I Win

09/11/2007, 8:45 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Best of Job, April 2006.

Pull up alongside another Jeep Wrangler at the Strong’s Ave intersection.

Turn down music.

Passenger in Jeep eating fries.

Me: “Can I get in on some of that?”

I get in on some of that.

Job on Romney

09/10/2007, 9:30 am -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

Yeah, I get it. A lot of my fellow conservative Christians support Mitt Romney for President. Ya want a cookie?

Snap out of it.

I’ll say it again — the reason conservative Christians support Romney is for his support of Biblically-based causes like the pro-life movement and the defense of marriage act. But when it comes to defending the actual Bible?

If I were to the San Francisco Giants what I am to Christianity, I would want our home runs to be fueled — only — by our true sweat and grit, not powered by something artificial like steroids. To think it’s all okay just so long as the ball gets over the fence and we put some runs up? It cheapens the home run and it would cheapen our defense of the unborn if it’s traced back to our willingness to defend it with a mercenary/avatar, rather than our own soldiers. Shameful.

I guess I view my vote as an extension of my witness. The reason I have the stamina to argue, the reason I’ve got a library card, and the reason I campaigned aggressively for W is because I passionately want to defend the unborn, defend Christianity against Islamofascism, and defend the institution of marriage (among other issues). But I didn’t just wake up one morning with this passion. I harbor and dispatch it because I’m saved by the grace of Jesus Christ and I want to, in all things, prosecute the Gospel…even with my vote.

Mike Huckabee is electable, didn’t have his conservative credentials suddenly hatch one night in 2002, is an ordained minister and will never have to parse his beliefs with carefully articulated speeches.

But we pull our support from him much like the early Christians pulled their support from Christ…because they weren’t convinced He could win.

He Wore Skins

09/6/2007, 3:45 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Best of Job, March 2006.

“He wore skins.”

The above sentence was written, then summarily dissected by James Michener in The Source, a breathless 800-something page book I’ve read 2 1/2 times. The book studies a fictional Israeli settlement from primordial times to a modern city. “He” was a man who lived in the area and apparently wore skins.

In his most exhausting chapter, Michener traipsed along, slowly talking about this sentence, assigning deep significance to each word, then the significance of putting them together. When I first read the book, this chapter literally put me to sleep, but when I read it again — the summer after my freshman year in college — I became captivated by such dedication to task and respect for the power of the meaning of words. I even sought to employ this technique from time to time, but being fully aware of its tiring properties, I have rarely used it unless I thought it served a rhetorical purpose.

I have been distressed of late by the impression I’ve given other believers about how I feel about our Faith, and subsequently, about other faiths. I regret this immensely. My hypocrisy is not lost on me, as I bleed pints from my heart about abortion, then turn into pure poison when it comes to talk of Islam.

I regret this. Tact has always lived two towns over from me.

My clumsiness thus admitted, allow me to bust out my Michener real swift-like…

I believe in Jesus.

I am Job Tate, a human male doomed from “go.” I have a deep-seated problem working with groups, am hopelessly adrift and aloof, am the youngest in my family, and have a hard time concentrating on things that do not interest me.

“Believe” is a rugged notion in today’s world. My dad calls the world a “marketplace of ideas,” and as consumers, humans have more choices today than history collected in an eon or two. I am not a trusting person and I don’t splurge or spree. I believe in black and white, just as I believe oxygen cannot be substituted with carbon dioxide.

In is a vehicle. For all of the complexities of biology and anatomy, thought is annoyingly effortless. For me to run to the store is an absolute operation, but to think about what I want to get is instantaneous. Imagine if thinking required exercise, planning and pacing.

Wait. It does.

Jesus was a real live man, yet also the Son of God, who lived until 33 in the greater Israel area. This is the key part for people seeking truth, coming to grips with the fact of His being here. For over 2000 years, His words have resonated and they demand speculation. Be brutal and overly cautious with your questioning, sure. The larger the microscope, the more the benefit. As C.S. Lewis said, “I believe in Christianity as I believe that the sun has risen: not only because I see it, but because by it I see everything else.”

