Best of David — Blessed is He . . .
Originally published October 19, 2007.
These words appear in red, sent by Jesus in a message to John the Baptist as he lay in prison. John appeared to be faltering in his belief in Jesus as the Messiah. In their initial meeting, there were no doubts; in fact, he leapt for joy in the womb. 
At the next meeting, he saw the Spirit descend on Jesus like a dove, and proclaimed, “Behold the lamb of God that taketh away the sin of the world.” But after some time in prison, he sent a message saying, “Are you the one that should come, or do we look for another?”
Why would John doubt Jesus? Perhaps if you were in prison and the Great Deliverer, the Messiah, the Coming King — who happened to be your cousin — showed up, but you wound up in prison while His ministry grew so phenomenally that even there you hear reports about His fame, you might have some doubts yourself. You might expect a rescue or a pardon.
Have you truly never let your expectations about who Jesus is, and what He came to do, cloud your perceptions of life? I know I have. I want my bills paid on time. I want a clear path in life, with universally recognized milestones of achievement, so that anyone who looks at me can say, “Surely God is with him!” Instead I get the path that fits His plan, His timetable. His idea of success.
Can God waste your life the way He wasted John’s? Can He allow you to take a stand for righteousness that costs you everything? Your ministry? Your freedom? Your friends and family?
Can He leave you dangling at the cruel end of a young girl’s whims?
“What would you like, my little darling, for this dance that pleases a King?”
“The head of John the Baptist on a platter, thank you.”
Jesus died on the cross to save us from our sins, but why did John die again? To please an angry woman and a cruel child? I can’t think of a death more senseless, in all the annals of world history. Some have perhaps been as cruel and senseless, but certainly none were worse. He died because a woman was angry, because a young girl danced to please a king, too embarrassed to go back on his promise to give her whatever she asked for, up to half his kingdom. So capricious, so arbitrary.
Can God waste your life in such a seemingly senseless death? Or can He, perhaps, even waste it by the monotonous squandering of your time and energy on things that seem to have no bearing on the eternal? Things that don’t match your expectation of why He came, and what your part is in all this?
Be careful, and remember — “Blessed is he, whosoever is not offended in Me.”
Does She Still Pray?
I can’t remember her name — it was 10 years ago — but I still see her face clearly. She was terrified and shaking, chased by terrors in a way that I sometimes forget can happen to people on the outside of these massive walls with which God secures his Kingdom. She was on the outside, plagued by real demons — not metaphors — which ruled her desires, leaving her helpless, looking like she would bolt at any second if she had anywhere else to run. I only met her because I had to drop some paperwork off at a co-worker’s house. She was standing in his living room. My heart broke to see her; I could not leave without sharing the Gospel with her.
She was my co-worker’s mother, a lesbian caught in drugs, alcohol and a cycle of violence perpetrated by her truck-driving partner. She had been estranged from her son, but knew nowhere else to run, and so showed up on his doorstep that day seeking shelter. In the next few days, my wife and I talked with her a lot and led her to Jesus. The angels rejoiced with us at her deliverance and she was free. That Sunday, she came to church, along with her son and his family.
At the time we attended a large AG church that believed in having nationally-known speakers visit, and one was scheduled for that morning. After over 2 hours of “Pentecostal preaching,” they excused themselves and left before the service was over. I don’t know why, thinking back, we didn’t go with them to eat lunch and talk. It was the last time I ever saw her. I guess we still believed it was a sign of weakness to leave church before the service was over.
Looking back now, I feel like I was grasping for her hand as she was drowning, and I let her slip away. Her son told me she had plunged back into her old life, criss-crossing the country with her abusive partner.
It’s the kind of thing I think about when I can’t sleep, and the fiend (as Luther called him) haunts me with all my past failures, into the wee hours of the morning. It happened last night, and then an encouraging thought occurred to me — I wonder if she still prays?
I wonder if perhaps she is not lost, but a sheep gone astray.
I wonder if she hates her life as much as always, and is gathering the strength to come back to some altar, somewhere — to find that His promises are forever.
Confounding Conservatives and Christians
Michael Hiestand has a column in Monday’s USA Today that offers commentary on what happened in TV sports over the weekend. It’s broken down into various little blurbs, and Charles Barkley was the subject of one snippet this week.
Commenting on his plan to run for Alabama governor in 2014, Barkley said, “Every time I hear the word ‘conservative,’ it makes me sick to my stomach, because they’re really just fake Christians.” After comparing Barkley’s comments with the recent blatantly anti-Christian remarks made by Dana Jacobson — and noting her two week suspension — Hiestand observes that Barkley “doesn’t seem to be saddled with any limits” regarding his on-air comments. Hiestand seems to note an incongruity, but the real incongruity is actually created by his comments.
Barkley made comments about conservatives, not Christians; Jacobson insulted Christians, Barkley insulted conservatives. If I call a man a fat pig, I am insulting the man, not the pig. The fact that people view these two terms as interchangeable — confounding the two to our detriment — is one of my chief concerns with the conservative movement.
We Christians are in danger of allowing ourselves to be defined by a political movement. We are no longer known for our steadfast adherence to the Apostles’ Creed so much as to the Conservative Party line. We must hate immigrants and love firearms; we must view every increased function of government as intrusive and unnecessary; we are sworn to demand that taxes always be lowered and never raised — even in the face of a costly war and a burgeoning military that we are sworn to hold fast as an inalienable right.
