From the Phone 4

09/17/2008, 1:01 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

“The McCain website should debut a feature where you can sign up to receive a text message when Obama picks a NEW running mate.”

Clash of the Titans LXXXVIII: Houghton and Point Loma

08/22/2008, 10:00 am -- by Bweinh | 7 Comments

In this corner, supporting Point Loma Nazarene University, is Kaitlin!

And in this corner, backing Houghton College, is Job!

I’d hate to disparage another school at the expense of my own, so I think I’ll let Point Loma Nazarene University’s merits speak for themselves:

• The ocean. No matter where you stand on campus, the long, limitless horizon beckons, reminding you how insignificant you truly are. There’s no better way to wake up in the morning. And it never grows old — stroll through the campus during any given sunset and you’re bound to find scores of students staring westward, admiring the freshly painted canvas that fills the sky.

• The location. The campus’s oceanfront property includes beach access; Ocean, Mission, and Pacific Beaches are all within five miles. Downtown San Diego is just as close. Point Loma itself is an affluent peninsula with a small-town feel, giving a feeling of secluded island living while maintaining a comfortable proximity to all that San Diego has to offer.

• The opportunities. All the travel spiels you’ve heard about San Diego are true. It includes so much — Balboa Park, the Embarcadero, the San Diego Opera, playhouses, professional sports teams, and more. As part of a metropolitan area, the school has worked hard to establish a relationship with the community, creating an excellent platform for internships and networking.

• The academics. From the outstanding nursing program to the renowned science department, the school’s academic departments have few equals in the private Christian university circuit. Class sizes are almost always well below 40. Professors are knowledgeable and accessible, and they approach education thoroughly and rigorously. When I was a prospective student touring the Literature, Journalism, and Modern Languages department, I was impressed with the department head’s reasoning behind labeling my major as literature. “We don’t just study literature written in English; we study world literature.” The faculty are on the whole not only experts within their fields, but deeply involved and mindful of their students’ personal well-being.

• The extracurriculars. The school’s sports teams consistently rank in the top of their leagues. The intramurals are vibrant and varied, ranging from soccer and basketball to surfing and rugby. The debate team consistently sweeps tournaments. The newspaper provides comprehensive coverage of school and community events every week. The numerous campus ministries devote themselves to the spiritual development of students, the local community, and even further through mission-minded outreaches.

• The programs. The Fermanian Business Center has instituted myriad programs that use a Christian approach to economic concerns, aiming to help people while making inroads in the business world. The Center for Justice and Reconciliation focuses on poverty and inequality. The Study Abroad Center guides students through international programs in whatever countries they would like to visit.

• The events. The school continually draws prominent speakers. Last year alone, the campus hosted Philip Yancey, Francis Collins, Gay Talese, Anchee Min, Jon Foreman, Greg Mortensen, a colloquium of French poets, and the 2008 Kyoto Prize winners.

I think Point Loma’s advantages speak volumes. However, I will add that the library is open from 7 am to midnight, Monday through Friday, a full hour earlier and later than another school that I know of.

Let us come together, but for a moment, my friends, and speak of heavy things.

Truth, most of you reading this possess a college education, and on top of that, most of you were educated at a Christian college. And you know the usual players, do you not? If not, allow me to roll the credits of our shared context. Wheaton, Westmont, Calvin, and Azusa Pacific. Biola, Grove City, Gordon, Nyack, and Messiah. Bethany, Point Loma, Liberty, Houghton.

A stellar list, no doubt, but one rife with differences — theologically, financially, ideologically, and geographically. But one of those differences is very telling, and it finds its traction at Houghton College — for Houghton is one of the rare (popular and esteemed) Christian colleges that is not nestled in or near a major metropolitan area.

Gordon has Boston, Wheaton has Chicago, and Houghton has… a cornfield.

