to make the ashes for Ash Wednesday. I knew that in some Catholic traditions, the palms were burned for their ashes, but I figured the palms were kept at church. I didn’t know that individuals took them home and kept them on their own.
Palm Sunday is one of those holidays I’ve always been a bit uncomfortable with. I love it, but all the same, it leaves me uneasy. All it does, really, is remind me how fickle people can be. One minute we’re waving palms and singing, “Hosanna!” The next minute we’re just itching for an execution.
Watching a palm desiccate and crumble throughout the year might just remind me of that. In our church, kids use palms as swords and then leave them, forgotten, on the playground or the floor of the fellowship hall. But keeping it and watching it lose its green, watching it become brittle and guarding that it doesn’t completely fall apart — that might just remind me of how fleeting emotions are. You can shout “Hosanna!,” but if that’s all you have, then before long, your spirit will look much like this dry palm, and maybe crumble just as easily.
To employ a phrase one scholar uses (about something completely different), Palm Sunday is a holiday that “carries the seeds of its own destruction.” The minute we make worship solely an emotional event, we ensure that there will be a time when worship is impossible. Like a palm, our emotions too will wither and come to life in cycles, through the seasons of our lives, and worship will mean something different in each of those seasons.
This is not to say that emotions are unimportant in worship. I have had deep emotional encounters in worship with the living God, some ecstatic, some devastating. But we must realize that the reality of worship does not depend on emotion–it depends on whether or not we have met with God. How will we know if we have met with God? A simple test is whether or not we have changed as a result. When people meet God in the Bible, lots of different things happen, but everyone changes. When you encounter the Almighty, the Unchangeable One, you change.
In the end, the message of the palms is deeply prophetic. When we rely simply on emotion or intentions, our efforts fail — sometimes slowly, sometimes spectacularly. Eventually, our good intentions borne of emotion burn up, and then they mark us as human, as fallen, as made of dust and returning to dust. Perhaps this is when the real change starts, when we see God and our first impetus is to repent in ashes, rather than to wave the palms.
Best of Bweinh! — The Council on Transportation
Originally published on May 14, 2007.
This and every Monday, the Bweinh!tributors, having convened in secret for hours of reasoned debate and consideration, will issue a brief and binding ruling on an issue of great societal import.
This week’s question — What is the best form of transportation?
Josh delivers the ruling of the council, joined by MC-B and Job:
Despite its limitations in speed and scope, walking is the best form of transportation. It’s free, universal, great exercise, environmentally safe, and completely flexible.
Tom also concurs in the judgment, joined by Mike:
Walking is the best – it’s the oldest, most pleasant, and most reliable form of transportation.
Chloe dissents:
The best form of transportation is the public transportation system because it’s cheap, cuts down on individual car usage (and therefore pollution) and provides jobs.
David dissents:
Nothing says “America” like a great road trip, and such an expedition demands a car and nothing else.
And Steve dissents, joined by Djere:
Flight is the best, safest, fastest, and most useful form of transportation, and soon it will be as common as driving.
Best of Bweinh! — Virginia Tech
Originally published April 17, 2007.
Nor will anyone hear His voice in the streets.
A bruised reed He will not break,
And smoking flax He will not quench,
Till He sends forth justice to victory;
And in His name Gentiles will trust.”
Matthew 12:19-21 (NKJV)
—
While I sit in a coffee shop in upstate NY, thousands of miles from the Virginia Tech campus, I cannot help but reflect on the events of these past two days. Together, the two attacks constitute the deadliest school shooting in American history and they came only days before the anniversary of the Columbine shooting, our deadliest high school shooting.
Friends, co-workers, strangers in the coffee shop all seem to ask the same three questions.
“Did you hear?”
“Why did it happen?”
“What if it happened here?”
We’ve been created with the ability to empathize with other people, and news this tragic, this life-altering, this profound can often change our view of the world and people around us.
As it was on April 20, 1999, as it was on September 11, 2001, it was today. Collectively and individually, our hearts break for the victims of such tragedies. And though we and our colleagues may be so far removed from the situation physically and socially, we still feel compelled to discuss it. We feel the need to rationalize it. We feel the need to come to sense with the scary world around us.
But some actions can never be understood.
Thirty-three people are dead as a result of the shootings and fifteen are injured. That means nearly fifty families are directly affected by a physical casualty. The attacks left hundreds of first-hand witnesses forever changed as a result of the attack, and thousands more traumatized by the fear that it could happen again.
And though the global outpouring of grief directed toward America and the Virginia Tech campus may bring some small comfort, there is yet again a very real need for inner healing for the victims, their families, their classmates, their peers, and a nation yet again shaken by tragedy. A convocation was held on that campus earlier today toward that end. Speakers included local religious leaders representing the Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, and Christian faiths.
Hearts and lives have been torn open in an unfathomable act, and those hearts need mending. And there’s a great God of compassion and grace ready, willing, and able to mend broken hearts, to repair the bruised reeds and smoking flax in the world. That God is very real and very interested in their healing. But ministering that healing has been entrusted to His servants, through the power of the Holy Spirit. Will those same servants sit idly by while the terrified and brokenhearted among us run for placebo after placebo to cure what cannot be cured by human hands?
As I sit in a coffee shop in upstate NY, far removed from the terror, pain, and chaos swirling around the Blacksburg campus, will I remain idle? Will I fail to offer a prayer of intercession or to comfort someone who, though far removed physically, has been deeply affected? Will I be an ambassador of Christ, offering to heal the brokenhearted and repair a broken reed? Will I offer the only cure to the human condition, though the Buddhists and Muslims of the world offer an appealing placebo?
I will and I must.
Will you?
