38th Confession

Just a few random thoughts thrown out there this time around.  Comment on what you want me to discuss more  in depth; next post, though, is about how to talk to telemarketers. ;)

---The age of institutions is dying; no one, least of all the institutions, is happy about it.  This is deep, pervasive, and far reaching.  The beginnings of this death was the anti-establishment movement of the sixties, and the seventies and eighties saw the decline of power of the institution.  By the time the OJ Trial (first) and Rodney King came up, people weren't AS shocked to see justice running amok, but after the Towers fell, nothing but nothing became safe. Consider the birth of the TSA, one of the least efficient and most invasive institutions from the rapidly failing institution of American government. Consider the fact that the population of the institution of churches has decreased in size.  Consider.

---My darling wife quite correctly pointed out to me that the local soft rock stations are playing a higher quality of Christian Christmas music than the local Contemporary Christian station.  I think that's a sad commentary on the state of affairs: that the "unsaved" are praising the root of Christmas better than the "saved."

---I'm thinking about shaking up the graphics on the website; e-mail me on Facebook with suggestions and comments on what you'd like to see on the page.

---I've been listening to the local Alternative station (CD 101 at 102.5 FM - plug plug), and I've noticed that the music hearkens back to the 80's new-wave movement.  It seems as though the music industry is stuck; either that, or we've reached the point of media saturation.  When tied in with the concept that the institution of "big business" or the "music industry" is dying, it seems to me to be pointing the way toward a static society.

---Tomorrow, I'm going to an 80's Cartoon viewing at a friend's house in my pajamas.  I say "in my pajamas", but what I really mean is "in a set of pajamas."  I might stick a smoking jacket on over the entire ensemble, just to make it a little more surreal.

---I kinda like the freedom of throwing out a few lines here and there, not really having to make an entire composition for each post.  But I think there's room and place for both in this blog.

37th Confession

The Top 5 Ways to tell Bigfoot you're just not that into him:

5)  Shriek, scream "OHMYGOD PLEASE DON'T EAT ME!" and then run off a cliff.

4)  Calmly sit him down in a public place and explain that you're seeing someone whose diet is a lot less vegan.

3)  Distract Padmasambhava and destroy the spherical equipment around the lair.  GRATUITOUS DOCTOR WHO REFERENCE

2)  Offer to shave him.

1)  Tell him that the truism about feet doesn't apply in his case.

36th Confession

I write this tonight with a heavy heart; another family has lost an infant daughter.  Pray for the Myers family of Ellwood City; their dear Gabriella dances in fields of grace tonight, in a land where there is no pain.  May the Comforter who stands closer than a brother wrap His arms around them as they face the next days of pain and darkness.

Hug your kids a little closer tomorrow for me, 'kay?

35th Confession

So there's talk about this new asteroid with a life form on it that can survive on arsenic, blah blah blah.  It led a couple of people to ask the famous question that science asks of religion every time it learns something new: "Where is your God now?"  Sadly, most institutional Christians aren't conversant in basic science, let alone their own faith, to point out that one has no bearing on the other.

I mean, let's face it: most Christians aren't cut out to be scientists.  Most people overall aren't, either; if it were easy, everyone would be doing it!  But my concern is that scientists have lost sight of what science can and cannot do.

Science can measure things that are able to be measured empirically.  Length?  Check.  Weight?  Check.  Time?  Check.  Quality of life?  Not a chance.  Beauty?  No scale exists.  Amount of love between humans?  Not happening.

See, empiricism can start to make definitions up about things like this:  95% of people surveyed found that a monkfish is uglier than Megan Fox, therefore one could safely say that Megan Fox is more attractive to a monkfish.  For example.  Although, honestly?  That monkfish has got a purdy mouth...

But can it create a scale of how poigniant van Gogh's Starry Night is compared to Munch's The Scream?  I mean, one would have to factor in emotional subtexts, cultural and personal memories, number of times seen, and a plethora of other factors to determine a value, which in the end is arbitrary.