My friend Kaitlin has made a very convincing argument indeed…for a resort. But I think she has forgotten the purpose of a college: education. While I am certain that Point Loma has professors, donors, and sports teams to give off the appearance of an institute of higher learning, the school is really more interested in its beachfront cachet.

Their literature and website are filled with (mostly) pictures of San Diego’s trappings, the breaking Pacific and the tanned, smiling faces of the collegiately damned. Rare is the promotional shot of a student pondering anything of educational weight, and rarer still is the shot of anything with four walls surrounding it. Again, Point Loma would make a great summer camp (which it is, all fall, winter and spring), but is it an earnest mecca for the education-hungry, worthy of their pilgrimage? I think not.

But ah, Houghton. Remote, yet easy to find (just one exit from the major highway, 14 miles distant), and located in one of the poorest counties east of the Mississippi, Houghton has no city appeal. There are no movie theaters or beaches to frequent. No hotspots, bars, historical sites, or even McDonald’s. Houghton, as a destination, is only worth visiting for its express purpose: educating the young Christians of the future.

I cannot sway you with the impossible amounts of fun I had there, but believe me it was had indeed. I cannot convince you of Houghton’s intrinsic and organic properties, although our thorough separation from the world brought them out all the more. I cannot persuade you of Houghton’s lasting impression on all of its students because many, it’s true, couldn’t take it. Many tested the river that is Houghton only to turn back, stomachs in knots, knees scraped against the boulders of trial, serving to warn others from attempting to ford its rapids.

But this only makes my time on the other bank that much more fulfilling. I could have attended any number of the Jacob tent-dwelling schools — but I cast my lot with Esau, preferring the brambles and winds of a wilderness in a time that should not make us soft and well-recreated, but rather, hardened and mentally-fit.

And all that said — our girls’ basketball team could beat Point Loma’s men’s soccer team.

Which side are you on?

For Argument’s Sake

08/21/2008, 9:30 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Christians love to talk shop. This isn’t alarming; it comes as no surprise, really. Any group of people who find something mutually yoking will almost invariably talk about it to the point of conversational exhaustion.

People of political persuasion will discuss candidates and pithy comments. Skiers talk slopes and are prone to waxing about, well, waxing. And fans of entertainment — TV shows, movies, bands, et al. — spend hours in circular conversation and unaggressive debate.

Christians are no different. Within our faith, we all know, lies an endless and renewable source of discussion on a vast range of subjects. We are encouraged, from an early age, to adopt certain viewpoints, and to be prepared to defend them.

Whether we like to admit it or not, there is a part in every believer that enjoys the exclusivity of Christianity: not in the sense that we enjoy the Faith being so different from the world, but rather that we enjoy having a different point of view for its own sake. We like our unique stances and are occasionally thrilled to run into another believer with differing positions.

The American in us would be sorely disappointed in Christianity if it did not allow us so much room for disagreement, and not just in the easy and obvious denominational breakdowns. I’d like to get under the hood and understand why we make it rain just to jump in the puddles that follow.

Best of Job: For Mr. Slevenzinkin…

08/11/2008, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Originally published here on March 27, 2007.

She and I had this game we’d play, you see. We called it “Tumult,” where we’d talk for lengthy periods of time about two different topics. It was a give-and-take conversation with pauses and eye contact as normal; you just weren’t allowed to engage the other person’s line of conversation at all. This included laughter, eye rolling, and — if I was “on” — even blushing. If you did engage the other person, you lost the game, and the $2.85 for the banana split. Banana

“So Ernie, from Sesame Street, died of AIDS,” she’d begin, turning her coffee mug in a slow circle. “Bert’s sad and all, but he likes the extra closet space.”

“It was like no other town I’ve been to,” I’d respond, flashing my eyes for emphasis and picking at imaginary lint on my sleeve. “The ‘57 Chevys looked, for once, like they actually were from 1957. Rusted through, door hinges re-welded countless times, but still dutifully making their daily trips to the Circle K for cigarettes. The 15-year-old girls ever plotting their escape while unwittingly taking the steps that would inexorably keep them there forever. 40 ounces. 40 ounces can change a life, they say in Banning, California. Or, rather, can keep it exactly the same.”