Suddenly we are not conservatives, and thereby not really Christians, if we think that healthcare has become so outrageously expensive that it is impossible to afford — and so perhaps a national healthcare plan is needed. Apparently, a man cannot possibly be a Christian while supporting amnesty for illegal immigrants, or tighter controls on firearms, like those used in at least four school shootings over the last ten days across America.
It seems a man can’t be conservative, and thereby Christian, unless he supports an amendment to the Constitution banning gay marriage. But one can oppose homosexuality without being in favor of altering the Constitution every time someone burns a flag or marries a — homosexual.
Rather than insulting Christians, perhaps Barkley was actually serving as an apologist, a defender of the faith, helping the world to see that the two things are not so interchangeable as they seem.
Back to the Future
August 15th, 2008. Somewhere outside Hilldale, California, a man frantically dials a number into his cell phone, while sitting in a smoking DeLorean in a mall parking lot.
“Doc!!”
“Marty? Is that you?”
“Doc! Doc! Listen, you gotta help me…”
“Great Scott!! Where are you, Marty?? I can barely hear you!”
“Not ‘Where?,’ Doc — ‘When?’ I’m in 1996! You gotta help me get back to 2008 . . . back to the future!”
“Marty, Marty, calm down! What you’re saying is impossible! I destroyed the time machine and that car you have now has no flux capacitor. What makes you think you’re in 1996?”
“Doc, Clinton’s running for president, right?”
“Yeah, but it’s Hillary, not Bill –”
“Conservatives have tuned out, even though a true conservative had some great early success — Pat Buchanan, right?”
“Yes, but it’s Romney or Huckabee this time…”
“And there’s a weird guy from Texas with big ears and the initials R.P. acting all crazy, and some people are afraid he will run with a third party, right?”
“Well, yes, but it’s not Ross Perot, it’s Ron Paul.”
“And the Republican nominee is a moderate who moved to the right — what Reagan would have called a ‘cross-dressing conservative’…”
“But his name is McCain, not Dole –”
“And he’s a war hero…”
“Yeah…”
“In his seventies…”
“Yeah…”
“And Republicans have decided the way to win is to abandon the Christian right and reach for moderates and independents…”
“Yeah…”
“It’s 1996, Doc!! You gotta help me!!”
“Great Scott!! You’re right!! I’m on my way!”
Election Update
–Harrisburg, Pa., February 7
David has been traveling around the country with the Huckabee campaign, reporting on election events as they unfold.
The race for the Democratic nomination for president was all but secured on Super Tuesday, after Clinton and Obama both suffered a series of victories, tempered by uplifting defeats. When properly analyzed, these show that a clear winner has emerged and a clear loser has been uncovered.
According to the latest data from the Zaxbys-Chicken Interactive poll (see Figure 1), Clinton made great strides in her bid to corral the liberal-leaning conservative Democrats who registered Republican in the past, supported her husband in 1992 (although not in 1996), and listed immigration, economics and terrorism as their least favorite words to spell.
At the same time, Obama was able to garner the support of the much-coveted single-income soccer moms, listed as Democrats between 115 and 145 lbs. on their driver’s licenses, but identifying themselves this year as conservative liberals “looking for change” in their car seats and couch cushions. The importance of this development is especially troubling here in the Huckabee camp, as he was counting on that change to invigorate his campaign.
Much of the battleground will become clearer as the battle shifts to upcoming primaries in American Samoa, Disneyland and Canada, being held on “Monster Monday,” February 11th. One thing that has already become clear after Super Tuesday (see figure 2) is the edge Obama has picked up among independent white males who registered as Republicans in the 60s, refused to support Barry Goldwater at that time, but inexplicably admitted to buying Barry Manilow records in the 80s. 
This is a demographic no one is talking about, and one that will affect the outcome of this election in a way that will shock and dismay the Clinton camp, while at the same time depressing and deflating Obama and his supporters.
On the Republican side, John McCain suffered his first setback on Wednesday when a secret list of prospective running mates was leaked to the press, and found to include two fictional characters, Hannah Montana and Kim Possible. The Romney camp responded by releasing documents proving that Montana is not only fictional, but is also played by Miley Cyrus, daughter of Billy Ray Cyrus — author of “Achy Breaky Heart,” a 90s-era radio scourge which single-handedly spawned the Macarena dance craze. McCain weathered the storm, however, and seemed to maintain his dominance within his demographic fortress (see figure 3): octogenarians who identify health care, social security and “finding their car keys” as their top three concerns.
The Heroes Series — Socrates
Everyone has heroes. One of mine is a slovenly dressed, ill-mannered war veteran who returned home, married a beautiful, wealthy wife — whom he completely neglected — and spent his days developing a potbelly while haunting his city’s downtown, arguing with any passers-by who would listen. He had been known as a distinguished officer, destined for a powerful career in politics, but his friends and family were soon appalled by his lack of hygiene, idle lifestyle, and penchant for baiting anyone who would listen into an argument. His name was Socrates.
When he bothered to work, he won some acclaim as a good teacher, tutoring the children of wealthy acquaintances, but his life really took shape when someone asked the Oracle at Delphi who the wisest man in Greece was — and the Oracle replied, “Socrates.”
Now don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t like Oprah’s book-of-the-month club; it didn’t send millions of dollars and world wide acclaim his way. In fact, it had the opposite effect. It made him angry. He thought it ludicrous and set about the task of disproving it. He believed that the nobles, poets and artisans would hold many men wiser than he, and so he set out to interview them to disprove the Oracle.