Best of Bweinh! — NASCAR Poll
Originally published on March 5, 2007.
If it’s Monday, that means it’s time for another Ask Bweinh! poll, sponsored by Midas.
Trust the Midas touch.
We surveyed our contributors: what are the first five things you think of when you hear the word “NASCAR”?
| Rank | Word | Points | ||
| 1. | Pointless/Dumb | 13 | ||
| 2. | Boring | 9 | ||
| 3-5 (tie) | Fast, Leatherman, Jimmy Johnson | 5 | ||
| 6. | Mustache | 4 | ||
| 7-10 (tie) | Weird, Circular, Stepchild, “Inexplicably popular” | 3 | ||
| Other | Redneck, 40 ouncer, Loud, Crash, Ignore | 1-2 |
Quote of the Day, 7/23/07
“Because they have fallen in love with ultimacy, saints are people of extreme behavior.” — D. Spoto
Clash of the Titans X: The Pope and Billy Graham!
Originally printed April 3, here’s a real interfaith dialogue!
| In this corner, supporting Pope Benedict, is Mike J! | And in this corner, backing Billy Graham, is Job! | |
|
Sit down, Billy. The Holy Father is about to educate your behind. Seriously, let’s think about this, people. In one corner, you have a backwoods preacher from the American South. Quite a dandy in his early days, Billy donned the white bucks and powder blue sportcoats for Youth for Christ rallies as far back as the 1940s. Two whole generations of evangelical women cursed Ruth Bell under their breath for shattering their dreams and taking Billy off the market. Even today, women admire him and men want to be him; pianists want to play for him, and even Michael W. Smith and dcTalk knew they had hit the big time when Billy Graham asked them to play for a “youth night” in a late ’90s California crusade. All of this makes Graham a beloved figure, a bona-fide American religious folk hero. It does not make for a worthy battle. Because in the other corner, resplendent in papal garb, his robes billowing proudly behind him, his miter defiantly piercing the sky, is Pope Benedict XVI, born Joseph Alois Ratzinger. He’s not a folk hero. He’s a junkyard dog. He was known universally as the Vatican’s “doctrinal watchdog” prior to his selection as the 265th pope of the Catholic Church. And as if his international reputation were not enough, the Catholics that knew him best, the ones from his native Germany, referred to him as Der Panzer Kardinal — “the Tank Cardinal.” Why? Because he’s such a ruthless defender of the faith. But you don’t have to take my word for it! Ask the late Father Jacques Dupuis (if you could), or Sri Lankan theologian Tissa Balasuriya. The former had the temerity to suggest that God was active in non-Christian religious traditions, the latter the unmitigated gall to refuse to sign a Vatican-approved statement of faith. Dupuis wound up trashed in a document Ratzinger wrote; Balasuriya was excommunicated, before the ever-gentlemanly Pope John Paul II restored him to the church. You can mess with a guy named Billy. You cannot mess with a Ratzinger. You wind up trashed, excommunicated…or worse. The man’s first papal encyclical was entitled Deus Caritas Est — “God is love.” Notably absent was any statement of Benedict’s own feelings. The obvious message: God is love, and Benedict ain’t. The man is a flat-out papal bull. |
The very notion that Pope Benedict could somehow best Billy Graham is so ludicrous I almost asked to be recused. No chance in heaven! Benny’s only advantage is that if he gouged Graham’s eyes or hit below the belt, he could absolve himself on the spot while the Rev. filed all that messy Grace paperwork. But I still don’t see it. Graham didn’t win prominence by an ancient tradition of selection by peers; he received it by the eons-old tradition of selection by God. And Graham’s a natural fighter; whether Nixon or Parkinson’s, he handles his problems personally with sleeves rolled up and pride rolled down. So l’approvazione, papa, lo porta! Let’s go to the arena floor… In this corner, at a holy 210 — the man who put “I can” in Vatican, the Stonin’ Roman…Germany’s own Joseph A. Ratzinger, Pope Benedict XVI!!! And in this corner, weighing in at a lanky 205 — The Master Pastor, The Great Wheaton Beatin’…Charlotte’s own Rev. William F. Graham, Jr.!!! *ding ding ding* “Look at Graham charge from his corner! I haven’t seen anything like this since Joel Osteen fought the Dalai Lama in that New Delhi kick-boxing match last June! The Pope is on the ropes, medallions flying everywhere!!” “Bob, this is tough to watch. I think Ratzinger forgot to drink his holy water, and he’s gonna need a miracle.” “Graham continues his crusade! An uppercut to the the Father’s midsection and a roundhouse to the nose!!!” “Bob, it appears the Rev. is nailing all 95 theses to Ratzinger’s chin tonight! I’ll bet the Pope wishes he were still a Cardinal so he could fly far, far away!” “Good call, Gary. Ooh, a stiff right hook from Graham, and the Pope falls to his knees in exhaustion — or is it prayer to Joseph? Patron saint of lost causes?!” “Pope Benedict XV felt that one!” “Hold the chariot, Gary, the Pontiff is up and he’s going after Graham with fury in his eyes!!! The Catholics here are yelling ‘inquisition, inquisition,’ as Benedict rains blow after blow on Graham’s head and body.” “Wow, Bob! Nothing apocryphal about that last punch! But it’s amazing how Graham’s hair stays right in place!” “Is that LA Looks he’s got in there?” “If I gambled, I’d go with Dep, Bob.” “Golly Gee! Now the Protestants are up as Graham delivers punishing blows to the caretaker Pope!! Everyone’s a Calvinist tonight; this is pure destiny!! The Pope is down for the count!!!!” *ding ding ding* “And it’s over — Graham by knockout!” |
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