“Gum?,” she offered, sliding the silver-wrapped piece out at me in a fluid motion. I was no fool.

“The President has his own movie theater in the basement of the White House, ya know? I bet he’s watching something right now, too; I know I would be. Newsies — the director’s cut.”

She paused, but not enough for me to claim. She always defended Newsies.

“Radiohead’s new album? I hear it’s just going to be 12 tracks of straight static. But angry, artistic static.”

I was the one that paused this time, but only because I contemplated claiming victory. I always defended Radiohead, and she was returning my volley, a plausible bungle. Not now, I cautioned myself. You can get a sure victory.

“See this?,” I asked, pointing to my forearm. “That’s where it bit me. Latched right on and started to roll, carrying me down into the dark depths of the swamp. I screamed and screamed, but still we sank, leaving my world for his — wanna know how I got out?”

“If something ever happens to me,” she responded, thoroughly unimpressed, “I want you to take this to a Mr. Slevenzinkin in Prague. Hotel of the Revolution, room 214.” She slid me a butter knife. “He’ll know what to do. Then head to Haiti and never look back.”

“Job? Never look back.”

She peeled the bananas by saying my name like that, looking me in the eyes. I knew I had to strike before she regrouped.

“That’s a nice shirt you’re wearing . . . does it come in your size?”

—–

Laughing, eye-rolling, blushing and kicking me suddenly in the shins — all ice cream where I come from…

Girl Dumps Boyfriend To ‘Get Closer To God’; ‘God’ Apparently Another Guy

06/24/2008, 9:00 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

–GROVE CITY, Penn.

B.J. Dillon’s romantic and theological worlds were rocked this week when his girlfriend of 8 months, Sara Ryan, ended their relationship after telling Dillon she needed to “focus on her relationship with God.”

But God, Dillon reports, debunking thousands of years of theory and faith, is apparently fellow Grove City junior business major Seth Nelson. Adding to the bruising emotional effects of rejection and loss, the religion major must now cope with recent revelations that God is younger than him by two months, nearly flunked biology last semester, and works at the gym snack shop.

Dillon is also grappling with the fact that he has hated God since freshman orientation weekend.

“When Sara suggested that we take some time off to grow closer to the Lord, I heartily agreed, hoping it would serve to more firmly establish our relationship,” Dillon reported from his dimly-lit dorm room. “Of course at the time I thought God was, like, the desert-dwelling, Philistine-smiting Dude from the Old Testament — not some jerk whose parents bought him a brand new Jetta freshman year.”

“Allow me to be clear,” he added. “I will not be growing any closer to ‘God’ during our ‘time off.’ ”

Despite Dillon’s reservations and religious confusion, his ex reported excitement with her blooming relationship with the Lord. “I will always care for Beej,” Ryan noted, applying her makeup with more attention to detail than she has shown in over 7 months. “But I felt our relationship was distracting me from my walks, in the woods, with the Lord.”

Ryan did report some anxiety about an upcoming weekend retreat at the Nelson family home in suburban Philadelphia, where she hopes the Lord will grant her the gift of tongue.

Best of Job: A War Too Civil

06/10/2008, 3:00 pm -- by Job Tate | No 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.

Clash of the Titans LXXXIV: Dressing Up

06/6/2008, 10:00 am -- by Bweinh | 4 Comments

In this corner, opposing dressing up, is Job!

And in this corner, in favor of it, is Chloe!

I will have my own policies
I will sleep with a clear conscience
I will sleep in peace
– Sinead O’Connor, Emperor’s New Clothes

Dressing up is a fact of American life. Social, religious and vocational pressures demand conformity and attention to dress in varying degrees. We have terms to assess the severity of these demands: black-tie, business casual, country formal, etc. This is unavoidable, unless you endeavor to be a pariah, in which case consciously dressing down is as much a conformity as consciously dressing up.