He found that the nobles ruled by power and coercion, the poets possessed inspiration but did not grasp the truths they were revealing, and the artisans — although greatly skilled –assumed that their skills gave them a wisdom in every other area of life, a wisdom they did not possess. Some things never change, and if you don’t believe me, just watch how quickly any new celebrity writes a book to tell you how to raise your kids or run your life. Or listen to a Tom Cruise interview.
He never tried to prove anything; in fact his life’s work was to disprove things. He would ask a question like, “What is truth? Or beauty? Or loyalty?” Then when some unsuspecting young intellect would answer, he used logic and cross-examination to ridicule their answers.
In the end he had to admit that the Oracle was right, though. He deduced that although he knew nothing, he knew that he knew nothing. All the others knew nothing too, but they had deluded themselves into thinking that they knew things.
Why do I admire such a man? He lived before Christ came, and he’s the perfect example of an honest man, laboring with all the light available, to find a truth that had not yet been revealed. Yet still he refused to settle for lies in the absence of revealed truth, as we do so often.
He was put to death for being an atheist, corrupting the youth of Athens by destroying their faith in idols and false gods, and still he never waivered in his convictions — even to save his life! The early Christians were accused of the same thing in Rome. They rejected all the pagan deities and worshipped an “unseen God,” and the Romans, at first, took this as atheism. Paul stood at Mars Hill in Athens and preached a sermon on the “Unknown God” in the book of Acts, affirming everything Socrates taught, and bringing the now-revealed truth to the seat of ancient philosophy.
In the years following his death, the term “philosopher” (which meant lover of the higher wisdom) actually began to fall out of use in Athens, and such men were simply called “sophists,” mere peddlers of wisdom.
In a discourse recorded by Plato shortly before Socrates’ death, a disciple asked about the afterlife — a sort of “How should we live?” question. The response from Socrates was that all we could do is search out the best ideas and tie them together like a raft to make it through life until we get some more sure or certain word (logos).
That Word came and dwelt among us, and we beheld His glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father. His name is Jesus. If I understand the Bible, Jesus descended first to hell (the world of the dead) to preach the gospel, and then ascended to heaven to lead the captives out.
If so, then I would expect to find this character on the streets of gold when I get there — perhaps not so slovenly and disheveled, with nothing left to argue about, but a happy and honest man.
Blessed Are Those Who Mourn
I once heard a preacher say that for every atheist who dies from cancer, a Christian dies too — so the world can see how a Christian faces death. That is an obvious overstatement, but the fact remains “that the rain falls on the just as well as the unjust” for just such a purpose — so the world can see what it means to place your faith in Jesus and to live for the next world, not this one.
Rick Burgess, half of the popular Rick & Bubba Show here in the South, lost his 3-year-old son William Bronner Burgess, in a tragic drowning accident this week. I have to admit I had never listened to the show, assuming that it would be funny, but laced with off-color redneck humor like Larry the Cable Guy or even Jeff Foxworthy’s material. After hearing what happened, a co-worker turned the show on in the company truck for me, and I listened, amazed and dumbfounded, to the latest proof of my hidden prejudice.
When we turned it on, Bubba and a pastor friend were counseling a caller, leading him to Christ over the air. What would have overwhelmed some men with grief, spawning bitterness against a God who could allow such tragedy, has been embraced by the family as an unknowable mystery that must be walked through, while giving glory to God and reaching out to as many people as they can.
Their web page is here; I encourage everyone to listen to Rick’s address at his son’s memorial service. As the Bible says, “We don’t mourn as those who have no hope” — but please keep this family in your prayers.
Here’s Another Story About The Invisible Mice
My daughter loaned me The Ringing Bell a while back, the new Derek Webb CD, and after listening to it 30 times or so, I’m ready to review it.
It has everything that makes me both love and hate his newer music — great messages when you can decipher them, but lacking the fantastic vocals and rich varied musical sound that I used to love when he was with Caedmon’s Call. For starters, ever since he was criticized for using language that some find offensive in Christian music on a previous CD, Derek no longer prints his lyrics with his CDs, so it’s a bit of a guessing game.
The lead song, The End, starts out something like:
Here’s another story about the invisible mice
The elephant in the room jumping in the light
I so hate hesitating voices in the night
Here’s another story about the invisible wives
I know elephants are afraid of mice, and I have seen an elephant jump into a chandelier to escape a mouse on a cartoon once, but I don’t understand the invisible thing, or why possibly the farmer’s wives from 3 Blind Mice would get involved, and be invisible, unless it has to do with the fact that the mice are blind and can’t see the wives.
It’s pretty confusing.
After a dozen more times through, I thought it might say this instead:
Here’s another story about the invisible knights (KKK?)
The elephant in the room (taboo subject?) jumping in these lights (making headlines?)
Slow hate, hesitating voices in the night
Here’s another story about the invisible whites
If so, perhaps the song is about racism, but I guess we’ll never know until the song is deciphered.
What I do love about his music is the political stands:
Savior on Capital Hill is a biting commentary on our delusion that somehow selecting the right politician in an election is going to make things right for the Church. I love it. It ends with the line:
So don’t hold your breath or your vote until
you think you’ve finally found a savior up on Capital Hill.