To attempt to use reason to evaluate something that is not easily measurable is futile.  At best, you end up with a useless set of data and a half-baked scale.  At worst, you end up with something entirely wrong.

And that brings me to a set of secular humanist billboards I saw while driving past Philadelphia.  Secular humanism is an offshoot of atheism, rejecting religious dogma as a basis for ethical behavior and justice.  Fair enough for fair warning, however: your cultural mindset is so entrenched in Biblical principles, you'd need at least four generations of dogmatic brainwashing to completely rinse the Bible out of your mind.  We're currently on generation three of secular humanism, and you're still basing your ethical code out of the Bible.

The problem with any ethical code is determining "right" and "wrong."  Some things are "wrong" implicitly: murder, rape, torture, etc., because they undermine the other individuals human liberties.  However, is something "more wrong" than something else?  Stealing is "wrong", but is it better or worse than murder?  Murder is "wrong", but is killing someone who had been intent on killing you worse than the original murderous intent?  And thus, a scale is born: a penal code based on something that is measured in values that cannot be set in concrete. 

And any scale that has no absolutes is no scale that I would want to ever be near.

34th Confession

Boutros Boutros Ghali was the name of a car that my wife's friend Edy had back when they were both in high school.  It was a small car, fitting inside a small plastic casing, having its origins in China.  It was bought with a quarter at a certain grocery store from one of those machines that children beg and beg their parents to use to procure toys or gum, candies or stickers, and even perhaps the random temporary tattoo.

Boutros Boutros Ghali (or BBG, as we shall lovingly call him from here on out) spent many a happy hour with Edy and Joy during their high school times.  Why he was christened "BBG" as opposed to "Ethel," "Fred," or other customary names is unclear; however, we know that the students at Edison high school have penchants for long, uncommon names.  Other cases include the cardboard cow "Biakabutuka", and the twin platypuses "Bubba Azariah Dufu Odabee" and "Dufu Odabee Bubba Azariah."

BBG was called "one of the most important people in the world" second only to "Flibber Flabber Flinger Boo-Boo" in one of my favorite Get Fuzzy strips from long, long ago; however, Stephen Fry on the quiz program QI informs us that the name literally means "Peter Peter-Expensive".  Interestingly enough, I agree with his views on bureaucrats: they are best dealt with through "stealth and sudden violence."

I find that, the more I write about this man and this car, I am drawn to the American flaw of "his name sounds weird." "Peter" isn't a weird name: he eats pumpkins, shoots web (when he remembers how), writes epistles, chops slaves' ears off ("It happened one time, okay?  Geez, can't we let it go already?"), walked on water, and comes from an alternate universe, to name a few.  But can you imagine Boutros Barker, bit  by a radioactive spider?  Boutros reminding you to be good to your wife?

In other musings, I was once described as "rude to leadership."  I suppose this might be true.  But I also wonder whether or not it's "rude" to attempt to build a relationship on Imperialistic principles.  It's 3:30 AM when I write this; in my sleep-deprived recollections, I'm usually pretty kind to leaders who take the time to develop a relationship with me through mutual transactions of respect.  They respect the work I do, I don't count them as a jerk; they respectfully coach me on how to get better, I respect them more.  That;s how respect is earned: through mutual dispersion.  If a person's character warrants it, respect can be commanded:  military personnel, for example, receive respect from me, not because of my relationship with them, but because of their service to our country. 

Generally, however, the more I learn about my leader, the less I can respect them.  The less time in relationship they spend with me, the more their character is revealed by their actions and words.  The more of their character I can analyze, the less I "know" them - and yet, I "know" their type.  And most of the time, that's enough.

33rd Confession

Well...I'm stuck.  First comment gets to pick the next topic of conversation. Go.