But the hardest crease for me to iron out of this societal doctrine is the thought that dressing up is an attempt to separate one’s self, one’s workplace or one’s church from its human surroundings: to suddenly appear as more than we actually are. In short, to be something we aren’t.

I am a Seabee in the Navy Reserves, and as you might imagine, I have several uniforms that I must wear at times. If you speak to members of the military about their uniforms, the consensus would be that we wear our uniforms with pride and the feeling of having earned them. Furthermore, most would agree that when we wear them together, we represent something far greater than ourselves as individuals.

The same can not be said of the uniform of modern fashion — a constant and ceaseless competition, an exercise in poor taste and inadequacy. Dressing up has become increasingly uncomfortable, inefficient, impractical and at times blatantly immoral — if not through the exposure or enhancement of flesh, then by the consuming, metastasized materialism that boils inside those dedicated to looking “good.”

If your job has a dress code, then of course you must abide. If you need a false confidence to get you through the day and curry the favor of those shallow enough to reward your efforts at color coordination, then of course you must abide. But if you can dress practically, cleanly and cheaply while losing no sleep . . . then you should abide that with equal fervence.

I like to look pretty. I wear skirts and high heels and makeup and jewelry. I spend a lot of time getting ready, even if all I’m doing that day is working a ten-hour shift at the restaurant. My reasons have more to do with the way I feel about myself than they do with the way others treat me, but I have noticed a big difference when I look nice.

Yes, sometimes I get unwanted attention from men (see “The Proper Way to Treat Your Waitress” from last summer), but they are never crude or inappropriate. And yes, sometimes people are still rude or impatient with me. But when it comes down to it, when I dress up, I get more respect.

Why is that? Well, when we see a poorly-dressed person, certain stereotypes tend to pop into our heads: they don’t care about themselves, so why should we care about them? Or perhaps they’re lazy, they’re bums, they don’t take care of themselves.

But when we see well-dressed people, we think of wealth and prosperity. We assume they’ve worked hard to get where they are, and that they care about themselves. These associations make us relate more positively to them, and so we give them more respect.

Let me give you an example straight from my opponent’s mouth. When Job came to visit Steve, he was dressed in his Navy uniform. The attendant at the toll booth saw his outfit and gave Job a significant discount on his toll. Job has found that when he dresses up in his uniform, he not only gets more respect, he also gets a lot of freebies and discounts.

Whatever Job may say, even he has found that dressing up is beneficial.

Which side are you on?

We Shall Not Be Moved

06/5/2008, 12:00 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Allow me to be clear: Barack Obama is the very antithesis of what conservatives hold dear. He is an amalgam of the passions of the moment, a man beholden to virtually no voting record, yet still rated as the most liberal senator in the United States. Armed with a fully Democratic Congress, he would, as president, set about making good on his fevered promises — retreating troops, universal health care, liberal judges, and other vast, vast gains for the left. The idea of four years with Obama as president sends (literally, now) a chill up my spine.

In speaking to other conservatives, I find similar emotions, even to the point that we shy away from talking about it at all. It is unnerving, nightmarish and nauseating. It is apocalyptic. But talk about it we have, the intrepid among us, and I have found a common thread in our hushed whispers that is uniquely interesting and has made me feel strangely warmed. I have not heard one conservative, either on the personal or media level, talk about moving abroad if Obama should win.

Such a little thing, but to me, titanic in its implications.

Back in 2004, when President Bush was hanging tough enough in the polls for liberals to imagine their own doomsday scenario, I remember four people I know personally who said they would move abroad if he won. Now, as a Vermonter, I am subjected to a rarer and more robust species of liberal than others might encounter, but the theme remained true throughout donkeydom.