I like Huckabee, but God doesn’t need him to win an election to further the Kingdom. They are two separate things.
Name is another great one.
They call you right
they call you left
they call you names of all your friends:
Baby don’t let ’em
don’t let ’em put a name on you!
My sentiments exactly.
There’s no categories just long stories waiting to be told
Don’t be satisfied when people sum you up with just one word.
I belong to no one but Christ and my allegiance answers only to Him.
This Too Shall Be Made Right is another song that explores some of the inequities that will be set right eventually when Jesus returns, as well as looking at our guilt on some of those issues.
Most of the rest of the CD was bland and unattractive to me, but the way the first song (The End) dovetails into the second (The Very End), switching to a beautiful orchestral piece featuring violins is beautiful and worth listening to.
Yeah, so there you have it.
Bramble for President!
I know it doesn’t show but I’m a cynic at heart. It wasn’t always that way; I came into the world wide-eyed, trusting and naïve. When my older brother took me out behind our garage on Olive Street at the tender age of 6, handed me a lit cigar, and said, “Inhale this as deep as you can,” I truly believed he had only my best interests at heart — and surely was not doing something just to amuse him and his best friend.
So whether I can blame him, or the first used car salesman I ever met, I don’t know, but I am what I am. Maybe it’s just an accumulation of impressions formed over the 46 years of fun I’ve had on this big, warm and fuzzy blue playground of a planet we call home.
Anyway, my favorite parable in the Old Testament appears in Judges chapter 9, and I always think about it during election years:
The trees went forth on a time to anoint a king over them; and they said unto the olive tree, “Reign thou over us,” but the olive tree said unto them, “Should I leave my fatness, wherewith by me they honor God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”
And the trees said to the fig tree, “Come thou, and reign over us,” but the fig tree said unto them, “Should I forsake my sweetness, and my good fruit, and go to be promoted over the trees?”
Then said the trees unto the vine, “Come thou, and reign over us,” and the vine said unto them, “Should I leave my wine, which cheers God and man, and go to be promoted over the trees?”
Then said all the trees unto the bramble, “Come thou, and reign over us,” and the bramble said unto the trees, “If in truth ye anoint me king over you, then come and put your trust in my shadow:”
They chose the tree that had nothing else going on in its life, the tree that would be useless and avoided at all costs, if not for their desire to have someone rule over them. They want a leader in the worst way — and that’s exactly what they get.
I’m no theologian, but the implication seems clear enough to me. The choice, for the trees, seemed to come down to being fruitful, productive citizens who refreshed their fellows with their rich and varied natural gifts — or becoming “public servants” who did none of those things. I hear all the rhetoric about “public service” and “civic duty,” but yeah, right. I don’t buy it.
My feeling has always been that the various hoops we make people jump through to get into high office almost invariably produce brambles. It has always saddened me to see how many young men and women are willing to give up a chance at good, honest employment for bramblehood.
It reminds me of Rich Mullins, who mentioned an ancestor of his who was elected to public office, but added something like: “We were able to overcome that as a family, and lead honest, productive lives.”
My Year in Review (Part Four)
Read Part One, Part Two, and Part Three!
October arrives, but the weather stays hot in Alabama. The Yankees have played their way into the postseason with a superb September and now face the Cleveland Indians in the ALDS. They get blown out in the first game but Andy Pettite pitches a gem in game 2 to keep them in contention. Yankee phenom Joba Chamberlain is brought in to wrap up the game and even up the series, but he suffers a meltdown when he is swarmed on the mound by specially trained flying ants called Canadian Soldiers, kept for just such circumstances by the Indians staff. The Yankees lose the game and go back to New York down 2 games.
Wanting to inspire his team for game 3, George Steinbrenner takes a page out of Oral Roberts’ motivational playbook, drafting a press release saying that if the Yankees don’t win the next game, “God will take me home!” 
After leaking this to the clubhouse as a trial balloon, the front office urges George to reconsider, as it seems to have the opposite effect. Instead, he tells the media that if the Yankees lose the next game, Joe Torre will not be brought back as manager next year. They win that game, but not the next, and end up losing the series. Goodbye Joe — sorry it had to be you.
In the NHL, the Flyers pick up the pieces of a disastrous season by adding many character players and gritty veterans, and start the year 6-1, living up to their new motto — “BACK WITH A VENGEANCE!” A taste of what’s to come is seen in the preseason when 2 players are suspended for 20 and 25 games after hard hits. The Syracuse football squad continues its miserable string of gridiron failures, excepting a miracle in Louisville, and the basketball team prepares for its next season by adding the 2nd-ranked recruiting class in the nation, as rated by Athlon Sports. True freshmen Donte Green, Johnny Flynn and “Scoop” Jardine hold the promise of bringing the Orange back to the NCAA Tournament.
On a personal note, I spend the month exchanging emails and photos of my Sir Walter Scott books with a trio of rare book stores in Atlanta, only to find that although they are indeed a rare collectible, their physical condition does not meet the prevailing standards for collectors, and my best bet would be to sell them on eBay for “a few hundred bucks.” I’m actually relieved because I purchased them because I liked them, not for profit, and now I am free to keep them.
November arrives and brings with it the sternest test yet for the fledgling Bweinh! On November 5th, the Writers Guild of America East (WGAE) and Writers Guild of America West (WGAW) agree to strike, and both Hollywood and all of America are plunged into turmoil. Every Bweinh!tributor is faced with the same gut-wrenching decision — stand by their comrades in solidarity, or cross the picket line and risk ruining their careers down the road.