If Jesus existed, and I believe He was who he said He was, and take to heart what He said, then everything else doesn’t compute.

My anger isn’t so much with Muslims, but with Christians who somehow feel obliged to enable a lie when they have the benefit of the truth.

Call me immovable and you’ve complemented me enormously.

I believe in Jesus.

Me Want Cookie!

09/6/2007, 8:00 am -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

Best of Job, March 2006.

Remember Cookie Monster?

He’d never actually ingest any piece of the cookie, but his frenetic, crazed eating of it gave the impression of a fantastic cookie-eating experience…

Loud.

Crumbs flying every which way.

Black plastic pupils swimming violently against a stark white backdrop, punctuated by labored breaths.

This is the Church today — all sizzle, no steak.

Look me in the eye.

Look. Me. In. The. Eye…

Did you really eat that cookie, yesterday?

Hang In There, Bro!

08/28/2007, 10:30 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Best of Job, March 2006.

I trust you’ve heard the story about Abdul Rahman, the Afghan who converted to Christianity from Islam, and now might be sentenced to death just for that ‘crime.’

I told my brother Joel today, while painting at the church workday, that I was hoping that either Rome or Colorado Springs (if not Washington) would dispatch an elite helicopter unit to go and get Abdul. I think this is a great notion and perhaps even cinematic — the idea of a Protestant v. Catholic Cannonball Run, to race and free Rahman from his potentially lethal captives.

I can see Dobson making up his mind to pull the trigger and do it, then changing his shoes like Mr. Rogers.

“I should wear layers,” he thinks to himself.

On the way over the Andes, the Protestant chopper breaks down, of course, and the Catholics stop only long enough — in their bejeweled Sikorsky — to gloat over and bless them. “Why don’t you ‘wiggle around like marmalade jelly’ to keep warm?!,” a cardinal gleefully shouts out, as they fly away.

But some Wycliffe translators in a nearby village help the Protestants get back on their way, and they overcome great adversity and pesky surface-to-air missiles to somehow beat Benedict’s Boys to the compound where Rahman is being held. Dobson and Joel Osteen are trapped behind some boxes, getting shot at, and things look gravely hopeless as Rahman struggles against his binds — until Rick Warren suddenly bursts through the bay doors in his Youth Group Truth Troop van, does a barrel roll out of the driver’s seat, springs up and slays everyone in the Spirit as the van hits a Jeep and explodes into a fireball.

“Yes, Rick!” Osteen yells out, pumping his fist. “Now that’s what I call Purpose Driving.”

“Amen!,” concurs Dobson, untying Rahman. The Catholic contingent shows up seconds later.

“Well, well, well,” remarks a camo-garbed Billy Graham. “I guess you Vatican’t.”

A War Too Civil

08/22/2007, 2:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

Best of Job, originally published in February 2006.

This past July I ducked into Denny’s for some ice cream on the most obnoxious of hot and humid days. Claiming a booth and reading an expired USA Today, I settled into my peach dessert. By and by, a group of Revolutionary War re-enactors, still dressed in their period garb with artfully placed smears on their faces, came in and bivouacked diagonal from me. They ordered their meals and began commiserating about the Battle of Hubbardton, where all had just died, yet survived. You can imagine what a colorful treat this was for me.

They spoke of stirring deaths, gung-ho dives into tall grass, how old some re-enactors were getting, how great the smoke looked this year. You know — re-enacting type stuff.

With my ice cream an orange puddle at the bottom of a deceptively shallow bowl, I gave the war boys one last once-over with my eyes and left. I left, feeling sure that they would soon be in the dust heap of my memory.

But they didn’t retire so easily. The image bugged and dogged me for months. There was something about the situation that haunted me, and I racked my brain for an answer like I was trying to remember the last name of an old friend.

Finally, it hit me. I knew where I’d seen it before.

The patriots reminded me of Christians — and not pleasantly so.