Of course I knew even then that it was pure desperation, not genuine sentiment — and sure enough, all four of those people survived to crawl, weakened but gasping, through the thick battle haze of a destroyed and dismembered America to valiantly place freshly-peeled Obama ‘08 bumper stickers on the back of their Subaru Outbacks.

Allow me to be clear. No such statement will pass these lips. In fact, if you hear any conservative say it without irony, go buy a lottery ticket. It’s like an albino polar bear — the American conservative who would imagine leaving America to those people. The difference in vision is subtle but all-important. America isn’t just my residence. This is my land and you are my people. If she is attacked — from inside or out — we can be depended upon to defend her.

If Obama wins, I will be distressed, but I won’t be disembarking. The thought would simply never cross my mind.

One Hundred Words (15)

06/5/2008, 9:00 am -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

It’d be like Happy Christmas and Merry New Year. Gentlemen and Ladies, Brothers Warner.

Ernie and Bert, corn creamed.

Sirhan Sirhan.

Trojan Appaloosas, seeds of sunflowers — Roll n’ Rock 7/24!

Like the Unbelievable Hulk went to his throat, nose and ear doctor with mouth and hoof disease.

The Pips and Gladys Knight — ya feelin’ me? Catch my drift, Yoda?

It’s why I didn’t, knowdontcha?

I could’ve told her I loved her. It would’ve been accurate.

But it sure wouldn’t have sounded right.

The glass wasn’t half empty or half full — the glass was completely neutral.

That’s right — I have a Swedish glass.

–JBT

One Hundred Words (8)

05/27/2008, 9:30 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

In the spirit of Proverbs 10:19, our newest regular feature will be a series of posts of 100 words — or fewer. Comments under ten words!

My Orioles have failed me again.

Against seemingly insurmountable odds, the Baltimore Orioles have risen from the smoky ruins of this past winter, where they traded off their stars and paired down their lineup, to present themselves as contenders against some of the league’s best teams and arms. This has included, up till this week’s series, the highest-paid team in baseball history — the New York Yankees.

So yes, they’ve failed me this week, but they’ve done so reeking of determination… and with the stench of class.

So it’s true: I guess the O’s just stink.

–JBT

A Living EthanHell

05/19/2008, 2:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 5 Comments

A story is told — one you are probably familiar with — about a trap in China, with a hole just big enough for a monkey’s paw. Inside is a morsel of food; when the animal grabs it, his paw is too big to remove from the trap. Whether due to pure instinct, stupidity, or simply primal greed, the creature is easily captured — or so the story goes — caught because it refused to surrender its prize, because it failed to grasp how simple escape could be.

In the middle part of this decade, the drums of ethanol began to be beaten, along the river of rising energy costs. The President, along with our vast and intertwined agricultural and industrial lobbies, greedily stuck their proverbial paws inside the trap and grabbed fistfuls of corn, wheat, and even switchgrass.

The idea was, and is, a seductive one. A sprawling American breadbasket (you know the one, laid out in neat little squares 30,000 feet below our airplane seat) that can suddenly Abracadabra! fuel into our Fords, the dark shades of Big Oil and Sheikdoms plotting and profiting half a world away replaced by the light hues of soft-spoken Iowan farmers talking baseball at the Agway. The government seemed unusally bipartisan, aggressive, and strangely on board. There was an energy and a drive: incentives, programs, plans, timelines. It was the magic bullet to free us from the burden of dependence.

Silly little monkey.

Ethanol was not a necessary step towards energy independence, but rather a poorly timed distraction from it. In a time of obvious instability in global markets, a devalued dollar, and a two-front war in Oil’s own backyard, ethanol has served to make food scarcer and more expensive. It has demanded more attention for superficial environmental restrictions that push the dream of more refineries and nuclear facilities further into exile, and it has yoked oil companies, agriculture, and the government into an unseemly, uneasy, and overwhelmingly unproductive union.