Everyone plays it close to the vest and no one actually refuses to write, but suddenly emails are not returned, deadlines are missed, people have “finals,” “jobs,” and “personal issues,” and the Clash of The Titans and music review features grind to a halt, as Steve Maxon struggles to round up replacement writers like “Hoss” to fill in.
The biggest blow comes when star blogger Job Tate marches into the executive suite and announces his intention to honor the strike. Suddenly the only Job Tate articles on the site are old material labeled as “The Best of Job,” and a ridiculous cover story circulates that Job has run off and joined the military. 
When that story does not suffice, another story circulates that he is seriously ill and confined to a hospital, recovering from surgery. Readership flags, interest wanes, and a nation turns its lonely eyes to Vermont for an answer…
In my personal life my wife has been smitten by Koopa, my daughter’s husky puppy, and she wants one of her own. We find one in the Thrifty Nickel for $200 and she names her Miranda, a nod to the Firefly sci-fi movie Serenity. Our house is now the romping ground for two old dogs, a harried and anorexic cat, and two husky pups.
December finally arrives and brings with it the much-anticipated Mitchell Report on performance-enhancing drugs in baseball. Although much has been speculated, no one is prepared for the shocking revelations in the document, which reaches far beyond big-name superstars and encompasses even the previously unmentioned news media.
Former ESPN intern Lawrence Wallace reveals that Stuart Scott, Kenny Mayne, John Buccigross, and others have been using the performance-enhancing drugs Ambien, Ritalin and Baclofen for years, to create the false sense of hilarity needed to make their shows appear entertaining and relevant. Their incessant obsession with hip catch phrases has been produced by a drug-induced stupor more associated with crackheads than journalists, explaining their bizarre behavior over the past few years.
Bweinh! holds its first Christmas party in the South conference room, but the mood is less than jolly. Steve and Tom flew to Vermont in the company jet earlier in the day to plead with Job to return, and brought him back, but no one is quite sure what the outcome will be. Connie, Erin and Chloe all stand around distractedly discussing the tepid catered food, while Djere, Mike, Josh and Tom clear one end of the enormous conference table and set up ping-pong to pass the time. Everyone seems to be waiting for an announcement about Job so they can collect their Christmas bonus checks and head home for the holidays.
Eventually MC-B has a little too much to drink and begins entertaining the group with a Japanese version of Here Comes Santa Claus learned while he served overseas in Okinawa during his Navy days. It is performed using origami figures made from the festive Wal*Mart Christmas napkins adorning the table, and it manages to lighten the mood a little. 
The ice really breaks though when Djere and Tom perform their rendition of the Wumpus and Sean Connery singing Silver Bells, and soon everyone is mingling, shaking hands and wishing each other a very merry Christmas.
Eventually Steve gives a speech about love, joy, peace on earth, goodwill toward men, and other stuff like that, and hands out the checks, but Job is still silent about his future with Bweinh! As Steve urges everyone to bury the hatchet, I find myself standing next to the Pope, and am overcome with an urge to shake his hand and make up. I find myself unable to do it, though, due to circumstances beyond my control that have still not allowed Hell to freeze over. Instead I hug him while surreptitiously placing a piece of paper on his back that reads “Kick me — I am the abomination that causes desolation.”
My Year in Review (Part Three)
Read Part One and Part Two!
July finally arrives and while The Bronx is Burning on national television, Alabama is burning too. After a long drought, many counties have banned certain types of fireworks, disappointing because we are traveling four hours to spend the 4th with our grandchildren.
Although my grandson had a hushed phone conversation with me (“Grandpa! Bring lots of fireworks! A big bag! You know the stuff!”), I check the list and find their county was on the ‘banned list.’ I am a little dispirited, but upon arriving, I find all the fireworks stores open, and only bottle rockets and a few other things on the “banned” list. I have always suspected that some type of work-release agreement exists between Alabama’s mental health facilities and the fireworks industry, since all the fireworks stands bear names like “Crazy Ken’s” or “Wild Bill’s,” and advertise “insane prices.” Five minutes into my visit to this particular store confirms that suspicion beyond all doubt.
While sitting around the living room, waiting for it to get dark enough for fireworks, I tell my daughter about the great books I found in June, and she asks me how much I think the Sir Walter Scott set is worth. “Who knows?,” I said. “Probably at least $600.”
I type in the publishing date (1903), size (48 volumes), and a few other criteria. We are all a bit amazed when the only match is selling for $6500. Not bad for a $60 investment. I am still staring at the screen in disbelief when I hear my daughter Teresa yell, “Dibs! I get those when Dad dies!” We are a practical family and, as the oldest, Teresa has always been good at outmaneuvering the other two.
The fireworks go off with just one small hitch (involving the neighbors’ porch and our daughters carport), and we return the next day with our grandkids. We decide to spend one entire evening inflicting as much damage as possible on a Cruella DeVille action figure using the leftover fireworks. We are dog lovers, and after what she tried to do to the puppies in 101 Dalmatians, she will be shown no mercy. After repeatedly assaulting her with Roman candles, sparklers, M-80s, flaming spinning things, exploding smoke bombs, and firecrackers, all we can find in the morning is a charred lump of melted plastic and two small yellow feet.
If only Michael Vick had been here.