Ever feel like our faith has become somewhat of a holy hobby? We love to talk shop and impress on each other our deep knowledge of muskets, field maneuvers and brilliant battlefield tacticians. We argue pre-trib/post-trib like a climber debates the nutritional value of Power Bars and Clif Bars. And we compare stats, never outright but just below the surface, like vicarious fantasy league fanboys — without any real athletic cache or sore muscles.

Church sometimes carries for me the uncomfortably queasy likeness of a Star Trek convention — we think a tiresome day in the battlefield is conversing with a Mormon over coffee in an airport diner, and we are more elated by the opportunity to share the war story with other believers than we were to share the Peace story with the unbeliever.

We stress about relevance in the world. We develop a complex if our music isn’t especially pleasing to human ears.

We’re petty and hypocritical. We’re competitive; we turn on each other.

We defend unborn children out of one blubbering side of our mouths, yet condemn a murderer to death out of the sneering other. An acrobatic feat worthy of those so well-versed in the game of Christianity.

We re-enact.

We quote Peter, and invoke Paul — still frames, never a movie.

The smears on our faces are for dramatic effect, never earned by actual warfare.

We re-enact.

And the most unsettling thing for me is that I am one of the worst. Granted an upbringing in a Kingdom outpost, given a stellar education, blessed with many gifts, and best of all, possessed of that beautiful itch for a fight.

And to use all that just to argue incessantly? I hate quitting and losing, but I’ve become a man who fights to win the argument, not the soul — a sophist who offers all rhetoric and no recourse. All cake and no bread. As James would call me, a waterless cloud.

But we’ve been called, friends. Not to re-creation, not to “name it and claim it,” but to an actual showdown with live rounds exploding around us. This is not a re-enactment.

But what a comfortable thing it is for us, eh? To wear the uniform for a moment, feel the fleeting thrill of the fight, then retire to discuss it over a hot meal before returning to the workday world and bundled Verizon package.

It’s so pleasant to live in the vicarious fog of an epic struggle, when we won’t acknowledge its demands for boots on the ground, rather than a roll call in the pews.

The Apostle’s battles were theirs.
These battles are ours.
The victory is His.

All Your Base Are Belong To Us…

08/22/2007, 12:00 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Best of Job, originally published in February 2006.

I was reminded this morning of a prank I played in college. I was initially taught this genius by my brother Joel who would, of course, in his current pastoral capacity, deny it. But I had a giggle fit remembering it this morning, and now that the statute of limitations has passed, I will share it with you.

On one of the few occasions I was in the Houghton library, I noticed my arch-nemesis hanging out at a table with some of his henchmen, reading and carrying on. Armed with only a Russ Picardo, I felt the unholy, unhealthy urge to suddenly assert my dominance.

I made a beeline for the psychology section and searched for the most twisted title the shelves offered. I settled on “Homo-erotic Tendencies in Young Adults and Theories Toward Their Explanation” or something similarly-titled (ed.’s note: my search in the online catalog suggests it was “Homosexual behavior among males; a cross-cultural and cross species investigation”).

Perfect.

Rustler and I settled down at a table near the Pharisees and waited patiently. Finally my arch-nemesis and his minions went off to scope out the air-conditioned room upstairs for chicks to flirt with.

Quickly, and with Russ watching the stairs, I slipped the book into What’s-his-face’s bag, behind his binder and some looseleaf paper.

We moved over near the periodicals and waited. It was almost time for dinner. We would not have to wait long.

Here they came, laughing like drunken frat boys. Past the circulation desk. Towards the door. Through the scanners.

**BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP**

Looks of honest incredulity, as they tested themselves individually, narrowing it down to the evil one — who opened his bag at the circulation desk.

“That is NOT mine!”

It was a good dinner.

Trust me.

Utah, We Have A Problem

08/14/2007, 12:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 3 Comments

Best of Job, February 2006. Expect fresh Job next week!

While I was wandering the streets of downtown Rutland today, waiting for Hi Jol to be fitted, I had a run-in with everyone’s favorite perversion of the Christian faith, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints.

Elders Grewes and Hathaway were young, fresh-faced, nattily dressed sorts, and I’m not sure what about my swagger attracted them, but they veered toward me.