32nd Confession

I'm not big into confrontations.  I don't shy away from them when they happen, but it's not in my nature to go out looking for a fight.  I will, however, admit to a higher-than-average amount of puckishness in my nature.  I like to shake people up a little, move them out of their comfort zone, see how they handle a little life unexpectedly.

Most people fail.  For example, way back in the day, Joy and I went to our friend's church in Weirton, West Virginia.   We had never been to this church, didn't know anyone from this church (except for our friend), and unless I looked it up, I don't know that I'd even recall this church's name.  I remember it was white on the outside, but most churches are, I suppose.

To the story: a certain man was emceeing the church service (possibly a whole blog post on THAT later), and he announced it was time for everyone to go around and shake hands and greet and "fellowship" with one another.  (Isn't that just so churchy, to try and make something holy by giving it a nice little Bible word to go with it?  "Fellowship" is a deeper interpersonal connection than walking up to someone and shaking their hand.)  (Mental note: another blog post...)

So this over-friendly woman comes up and shakes my hand.  As with the previous post about church people, this one rubbed me all wrong.  Friendly is one thing; peppering your speech with "religious Tourette," holding on a little too tight, looking a little too interestedly in the face of the nice young man who has your attention...All these made my inner Robin Goodfellow want to act up.

These days, I'm a lot more genteel about such things.  I've grown panache, or maybe I've just gotten tired in my old age.

Back then, though...

So immediately after she says her initial wide-eyed and breathless "Praise the Lord Hallelujah good morning it's so good to see you," I respond in kind.  Pumping her hand enthusiastically, I trumpeted, "Good morning!  Welcome to my church!  I'm so glad you came this morning!"  Her eyes went a bit wider as she tried to find us in her mental Rolodex and failed.  At this point, she had lost all control of the conversation.  I had verbally swept her legs out from under her.  She should have let go of my hand and just walked away.

Instead, she spewed out some more empty religious rhetoric, mentioned before as "religious Tourette."  Anyone who has spent any amount of time in a church knows what I'm talking about: the random "Praise the Lord!" shouted at an inopportune time, a weighty "Amen!" when the pastor sneezes, trumpeting a "Help her, Jesus!" when the soloist bobbles the high note in her special.  I can't even recall what she said, it was so generic, mostly about how good it was to see us again (for the first time?), making something up about how she had been meaning to come over and see us last week (when we were in Glen Dale, WV), asking us about how my parents have been (who live in Beaver Falls, PA, have never attended this church, and are not named Robert and Cheryl), or something like this.  Finally, I just smiled and said, "I hope you get saved today," and turned back to Joy.  Her reply to that remark?  "Hallelujah I hope so!"

When the pastor wrested control of the pulpit from his emcee, he asked for a round of applause for "Elder What's-His-Name and his lovely wife."  Those of you with any insight of spirit probably guessed that the lady with whom I had been talking?  The lovely wife of Elder What's-His-Name.

All that to say, when life gives you something different, do something different, or else you look like a fool.

31st Confession

Read this first.

At first blush, it seems like a clear-cut case of racist hate speech.  A lynching threat against a black kid, the parents get worried and move away, the school district "deals" with it as per their discipline policy, the story makes the news, and pretty soon, everything will go back to normal.  It gets chalked up to the increase of bullying in schools, and while it's obviously something to be saddened about, slightly, as there was no crime, it's something that can be safely swept under the rug.

But should it?  On a closer look, it took place in Beloit, Ohio.  Beloit is a small town, so obviously the term "hicks in the sticks" might be applied.  But an even closer look at the area shows that it's right in the middle of Amish country.

Hate crimes.  Amish population. 

And to top it off, as there's no blood shed or bruises healed, it's not a crime.  I remember the bullying from high school and junior high.  I remember the ones that got beaten up and the reasons they got it.  I also remember that 90% of the time, I thought that it could have been prevented by words in the right ears: whether those ears were of the administration or the right words spoken to the incensed party, that depended on the situation.