The only other thing of note was a visit to Community Fellowship Church. The first hour was pretty good, but the next 90 minutes dragged a bit. It is a nondenominational church struggling to find itself, with the unfortunate combination of Pentecostal length and Baptist dryness (no offense, Mike). At least we eliminate one more possibility.
Ian and Rachel also get a full-blooded Siberian/Malamute husky from the Humane Society, and name him Koopa. King Koopa arrives and takes over the house…
In August, the incessant noise of swarming presidential candidates finally becomes unbearable, and I am forced to take notice. Democrats John Edwards and Dennis Kucinich actually announced last December, and in January, they were joined by Hillary Clinton, Joe Biden and Chris Dodd, as well as Republicans Duncan Hunter and Sam Brownback. All this a full two years before we will be swearing in — or swearing at — our next president.
In the months that follow, Rudy “the Red-Nosed” Giuliani, Mitt Romney, John McCain, Jim Gilmore, Tommy Thompson and Ron Paul throw their hats into the ring for the Republican nomination, while Mike Gravel, Barack Hussein Obama and Bill Richardson join the Democratic fray. Mike Huckabee comes aboard in August, and Fred Thompson, after looking good and ducking all the hard questions for several months, announces that he will be announcing something formally . . . maybe as soon as next month.
In sports news, Barry Bonds breaks the all-time home run record as the San Francisco Giants and all of baseball breathe a sigh of relief. Bud Selig reluctantly attends the ceremony, and Hank Aaron participates via pre-taped remarks played on the scoreboard, explaining he could not attend in person due to unforeseen circumstances that prevented hell from freezing over.
Our son Philip and his wife Katherine are coming to visit, so we purchase a new set of living room furniture to have a pull-out sofa to sleep on in the living room. We are tactfully informed that they are still newlyweds and will not sleep in the living room for a week. Either way, the furniture is here and has to be paid for in 90 days. We decide to borrow a queen-size bed to put in the library, and I begin reluctantly eyeing Sir Walter Scott as a potential source of income.
I also begin paying the devil his due at work. Earlier in the year my son-in-law, a die-hard Alabama fan, asked if I could get him into the Auburn-Alabama game, one of the most storied rivalries in college football. My company supplies copiers for the press box for all Auburn home games, so whoever works the game, clearing jams and such, gets a free press pass and parking tag. These are VIP accommodations, and although technically extra passes are given to our company, since tickets to this game go for $500, these are not made available to me. I make a deal with my boss, though, agreeing to work all eight home games free — in return for two press passes for the Iron Bowl. He usually pays $100 per game, so I save him $800, with which he can easily buy a replacement ticket. The season starts on Labor Day weekend…
September. All year long, a crisis with China has been growing. In May, the deaths and illnesses of thousands of pets were linked to Chinese pet food manufacturers; in July, it was discovered that personal care products from China, like toothpaste, vitamins and painkillers, were also tainted and subject to recall. Finally, in August, Mattel announced a massive recall of Chinese toys, after testing finds they were tainted with toxic levels of lead. This leads to two immediate backlashes in September, with China announcing a ban on all US meat products in retaliation, and the Federal Detention Center in Atlanta announcing a halt on incoming packages for inmates, due to a flood of Chinese products being mailed to Michael Vick.
Philip and Katherine come from New York, the Hodges and Hodglings come down from Huntsville, and we are all together as a family, for the first time since last Christmas at Phil’s wedding. In the midst of the revelry, though, I have to leave to go work the first football game, and it saddens me. I am struck with the irony of doing things for your family out of love, that actually end up keeping you from them at important times. It is an evening game, and I leave reluctantly but happy, knowing they are all together in one house, eating, laughing, playing with Koopa, and watching movies together.
I have to be at the game 2 hours early, I can’t leave until 2 hours after it ends, and I have to battle the remnants of 85,000 people when I do leave. I finally get back home about 1:30 AM, and I don’t think I can describe the joy I feel as I get out of the car to see light and laughter still spilling from the front windows of the house. Everyone has agreed to suspend bedtimes for the grandkids and stay up just for me. Gazing into the living room and seeing them all stretched out on the couch, chairs, hassocks and pillows, eating pizza, playing video games, and laughing, is one of the moments I will cherish until I die.
I grab some pizza and a game controller, and join the crowd playing Monkey Ball into the early morning hours.
My Year in Review (Part Two)
In April, the 2007 MLB season starts, finding Barry Bonds just 21 home runs shy of Hank Aaron’s all-time record — and less than a week from matching Al Capone’s record of 187 days thwarting a grand jury investigation by refusing to cooperate with federal agents.
In Philadelphia, following a series of minor of run-ins with local police, including charges of drunk driving, drug use, carjacking and abusing elderly residents of a nursing home, Britt and Garrett Reid, sons of NFL coach Andy Reid, were caught invading a small Central American nation, deposing the president, seizing control of the three major drug cartels, and murdering dozens of innocent citizens. In a hastily called press conference, Coach Reid asked for “privacy” while dealing with unspecified “family issues.” “This stuff happens in every family,” he told reporters. “We’ll get it fixed.”
In my personal life, somehow, against all odds, our accountant got us a $2100 tax refund. Even more amazing, my wife turned down taking a trip to Scotland for our 25th wedding anniversary, electing instead to invest the money in a 42″ Plasma HDTV for the living room. 