In other words — not only do I spend nearly $4 for a gallon of gas, but I will soon spend that same amount for a bag of broccoli, while the few continue to profit immensely at the cost of the many, and the government comes to look more and more silly. When we expend more energy than we get in making the energy, the math is not hard to compute.

And it says, “Let go, remove your paw, and run like Jehu, little fella!”

Best of Job: That Stupid Little Von Dutch Hat

05/14/2008, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

Originally published March 6, 2007.

Von Dutch hat He wore it all the time. Legend was he even slept in it. And hating him, we hated that hat. So we came to the decision one night, over IBC root beer and Oatmeal Creme Pies, that the hat had to die, and die spectacularly. No simple grab and run, throw on the top of a roof scenario. We desired a true, live-wire Mafia hit.

But it never left his smarmy little skull. We knew we’d have to bide our time.

For an entire semester we did just that. He was from the other dorm, South Hall, and was one of their pedigree front men. Our disdain for him had to be carefully veiled, lest we upset the precious balance that kept relations between the two houses of Houghton at a somewhat reasonable peace. Oh, to be sure, he hated us just as much. In fact, we two vied for the affections of the same young doe-eyed lass. But the passive observer would’ve thought we served in ‘Nam together or something, with our back-slapping brand of camaraderie; elliptical orbits taking us in and out of the same groups of friends.

His mistake was the Homecoming Dinner, or rather going to the Homecoming Dinner…the type of event one does not normally wear a stupid little Von Dutch hat to.

My friend (we’ll call him Rick, although this was not even remotely his name) and I made eye-contact over a row of tables when we saw him enter the cafeteria, hatless, but compensating with some doe eyes on his arm.

We knew the time was now. I was Homecoming King, of all the freaks of nature, and Rick had the prettiest girl at the dinner, but we knew the moment demanded an expediency of action that superseded these elements.

I nodded. He nodded back.

What began over IBC and Creme Pies was finished by abandoning sparkling cider and filet mignon. We excused ourselves and reconnoitered by the coats, breathless. Down the trail to South Hall we ran, the campus eerily empty.

Into the hated hall, somewhat confused by the unfamiliar layout, we found the hunted’s lair.

Inhale, exhale.
Looked to the left.
Looked to the right.
Still breathless.

The door was unlocked!

We bum-rushed the room, expecting a difficult search — but there, like the golden chalice, sat the stupid little Von Dutch hat on top of his Aiwa stereo.

Our hearts pounded a jungle beat. I was blinded with opportunity, revenge choking my vision. Those doe eyes squeezing shut with the laugh he had just given her.

Rick to the rescue. A pair or scissors glinted under the light of the Lava Lamp.

Deftly, smoothly; more for me than for him.

A gray, sweat-stained Von Dutch hat cut neatly into three pieces.

They spelled out, on his pillow case:

R.I.P.

Our filet mignon was still warm.

Best of Bweinh! — Genesis 1-4

05/7/2008, 12:00 pm -- by Bweinh | No Comments

Every Wednesday, we discuss a passage from the Bible, and this week, we reprint our very first — Genesis chapters 1 through 4.

INTRODUCTION:
Steve:
It seems there’s a widening dichotomy these days between those who read the opening to Genesis as a scientific textbook, and those who see it as an ancient creation myth, on par with the claim that Earth rides on the back of a giant turtle.

I stake a claim between those two positions, believing wholeheartedly in the divine creation of the universe as told in Genesis, while remaining largely unconcerned about specific details undefined by the text. This story was not meant to answer all the scientific and philosophical questions surrounding the origin of the world; if it had been, it would have befuddled all its readers, ancient and modern. What it tells us is enough, and what it tells us is not only perfectly compatible with the discoveries of science, but God’s simple and singular command for light to ‘be’ seems more and more apt as the Big Bang is explained theoretically.