Of course, I was never really bullied, either.  I either got along with people, or if I didn't, I was at peace with them as much as I could be.  I didn't want to go through  life brawling senselessly.  I made a promise to myself a long time ago, that if I ever fought, it'd be all the way to the death.  I figured that way, I'd never have to fight again.  But I also understood that there was no way I wanted to be in a situation that the only way out was a person in a body bag. 

I suppose that, if I wanted to assign blame, there's so much to go around that it's not any one person's fault.  The board is at fault for not stating more strongly their stance on such things, but I also understand that their hands are tied by red tape.  The student who was threatened might be at fault for showing weakness or for not standing up for themselves in an appropriate manner; heck, it might not even be race related if he "stole" someone's girlfriend or whatever.  I wasn't there; but I'm hard pressed to see how he couldn't have de-escalated this with a few right words in the right places.  The threatening teenager is obviously at fault, but his parents are even more so for allowing their teenage son to have grown up without an appreciation for history.  I mean, there are just some things that people don't do: insulting a person's race, faith, and social standing are just a few signs of an underdeveloped mind, and it's a parent's job to develop their child.

Looking at it from a broader spectrum, though, what is bullying?  It's an attempt to impose a social order on another individual.  What does that look like?  It seems to me that it's any sort of intolerance - whether it be based on race, religion, money, or whatever other boundary what we people use to define "ourselves" and "whoever else is out there."  While these intolerances may have served a useful function in the past, when food was scarce and mating options were limited, what purpose do they serve now?

Next up: viva la difference?

30th Confession

I try to be a thankful person, but sometimes, even I miss it.  I suppose it's fair to say that most people are thankful for the good things in their life; however, some people miss the good things by looking for better things.

For example, most parents love most of their kids most of the time.  I think it's natural, in most cases.  I also know how aggravating it can be to raise a child: Edan has driven me to greater depths of patience than I ever thought were possible.  But I have never, ever ever wanted to give my boy away.  That thought is completely alien to me; why would I want to give away the sweetest, most precious child I know?  There are times when I have to rein in my temper, there are times I hold my hand back from slapping three kinds of white off of him, there are even times I'm tempted to lock myself away from him for his preservation; however, there is NEVER a time when I want him out of my life.

In that vein, I completely detest parents who, even jokingly, offer up their child for adoption.  Hear my heart clearly on this: there are times and circumstances where it is the only possible solution.  Maybe the parent can't afford a child because of their circumstances; I appreciate and applaud that.  I came from such a background, and I can only hope that it was an agonizing choice for my mother and father to deliver me into the great unknown.  I know that for every principle, there are at least thirty to fifty extenuating circumstances, exceptions, contradictions, and all kinds of cases to not hold to the principle: fine fine fine, whatever.  But...

I've seen cases where the parent doesn't seem to care about where their child goes.  I've seen times where the parent can't wait to get away from their child, and desperately pawns them off onto whoever happens to be available.  I've seen parents who joke about sending their child to military school at age four.  I've listened to parent bitch and moan about how their child is abusive or disrespectful, while they model abusive or disrespectful behaviors in public.  I've observed the most out of control children, and their parents, and come to the conclusion that the apple doesn't fall from the tree.

Most of the parents who joke about sending their children away have never lost a child.  I can tell this, because losing a child punches a hole in your reality that never goes away.  There's this void there, where your child is supposed to be, and there's an ache in your bones -- an unsettling "not right"-ness -- that casts a pallor over everything in your life.  The pain never fades completely.  Your eyes never adjust to where your child is supposed to be.  You become keenly aware of how short life is, and how unfair it is that everyone else that you know has healthy kids.  No amount of tears ever cleanses your eyes from seeing their corpse; there is no moan or scream of anguish that can be sounded deep enough from your soul to express your loss.

And I wonder: how many of these same parents, who don't have time to listen to their child, who get frustrated by their child's persistence, who regularly wish their child away - what if that wish came true?  What if Johnny no longer spoke to you about Toy Story or Iron Man in excited, fragmented tones?  What if Sonia's incessant singing were hushed, permanently? 