I lure this stuff in all the time. Airports, restaurants, Center Street by the bank, you name it. I usually enjoy these instances; they’re invigorating, demand my A game, and give me something to cut my theological teeth on. But today I just wasn’t in the mood. I felt, through the fog of my distaste, some true love for these two guys, who were of similar age, build, and probably social style… But I am just so weary of our faith getting hijacked and/or spit on.

They eased into their subroutine of easy eye contact, touching my shoulder, etc. They felt out my pedigree with clever questions meant to flush out the extent of my New Testament knowledge, and asked rather pointedly if I’d read the Book of Mormon.

They had good game and were serious. I’ve been here before, and usually try to circumnavigate their tactics by playing slightly dumb, like a sight-seeing Southern Baptist with family issues, to put out the proverbial begging bowl of an impoverished brain.

In short, I generally set a trap, let them walk in, then pounce like the Adventist/Wesleyan Bible minor hybrid that I am.

But today it was different. As they smoothed their cuffs and patted their pockets for tracts, I leaned against the building, pursed my lips, and placed my leg on the stones a la the Marlboro Man.

Sticking to the script. “Have you read the book of Mormon?”

I paused. This is where I normally say, “I’ve seen the commercials for it, I think.”

“Some of it. Enough to understand where you’re coming from.”

“Oh, well, good. So you know that we do hold to the Bible?”

“I understand that you do not revere the Bible. Or rather, the Word.”

“Excuse me?”

“Gentlemen, your book is a lie. My being blunt is just obedience.”

“Um.”

“Wanna have some coffee and then go off-roading? We can talk about the truth and your return to it.”

“Well, um.”

Bweinh! Goes To Boot Camp — Graduation

08/12/2007, 8:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

“I am a United States Sailor.
I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States of America.”
–The Sailor’s Creed

I went through almost all of boot camp thinking no one would make it to my graduation. At 27, I was pretty ancient, had already had a college graduation, and had enjoyed my family’s unwavering support in every last arena of life. So I didn’t want anyone to trouble themselves and come all the way to Chicago just to watch me stand at attention for 90 minutes.

I took the necessary steps to order my mother a copy of my portrait and a DVD of the ceremony. I knew my family — thoroughly and passionately patriotic — was completely behind me and all 774 squids in my graduating class. But a few days before graduation, as I was able to once again ply my body with a Pepsi and watch my shoulders begin to relax in the presence of my drill instructors, I learned in a phone call that my parents and two dear family friends would be attending. I felt bad, sharply bad, that I hadn’t done enough to dissuade them from troubling themselves with such a long drive and change in schedule, to convince them it wasn’t important to me.

It rained the morning of my graduation. Poured, actually, and we had to march to the drill hall with our pantlegs tucked into our socks so they wouldn’t get muddy; new sailors navigating their first bodies of water that collected in potholes. But suddenly, the sun, suddenly, formation, and suddenly, the bay doors opened and we marched in, to the loudest din of cheering I have ever heard.

And suddenly, I felt overwhelmed by the joy of knowing my folks were there. How could I ever have entertained the notion of convincing them not to come? They were there at a naval base — viewing as much a chapter of their lives as mine. Their youngest son, in the uniform of the nation they had so dutifully prayed, worked and grieved for. I felt the generations they represent; the Midwest work ethic and the New England sense of duty they embody. My expired grandfolks, my siblings, the nieces and nephews. And the fact that I stood there, foremost, as the Christian man they had raised without respect for compromise, was perfectly satisfying and ratifying.

Boot camp was, far and away, the greatest challenge of my life. A salad of physical, emotional and mental trauma, voluntarily placed on me at an age when independence had begun to take alarming, unrelenting root inside me. A set of stories that would take me years to tell. But all of it was punctuated in a morning ritual, practiced every Friday in Great Lakes, Illinois, where Americans come from all over to see their sons and daughters become sailors. I saluted a thousand times that morning — admirals, captains and the Stars and Stripes. My drill instructors, guests of honor and the commanding officer. Dutiful, proud, respectful salutes, all of them.