Not only that, but since the TV was technically for her, there was still enough money left over to buy me a new Martin guitar for my anniversary present. I confess, I need a new guitar like my dog needs a new pen and stationery, but I didn’t argue.
Steve extended an invitation to me to join Bweinh! and I began writing and commenting on articles. This quickly caused a controversy when I bumped into the Pope (a frequent guest contributor) in the break room, winding up in a fistfight after I called him the “Anti-Christ” and pointed out a website where Tom pointed out his suspicious resemblance to Emperor Palpatine from Star Wars. Eventually, after a review by my peers, I was placed on 90 days’ probation and instructed to keep away from the Pope and stop referring to him as “the abomination that causes desolation” during staff meetings.
May came and ESPN broke a shocking story about Falcons quarterback Michael Vick, where an unnamed informant fingered him as a major player in the Internet campaign to return Buffy The Vampire Slayer to the airwaves. This was later found to be erroneous, but he was eventually accused of running a dogfighting operation in which he identified himself online as puppyslayer1@aol.com His new coach Bobby Petrino amends his earlier statement of “I’m looking forward to spending time with Vick” to exclude any possible prison time that may be forthcoming. 
In our personal life we celebrate our 25th wedding anniversary with our daughter and son-in-law who are celebrating their 1st. We dine at Olive Garden with this memorable exchange between the waitress and my son-in-law:
“Soup or salad with that?”
“Yeah, that sounds great.”
“What?”
“The Super Salad! That sounds good! I’ll have that.”
We spend the next day at Surfside Water Park floating along the lazy river on inner tubes for several hours; then we go home and grill steaks out on the front porch. It was by far the best wedding anniversary in recent memory.
June arrived and with it the high winds and balmy weather so perfect for setting the West Coast of our great nation ablaze. As California burned out of control Governor Arnold Schwarzenegger pledged to personally descend from a helicopter in true action hero fashion to battle the blaze if 100,000 people requested that option within one week’s time. His effort fails, however, when 70% of the ballots turn out to be write-in requests to dangle Michael Vick instead.
In entertainment, the Discovery Channel follows up its wildly popular show Dog Whisperer with a companion program called Cat Shouter. 
In this show, starring Sean Penn, feline discipline problems are solved by grabbing the offending creature, shaking it violently, and screaming at it until it runs away and hides. Problem solved. The show lasts only three weeks before complaints by PETA cause it to be replaced by Hamster Healer , where rodentia are treated for psychological issues using aromatherapy and deep muscle massage.
On a personal note, I find a complete 48-volume set of Sir Walter Scott’s Waverley Novels (Thistle Edition) in quarter-bound leather, published in 1903, for $60 at an estate sale. They are possibly the most beautiful set of books I have ever owned and I spend an entire day rearranging my library to accommodate them along with Plutarch’s Lives of Illustrious Men in thee volumes, a Latin edition of Julius Caesar’s account of the Gallic War (which I cannot yet read), and a book on Latin grammar to help me with Julius Caesar’s book.
My Year in Review (Part One)
After spending 10 days in picturesque Sackets Harbor, celebrating Christmas with my family and watching my son get married, we packed up our stuff and left for Alabama on New Year’s Eve, so…
January 1st of 2007 found us in Winchester, Virginia, groggy and road weary, threatening a Burger King drive-thru speaker with Klingon curses in an attempt to get some breakfast for the road. After a 15-minute wait behind a dozen cars, and 5 minutes with no response to our hails, we eventually gave up and drove off in frustration. Rounding the corner of the building, we found a hand-lettered sign announcing they would not be open on New Year’s Day. Looking back at the dozen cars that had lined up behind us, we considered trying to tell them, but then laughed an evil laugh and got back on the highway.
In order to get my family up and on the road early, I had started singing about “The Platypus” (our massive luggage carrier). I learned this trick when my kids were younger — sing a silly song about what you have to do, and it gets them laughing and keeps them from falling back asleep. It works even better when they’re adults; we continued all the way home, eventually writing a rock opera, based on Bohemian Rhapsody, centered around the Platypi (as he came to be known):
I’m just a Platypi looking for a family!
He’s just a Platypi looking for a family!
We arrived home, reintegrated ourselves into society, and spent the rest of the month digging out from Christmas debt. I ended “The Great Rodent Wars,” vanquishing the last two diabetic rats who had terrorized our house by attacking the water lines, then turned 46 (outliving my father by 7 years and counting). We were named Associate Pastors of the church we were attending, then watched the Pastor and his wife get ambushed at a board meeting a week later, forced to resign. We were also no longer welcome and thus began our next search for a new church.
February came and Peyton Manning won his first Super Bowl, against the mighty Chicago Bears, led by Rex “One-Year Wonder” Grossman. It was not a close game, and afterward Peyton thanked everyone, especially Rex, for making such a wonderful year possible. The Philadelphia Flyers continued their worst year in recent memory, driving hard to finish dead last in the NHL — no easy task.
I personally spent the month battling The Columbus Ledger-Enquirer in an attempt to accomplish the almost-impossible feat of having my daily newspaper delivered daily. In an exchange of emails, they blamed me for living in a bad neighborhood where people apparently stole newspapers; then the director of circulation accidentally forwarded me an email from the local carrier: “You should see his newspaper box! It’s right on the street, practically screaming, ‘STEAL MY PAPER!’ ”
I emailed them back, pointing out that I could move the newspaper box off the street, but then I would be the only house without a newspaper tube on the mailbox post — plus she would have to get out of her car to deliver my newspaper on foot. I also mentioned that the thief must be quite prolific because, being OCD, when my paper doesn’t show up, I methodically drive to every coin box and convenience store in my neighborhood looking for a replacement — and every time, not one box, not one store in my entire neighborhood had any papers! That seemed to turn the tide, and my carrier stopped skipping my neighborhood on busy days.