I have a theory about people: the ones who have a "good" life, one seemingly without care or worry, are also the ones that couldn't handle half of the muck that I've slogged through in my life.  The ones that curse their job haven't really been ever unemployed.  The ones who can't stand their children haven't been hurt by the loss of one.  The ones that can't eat anything except "like what mother made" have never been truly hungry.  And may God bless and keep them that way, because the alternative is painful.

So if you're reading this, take a minute and hug your kids.  Listen to them, despite their inability to speak clearly and at your level.  Love them with all that remains of your broken, world-weary heart, because they sure as hellfire love you with all of theirs. 

Don't curse what has been given to you as a blessing.

29th Confession

I'm not a sports nut.  I know, shocker to anyone who knows me, right?  I used to be athletic and enjoy the physical exertion, but that all died at about age 14.  All through late elementary school, I was into the intramural sports things: soccer, field hockey, lacrosse, basketball - I did them all.  About that age, though, the music started.  I reverted back to my first love of instruments and gave up the other.

It's been somewhat of an alienating factor for me with other guys, much to my annoyance.  I mean, everyone loves football, right?  OSU mania is all around me here in Columbus, I lived in "da 'burgh" for a while with their beloved "Stillers," as well as attending a high school where Fridays were always "pump up the team" day: so what's wrong with Ryan that he hates sports?

Maybe it was too many cold nights in a wet, woolen band uniform.  Maybe it was disillusionment with the establishment.  Maybe it was too many overpaid people doing too little work and living too loosely.  Maybe it was just the fact that I haven't been exposed to it enough.  Maybe a season following a team religiously would knock it out of my system, and I'd become a "real man."

I always hated stereotypes, wherever they were.  Real men watch football and baseball and know the roster of their teams.  Good wives are brilliant in the kitchen.  Once a son, always a daughter.  White guys don't dance.  Nerds are socially inadept.  Sports figures are to be emulated, like actors and singers and anyone else who crosses the national consciousness for more than thirty seconds.

Who told you that?  Who fed us this?  It's the same garbage that separates the "secular" and the "sacred".  "Good" people don't drink; "bad" people go to bars.  "Good" people attend church on Sundays; "bad" people sleep in or golf.  "Secular" music is bad for your soul; "CCM" is uplifting and positive.

Is this always true?  I've known good people - some of the best, in fact - with whom I'm honored to have knocked back a couple of tequizas.  I've known bad people who have been teetotalers.  Some of the most selfish, arrogant, deceitful people go to church every Sunday.  Some of the nicest pre-Christians that I know shun the religious establishment because of their wounds inflicted by the house.  I once spent a week ingesting the salient points of a message from my Abba while obsessing over "Take a Chance on Me."  I listen to the local CCM station and feel completely anesthetized, not to mention nauseous, after about ten minutes.  Sidebar to that: one of the local CCM DJ's is now at an all-80's station.  Does that mean he's lost his way, spiritually?

Sports is a worthy endeavor: there is something to be said about entertaining the masses, being physically fit, and for the national unity during the Super Bowl or the Final Four.  But as with everything, there must be moderation and balance: I watch enough to know the rules and enjoy the athletic prowess of the individuals, but I can't watch an entire season.

28th Confession

Sorry about the delay; it's been a busy busy couple of weeks.

I must admit it:  I'm a big fan of Doctor Who.  Sometimes, I wish I were an American, with American science-fiction predilections.  I'd be among the hordes and throngs who love to debate whether or not Han shot first in Klingon, while reading the collected works of Heinlein and Gibson.  I suppose I'm more of a fantastical kind of guy: the science doesn't impress me as much as the adventure and the otherness does.  I always enjoyed a good story that took me away from reality for a little while; thus, the comic nerd side of me is appeased with a good story, as long as it has some of the fantastic in it.  Doctor Who incorporates three of the great cornerstones of science fiction: mad scientists, time travel, and killer robots.