But it wasn’t until I was relieved, hugged and shook my way to the side door, bounced up the stairs like a 5-year-old, and found them smiling at the top, was able to salute my Mom and Dad — my neckerchief shamefully askew — that I felt the deepest sense of pride wash over me.

I will serve this country with incredible energy. I will make and take any steps necessary to ensure I only and ever do the right thing. But I know, without compromise, that I will fill this uniform as the believer my parents raised me to be. The American, sailor, Seabee — sunburnt, cold, discouraged, heady, laughing and proud — colored boldly by the means of my parents. Those agents and deputies of Christ.

As much a chapter of their life as it is mine.

Loyalty

08/7/2007, 11:15 am -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

Best of Job, January 2006.

I hope to someday have a bouncing little boy, and I hope to name him Loyal. I love that trait. For every fault I have, I calm myself with the fact that I am entirely loyal. There are instances where I am loyal to a fault, but I do believe I shop for my loyalties very carefully, and rarely withhold words of criticism. My loyalty always demands excellence.

Here’s a list of things I am eternally loyal to —

Progressive Auto Insurance
We Tates were always State Farm people, but when I became a man I chose Progressive. While their sterile name and scary white SUVs bring to mind some sort of Eastern bloc, ex-KGB separatist regime, they provide for me the low-cost, high-service marriage that’s so hard for businesses to pull off. They’re like a Payless Shoe Store selling Doc Martens.

Old Spice High Endurance
My brothers and I are firm believers in the idea of “crop rotation.” For every two sticks of High Endurance deodorant, we toss an Adidas or Right Guard “juke” to shock the body. I believe men can build a resistance to deodorant protection, so while I am evangelical about High Endurance, don’t be shocked to see a stick of Brut poking out of my toiletry kit.

Houghton College
Houghton was very intent on me being an individual, both intellectually and spiritually. Upon graduation, my relationship with my smarts was not a relationship with my professors, and my relationship with God was not my relationship with chapel, the guys on my floor, or World Mission Fellowship. Houghton, I strongly, strongly believe, is perfectly content to produce students who do not always recall the Alma Mater with great fondness. Houghton is a mother bird that throws her young out of the nest and trusts they can fly. I love Houghton College and embrace the bad memories now as well.

Tropicana
I got burnt once on a store brand bottle of cranberry juice. It shut my esophagus down and forced me to cough up webs of the stuff in a parking lot in Brattleboro. No good. Tropicana does it right. From orange juice to sweet grapefruit, to even straight-up grape juice, they don’t compromise their quality at all. I’ll buy Equate-brand astrigent or Tylenol or whatever, but when it comes to fluid fruit, I’ll always do it right.

Honey Nut Cheerios
Regular Cheerios just don’t get it done.

Jeep
Granted, this round has had its overwhelming share of problems, but I love the brand. My Cherokee was such a warrior and I rode him so hard. The utilitarian feel and look of the controls appeal to my sensibilities, but their capability is anything but (utilitarian). I heard Jeeps described once as “really clever dogs” and I think that’s a pretty succinct, dead on assessment.

Pepsi
A total no-brainer. While I hardly drink soda anymore, my devotion to this brand is just sick. I will not allow Coca-Cola into my home. I can honestly see this coming up in marriage counseling….right after the whole “naming a boy Loyal” thing, right?

The GOP
All day baby. I’ll always be a voice of dissent when she strays, but you can count me as a son of Lincoln.

The Washington Redskins
When my family arrived in DC from New Mexico all those years ago and saw what an interesting set-up it would be, raising a brood in such a rugged environment, I think my Dad made a faithful calculation to throw the anchor, establish the clan and make the Capital our home, no matter how contrary it ran to his and my mother’s sensisbilities. Part and parcel to this was a rabid following and fandom for the Burgundy and Gold. Should I ever contract Alzheimer’s, the final soldier it will kill (as it waves the flag of my vivid youth) will be the memory of the Super Bowl win over the Denver Broncos.