Job:
I’ve always wondered if this springboard to the Bible, these first four chapters, is where most people in their darkest hour flip - having turned to God in anger, frustration, pain or confusion. Subsequently, I’ve always wished that the Gideons would put their “recommended reading” page right between the first and second chapters. An ambush of sorts.

SOMETHING YOU’D NEVER NOTICED BEFORE:
Djere:
2:23 is in poetic form. It’s more than just a quote, Adam notices Eve and just casually says what he does, but he says it in the poetic form.

Tom:
1:11 notes that plants came before animals, an evolutionarily sound idea.

Job:
In the first verse of chapter 3, the serpent is described as being more crafty than any of the wild animals God had made. Am I to think then that God made domesticated animals alongside them for provisional purposes, implying the known need for future sacrifice?

Josh J:
One theory of The Fall is that eating the forbidden fruit represents Adam and Eve discovering their sexuality. The Scriptures rule out this possibility: 1:28 contains a command to “be fruitful and increase in number.” Since there’s only one way, by God’s own design, to accomplish this, human sexuality is actually God-ordained.

Steve:
Some complain the first two chapters of Genesis are incompatible, that the Biblical creation account can’t be true because it’s self-contradictory. But re-reading these chapters, I see it more like the classic structure of a sermon, essay or speech — start off with an overview, then zoom in on the particular point you want to make. The retelling of the creation of man gives more details, not contradictory ones, and it explains a lot.

BEST BAND NAME FROM THE PASSAGE:
Tom, Djere: Bdellium
Steve: Tunics of Skin
Job: Vengeance Seven Times Over
Josh J: Surface of the Deep

Continued here!

Best of Bweinh! — Let Them Eat Cake

05/7/2008, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Originally published March 19, 2007.

When Prohibition swept through 1920s America, the effect was not just limited to the intake of spirits — several major corporations found themselves with, simply, nothing to do. Coors The ones that wanted to survive refocused their factories into other endeavors. Coors made malted milk and ceramics, while Budweiser hawked yeast — brand name and logo intact, but a wholly different product.

I’ve recently begun to engage, rather than ignore, some of the new and provocative literary products of our faith — The Prayer of Jabez, Your Best Life Now, and the Purpose-Driven texts that make up the majority of what modern believers rally behind. When I read some of these works I sense, whether above or below the service, embarrassment toward Christ and His message in light of a world ever more aggressive in its dismissal of that Message.

The writers and ideologues behind some of these works seem to have sensed this change, and seek to re-brand the faith in a style more palatable to our sin-soaked society — as if to apologize for the tension caused by our ‘judgmental’ nature. The name of Jesus is invoked and the cross around the neck remains intact, but the message is horribly neutered — a relativism that adds a carpool lane to our narrow way.

Let me tell you about my home. Vermont, for all her lovely rolling hills, has the unfortunate distinction of being the second-most unchurched state in the nation, with 25% of its population claiming no religion at all. (Oregon is number one; Colorado number three… atheism and poor hygiene must be linked somehow.) Of the remaining 75%, the number of evangelical Christians is staggeringly low, so with the level of combat one sees when preaching the gospel kin to that preached by the saints, a somber mindset sets in. I sense, daily, a mobile and coordinated effort to bring our faith to its knees — not in prayer but in defeat — by intimidating us into an intellectual sterilization of the Truth or the loss of motivation to preach it at all.

Budweiser They want us to change our product.

But in these odd, hard-to-describe times, I’m all about the still. I won’t be selling any yeast like our friends at Budweiser, knowing it leavens the whole lump.

You will find in my message only 200 proof Gospel Truth.

Moonshine and bathtub gin, my friends.

Best of Bweinh! — Dating or Courtship?

04/30/2008, 12:30 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Originally published November 5, 2007.

Read volume 1 here and volume 3 here!