March made my wife and I fondly remember a trip we had taken the year before, to Pine Mountain, Georgia. We stayed on a mountaintop where we (or at least I) could watch the sunrise over the mountain every morning from our balcony. It was such a wonderful trip that, even though money was still tight, we planned a return trip for March ’07. Everything was fine until we actually went on the trip. My wife did not want the nice hotel on the mountaintop this time; she wanted a rustic lodge she had spotted the year before, which advertised cabins with jacuzzis. But the cabins were $200/night, so we took a lodge room.
We drove up Friday night, but my wife had forgotten her dramamine, and the winding roads left her quite ill. We went to bed early and later discovered “rustic lodge” means “no insulation in the walls.” We were awakened by people in the next room at 10 p.m., arriving for what appeared to be some type of party/screaming contest. The next day we shelled out the $200 so we could spend the entire day and night stretched out on luxurious couches in a beautiful cabin, suffering from stomach viruses and watching lame movies on the Hallmark Channel.
The Flyers finished dead last in the NHL; Syracuse got snubbed by the NCAA Tournament, even though they won 24 games (10-6 in the Big East); and a close friend died of cancer after a 2-year battle that brought him back to the Lord.
But on March 30th an email arrived that rewarded a lifetime of hard work — and negotiations began with media mogul Steve Maxon regarding a position opening up at Bweinh!
Maybe my life was working out…
Excerpt from the Real Journal
Monday, December 3rd, 2007 — lunch in the library at home
December, almost another year gone. I read Mark 1 through 4 today; in Mark 4:39-40, Jesus is awakened by His disciples and rebukes the wind and sea. He then rebukes them, saying, “Why are you so fearful? How is it that you have no faith?”
The result?
“And they feared exceedingly and said one to another, ‘What manner of man is this, that even the wind and sea obey Him?’ ”
We go from fear to fear. We’re afraid, when God leaves, that the world will crush us. Then when He returns, and we see the extent of His amazing power, we stop fearing the world and fear Him instead. Puny, frightened creatures we are.
We fear both the absence of God and the presence of God. We fear what will happen while He’s gone and what He will do to us upon His return. We are afraid to be away from Him and terrified of walking with Him. We long for His presence, assured that His coming will set all things right — and then run like scared rabbits when He tries to move in our churches, or our lives.
We can’t live without Him, and we can’t live with Him.
What is this safe distance we seek in ritual, tradition, the priesthood, the hierarchy, but a manifestation of our fears? John said, that in Him there is no fear, for perfect love casts out fear. We are like the Israelites, who said to Moses, “Speak thou with us, and we will hear; but let not God speak with us — lest we die.”
We cling to the Old Testament types of the Sabbath and the tithe because they limit our obligations — and our contact — with God almighty. We embrace the priesthood and the ritual for the same reason.
Derek Webb has a song called A New Law that expresses it quite well.
Don’t teach me about politics and government; just tell me who to vote for
Don’t teach me about truth and beauty; just label my music
Don’t teach me how to live like a free man
Just give me a new law
I don’t wanna know if the answers aren’t easy
So just bring it down from the mountain to me
I want a new law . . .
Don’t teach me about moderation and liberty; I prefer a shot of grape juice
Don’t teach me about loving my enemies
Don’t teach me how to listen to the Spirit
Just give me a new law . . .
What’s the use in trading a law you can never keep
For one you can — that cannot get you anything
Do not be afraid
Do not be afraid
Do not be afraid . . .
Abraham
Of all the saints whose lives are recounted for us in the Bible, my favorite character has always been Abraham. I know, I know, it should be Jesus, but Jesus is God. My attempts to learn from His life have not always been as fruitful as one might imagine.
The first time I read the book In His Steps, I was in college during the late ’70s and, although I don’t remember the exact circumstances, when I tried to stop and ask myself, “What would Jesus do?,” the answer was obvious — “He never would have been stupid enough to get into this situation in the first place.”
That’s why I like Abraham. He’s human. I love Jesus and worship Him. I look to Abraham for a good role model.
There’s something about him standing in the door of his tent, looking up at a brilliant sky lit with innumerable stars, telling God, “Yes, I know you are my God and everything is cool, but . . . I still don’t have any children, and you promised me children…” and God saying, “Can you count these stars? If you can count these stars, then that’s how many children you will have.”
His life is such a draw to me. There are no churches to be disappointed with, no law to come short of, no religion to fail at, no synagogue or temple. There’s just an enormous expanse of territory, of which God says, “Journey in the land, wherever your foot touches I’ll give it to you and your descendants.”
I long for that. No plan or purpose. Just wandering in the desert, raising a family and watching sheep. Every once in a while God shows up and makes a new covenant and promises more stuff. Almost none of it happens in his lifetime but he doesn’t care.
He becomes the father of the notion that there is only one true and living God, and that He has holy standards. He passes that onto his descendants and becomes the father of all three of the major faiths in the earth — Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. The prototype, the plan and the imitation. It all blossoms out of one man’s personal relationship with God.
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