When “Little” Timmy Smith broke to the outside, pumping his small but resolute legs so faithfully into the end zone, lighting the fuse that blew up our home, I was caught between the jumping legs of my father and brothers, and I did the only thing I could. I ran around the house and turned every light on. I had recently acquired the height needed to flick the switches; it was a skill I had longed for, and was the biggest celebratory gift I could give those dear old Redskins.

I’ve always suspected that to achieve this ‘anchoring’ effect for his kids, my dad had to send silent and deep some loyalty to another football team. He grew up in Southern California and I scan his eyes for any betraying gleam when the screen shows the Oakland Raiders or San Diego Chargers. I can see myself doing the same some day, should the will of the Lord lead me to another location — emptily screaming my lungs out in support of a team I have no passion for, just to give my kids that “anchor” my folks gave us.

But I can also imagine my teenage daughter saying, “My Dad is so weird. Sometimes, on Sunday, he just walks around the house turning on all the lights…”

All-Time Fantasy One-Liners, Part Two

07/31/2007, 2:00 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

From the Best of Job, January 2006. Part one is here. This edition is unattributed, to protect the guilty.

“While I have never run a cash register before, I will take over for you now because I am sure this is the only way I will leave here still clinging to youth, and the only way to ensure your employer, Wal*Mart, will actually profit on my purchases. Go have a smoke.”

“Perhaps it is best that we settle this political discussion/traffic dispute with a game of ping-pong.”

“You want directions to Killington? Sure. First you go to the Gap, then you go to the Picklebarrel nightclub. From there, go to the Picklebarrel parking lot. Once there, punch the guy from New Jersey in the mouth for looking at your girlfriend “wrong.” Be careful, that’s a confusing intersection. Take a left on the Breathalyzer, then duck your head to get into the back of the police car. Finally, curl up in the fetal position inside your cell while your frat buddies call home to get your folks to bail you out. Oh wait, my bad. I did that all backwards.”

“Perhaps the vice grip I have on this bag of Sun Chips is an indication I am famished and do not want to share them with you.”

“The increased dosage of makeup on your face doesn’t disguise the fact you are rapidly aging, but rather exposes to a greater extent your insecurity, and the massive desperation you now feel for never reproducing or otherwise validating your existence on Earth. But you do smell nice.”

“Ma’am? Your service here today did not call for a tip. In fact, you ran a deficit; that is why I am keeping your pen.”

“When I said you could use my cell phone, I didn’t think you’d be using it in an extended network to trade recipes with the girlfriend you plan to break up with at the end of the week, once you get your car back from the mechanic.”

Bweinh! Goes To Boot Camp — Week 6

07/26/2007, 3:26 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

“Roll out the TNT, anchors aweigh!
Sail on to victory, and sink their bones to Davy Jones, hooray!”

Week six in Navy boot camp is not the hardest, but it is the busiest and most predatory. By busiest, I mean your days are relentlessly filled, and by predatory, I mean you stand the greatest chance of flunking out of the Navy. By this point, anyone who hasn’t learned to swim (still an appalling number) gets set back in training, anyone who fails an inspection gets the same, and anyone who can’t endure the gas chamber absolutely, positively gets sent home.

The gas chamber was roundly described by our drill instructors as a “rite of passage” . . . something all recruits must accomplish, thus something that binds all military personnel together. It’s tear gas, heated up on a skillet, then blown throughout the room by fans. All recruits must step up to the line, remove their gas mask and scream their name, rank, and division number — while collecting all bodily fluids in their left, cupped hand.

I won’t try to man my way through this explanation — it was horrible. The instructor threw the tablets on the skillet (this was our brains on whatever drug we were on when we decided to join the Navy) and off came the gas mask. I really can’t stress to you enough how quickly and violently the attack set in. It made me cry in pure streams, my throat twisting like a rag, my body rattling. My instinct – a healthy one – was to run, but you can’t or you’ll just have to do it again. The girl next to me projectile vomited and I felt my head start to spin with truly remarkable velocity. Uno, dos, tres, CATORCE!

“SEAMAN RECRUIT TATE, DIVISION 237!”

“You’re good to go, Tate, RUN!”