Q. How should a young Christian bachelor handle a romantic relationship?

Focus on the Fancy-Free A. Hiding in the alleyway to the heart of every desirable, virtuous Christian female I’ve ever pursued was the darkly-shrouded character of Joshua Harris, author of the equally praised and notorious I Kissed Dating Goodbye. In this alleyway I have put up some spirited and tremendous fights, but always seemed to fail, as Harris swung the proverbial tire iron against my mouth just as I uttered a final, desperate “Fascist!” I’d wake up out on the curb the following morning, blinking in the sunlight . . . bruised and battered. Throttled. The loser.

My foil, this Harris fellow. He always seemed to head me off in college, and as time went on, he even seemed to take preemptive steps to ensure my romantic failure. I decided to wait him out, for surely his influence would drop off, and I could mount new offensives on the hearts I treasured. This never happened. I thought these women were asking for the impossible; ironically over-romanticizing our interaction by never allowing for a medium ground. It was go big or go home with these chicks. Suddenly, parents were part of the quotient, friends had to be courted and won over with equal necessity. Anger.

The female I pursued with the greatest amount of energy in my career — Lady Jerusalem of my Crusades — was a devout follower of Harris’s philosophy. In desperation I waited for a time when a friend was working the register at the college bookstore, bought the book with a wink, snuck it back to the dorm and proceeded to read it furiously, not for edification, but as a coach who had miraculously come across his rival’s playbook. Finally, theology to pick apart, poor analogies to dismantle, and an infuriating condescension to inflate and act injured by.

When it was finally fully read (much to the jealousy of my uncracked textbooks), I sat back and realized what was so wrong with the book, where its flaw was most exaggerated.

The book was not written for Americans. It’s written, rather, for some romanticized Victorian-era youth, ripped straight from the pages of Pride and Prejudice. I was infuriated. A little research revealed my suspicions that Harris was homeschooled (as was I; stand by).

I prepared my verbal counter-offensive, deciding that the best way to slip past Harris in the alleyway was to complement him to a degree while roundly dismissing him. I looked to President Hoover for guidance, memorizing his dismissal of prohibition: “Our country has deliberately undertaken a great social and economic experiment, noble in motive and far-reaching in purpose.” Yes, that’s the ticket, I told myself. Americans don’t court, we date. And if we were to attempt a comprehensively Biblical approach to love, we’d do neither, leaving the decision entirely to our parents.

So I played the role of a Benedict Arnold, betraying my homeschooled tribe. I told the object of my desires how flawed his worldview had to be, having been so isolated for so long. I told her I had suffered the same fate, but was smarter than the average bear and came through unscathed. She seemed to be listening anew. I went for the kill, tearing homeschooling a new one, while loving all it had done for me.

Did I feel dirty? Absolutely.
Did I feel bad? Not even a little bit.

It’s a good premise, I assured her, noble and just — just not achievable. I’d love to convince your parents first, but I don’t even know if I want to convince them – eyes sheepishly on the carpet, with a hushed whisper – without knowing if I like you enough. What do you say we catch some mini-golf and a movie this weekend?

I mean, if you had camels, I’d water them for you, but since you don’t, how about we get a couple of slices?

We’re Americans, for the love of Mike — Christian Americans, 8 days a week; but Americans, still. Let’s do it our way. Let’s rebel against this rebellion!

Of course I never offered, and don’t still, any clear response to Harris and his followers, other than the status quo highlighted with Christian integrity. But at the time I was able to offer up a dazzling array of one-liners that kept the defense guessing with every snap.

And while I am, of course, unmarried and hopeless, with zero prospects, I hold it as a point of personal pride (an eternal ego ember, no matter how immature I may have been) that I was able to waltz into that alleyway, after so many repeat beatings, feed Joshy a corner of that proverbial dumpster, then take his recently brain-soiled apostle to see a movie — stealing a kiss during the lull in the story and the climax of our relationship.

Popcorn, Josh. She tasted like hot, buttered popcorn.