And outside for ten minutes for blowing, snorting, spitting and blinking. I overuse the word, but it was truly remarkable. The purpose of the exercise was to teach us confidence in the gas mask and sympathy for those we might have to gas. Both were accomplished very well.

Living through the gas chamber was a very satisfying accomplishment in that it signified one of the final requirements of my training, a further step toward leaving — something I long for very much. But as our drill instructors told us, it was a bonding experience and it helped highlight just how dear my fellow recruits have become to me. We’ve all absorbed and mixed each other’s problems and trials to the point that they don’t carry individual characteristics anymore. We are truly a team. I was wary of this transformation at first; it seemed so contrary to the independence hard-wired into me.

But as I’ve gone through this experience I’ve realized this relationship I have now with my fellow sailors is the one I wish I had with my fellow believers. One where we feel this world is toxic, where our crying and coughing in response were evident enough to set us apart in a most conspicuous manner. And one that would make me feel, sincerely, as though any suffering endured by a fellow believer was just as much my own.

Best of Bweinh! — Focus on the Fancy-Free

07/24/2007, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Originally published on May 1, 2007.

Q. What should a young bachelor wear to church?

Focus on the Fancy-Free 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.

Put Your Pride on the Shelf…

07/17/2007, 10:30 am -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

Best of Job, from January 2006.

There was a Filipino party at the house last night. They set up a table full of the food I’ve grown accustomed to eating and making — lots of seafood, rice, and dishes with ingredients you have to travel to New Jersey to find. And after a little while everyone congregated in the living room for karaoke.

Filipinos love karaoke.

It’s our Scrabble, touch football and conversation over coffee, all rolled into one, and while they are an unflappably gregarious, gentle and generous bunch, they unleash their competitive nature in the world of sing-a-longs.

The karaoke microphone, which plugs right into the TV, is an elaborate machine, holding the lyrics of hundreds of songs and images of the Philippines. After each performance it scores you based on your knowledge of the lyrics and rhythm, whether you hit all the notes, and your stamina. 100 is the highest possible score. Everyone sang for one round, then the top half moved onto the next round. From twenty initial attempts, I made the top ten — then I made the top five.

It’s such a petty thing, karaoke on a Saturday night with a bunch of immigrants, most over 65, but I admit my competitive juices were absolutely boiling.

I wanted to win this one for the States.

I went first of the new top 5. My voice, never truly strong or good, had taken a serious beating on Sinatra’s “My Way,” so I knew I needed to try a song by a hack. But the Mick Jagger offerings were slim and I didn’t trust my ability with “Start Me Up.” “Semi- Charmed Life” by Third Eye Blind appealed to me, but that’s a long, breath-taking song.

So I took the dive and went with Elvis. “All Shook Up” is not as easy as it seems. I had to keep going and going — the lyrics crash right into each other and take little interesting curves. But it’s a quick song, and when the dust settled, I had scored a 94, a new high for the evening. I was competing with only the best now, but they were a little shaken by my knowledge of the King — I think every country thinks Elvis is exclusively theirs. Like a young Jane Goodall, I had earned their respect.

Pepsi went for the kill on “Hero” by Mariah Carey, scoring a 96. She takes voice lessons, you see. Remi took a dive on Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl.” Eliminated. Lourdes butchered “Unchained Melody,” while Louis did a respectable “Let It Be.”

And so there were three.

I felt scared. Alone. I wanted to tag out. But suddenly a ghostly apparition of a young Ben Franklin, Paul Revere, and that other dude appeared. “Bring the victory home, Job…bring the victory home,” they softly whispered. I knew what I had to do.

Flipping through the song book I had seen “Song 2” by Blur; you know, the “Woo hoo!” song. I felt confident. No one in the room had ever heard it and they all sat in stunned silence as I screamed out “Woo-hoo!” every other second on my way to a 93.

Pepsi sang a song I’d never heard before, but owned a really pretty chorus that said “you were twenty-five minutes too late” or something. She hit a home run — another 93.

Louis, a 40-something from Manila, tried a Tagalog song, and he too scored a 93. This meant a re-do.

My throat was tired. I’m a weak one. I didn’t want to have to do it, but I dove way back into my youth and sang “I Just Called To Say I Love You” by Stevie Wonder. It was a breeze — 93. Pepsi sang Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I thought was a cheap shot, but earned her a 95. When Louis bailed on his Lionel Richie attempt, I was in the finals.

Aged 26, red in the face, sore in the throat — and locked in pathetic mortal combat with a 14-year-old girl, slyly smiling to herself.

She had a bunch of fans who oohed and ahhed her every note; I had an imagined peanut gallery of deceased forefathers, one of whom I couldn’t even accurately identify. I hung my head in shame. I’m pathetic. But my self-loathing demanded vindication. I was gonna ice this chick once and for all.

My shame was enhanced when she graciously agreed to go first (giving my pipes a little more rest) and did a positively moving version of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

98.

Ouch. I would need my ‘A’ game like never before.

The entire room giggled in delight. They knew I couldn’t beat a 98. I had been outgunned, outclassed. Throttled. It was time to hang it up, bogsok naneman.

But not so fast… There was one last place I could go to get help in this great and epic fight. One final Alamo in my defense of America’s honor. One last hope to get a good meal and get myself clean.

That’s right…

The YMCA.

The karaoke singer’s Nirvana. When I punched the code in and it popped up on the TV, the entire room grew hushed. Did I dare? Did I dare to go there? Would I truly go through with it?

I would. And I did.

“Young man,” and the fire was lit. I went in guns blazing. I could feel the disco beat, I could sense the mirror ball flashing across my skin. Every note, every sound, every pulse and every ounce of pure melody swam through my veins.

For one magical moment I was gay.

Everyone in the room clung to the walls, furniture, each other…whatever was available. They rode the waves of my performance, crashing into the surf of this sonic adventure.

And then the last note faded away. We all caught our breath and stared at the screen for the score.

65.

Forgive me, America…..

Bweinh! Goes To Boot Camp — Week 4

07/15/2007, 6:30 pm -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

“As you know, we consider blessed those who have persevered. You have heard of Job’s perseverance and have seen what the Lord finally brought about. The Lord is full of compassion and mercy.”
James 5:11

The Navy, since we are not the Army, is not as focused on firearms as our more camouflaged brothers. But one thing we do that the other branches do not is shotgun training. I’ve tried and failed to figure out why they spend so much time training us to take out a dummy at the torso AND the knees in an imaginary environment, but regardless of the reason, they do.

Live fire training — where they train you to shoot the 9mm and the Mossberg shotgun — was a stressful, loud, surreal and challenging course. It was also the moment when the military decision really hit home. While we were firing at paper dummies in a safe environment, it did become real to me that I’m placing myself in a position to both be shot at and to shoot back. My ear gear snugly on and my eyes hidden behind protective glasses, I fought an inner struggle of faith as I emptied 192 rounds into an imaginary person, switched to the shotgun, combat-loaded three rounds, and “incapacitated” his three imaginary buddies.

My job in the Navy will be as a Seabee — combatant construction workers. This job will require me to leave Navy boot camp and go to Fort Leonardwood to be trained by the Army to fight in close quarters. I was raised as a pacifist, albeit a patriot, and I had wondered how it would feel to squeeze the trigger while in uniform.

I was pleased to discover I didn’t like it one bit. It didn’t make me nauseous, as it did some. It didn’t make me inaccurate or even shaky. But it did make me hesitant. As my grandmother would have said, “It caused me some pause,” and I think this is a pause to be nurtured.

I joined this Navy of ours because I want to serve, to help physically rebuild both structures and the image of America abroad. The role I chose will require me to carry both a shovel and a gun, and I know which one I hope never to use. But for the good order of peace and the entity that is freedom, I know I must learn to use both well — but one with incredible discretion.

As a Christian in uniform, it has become more and more apparent to me that we desperately need more Christians in uniform. That pause I spoke of, coupled with an eagerness to defend, was taught to me in Sunday School long before a drill sergeant ever called my name.

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