I've seen at least a whole episode of each Doctor in action; I am indeed that big of a nerd. There have been eleven Doctors so far, starting with William Hartnell in 1963.  The screen was small, the colors limited to black and white; however, in the very first episode of this show, the granddaughter of the Doctor predicted a day when British currency would be based on the decimal system.  This was about thirty years before the Euro stormed the British markets.

My favorite episodes are the ones starring Tom Baker: the other-worldly, off-beat intensity that he gave the Doctor define the character in my mind.  It was during his time as the Doctor that several other major figures coalesced on-screen: Sarah Jane Smith, K-9, Romana...  The Key to Time story arc added substance to the mythos of the Doctor, and he took on his longest-staying traveling companion - Tegan - during one of the last story arcs. 

If I had to talk about the story arcs that are important to the series, I really couldn't.  I mean, it's not as though there's an over-arching storyline that has happened since the beginning of the series.  Each little vignette is a snapshot of the character of the Doctor.  I'd suggest, however, watching the following arcs of each Doctor for a decent overview of the series:

1st Doctor (William Hartnell) - the original two story arcs, as well as The Dalek Invasion of Earth and The Space Museum.  We see his initial reluctance to take on companions replaced, eventually, by warmth and caring for these human stragglers.

2nd Doctor (Patrick Troughton) - The Tomb of the Cybermen, The Mind Robber, The Krotons, and The War Games.  We see the good-natured, slightly scatterbrained Doctor take on all kinds of surreal and science fiction fiends.  Most of the First and Second Doctors' adventures were destroyed by the BBC - each of the aforementioned story arcs have been preserved.  (And are available to watch online, if you know where to go!)

3rd Doctor (Jon Pertwee) - Spearhead From Space, Terror of the Autons, The Three Doctors, The Time Warrior, and Planet of the Spiders.  I really never liked this Doctor; he's tetchy, sexist, and prissy.  However, he's also been exiled from his home planet, so he's bound to be a little insensitive.

4th Doctor (Tom Baker) - Any and all episodes you can get your hands on.  Special attention, however, to Genesis of the Daleks, Pyramids of Mars, The Brain of Morbius, The Hand of Fear, The Talons of Weng-Chiang, Horror of Fang Rock, The Invasion of Time, the entire Key of Time story arc/season (especially the episode written by Doug Adams), Destiny of the Daleks, and City of Death.  All of these stories are well written, show off the characters to their fullest, and touch on all kinds of issues.  Tom Baker is, quite possibly, the best Doctor in my estimation, with David Tennant running a close second.

5th Doctor (Peter Davison) - Black Orchid, Time-Flight, Arc of Infinity, Enlightenment, and The Caves of  Androzani.  After Tom Baker's mania and intensity, the Fifth Doctor becomes a refreshing change of pace.  He also doesn't rely on gadgets as much as the Fourth did, one time saving the world with a tea kettle and a piece of string, all while sporting a stalk of celery.

6th Doctor (Colin Baker) - The Twin Dilemma, The Two Doctors, and that's about it.  This is my least favorite incarnation of the Doctor: he's aggressive, arrogant, loud, and dressed like a patchwork doll.  Colin Baker also has the unfortunate standing of being the only Doctor ever fired.  Apparently, in the audiobooks, he's quite good; however, I've not listened to enough of them to tell.

7th Doctor (Sylvester McCoy) - Time and the Rani, Dragonfire, The Greatest Show in the Galaxy, and Survival.  I like this Doctor well enough; anyone who can run like Charlie Chaplin on television is entertaining enough for me.  The original show ended with this Doctor, sadly; apparently, they just couldn't keep the ratings up.

8th Doctor (Paul McGann) - There was a television movie on Fox that attempted to bring the Doctor to life on American television; it didn't work, but this Doctor shows potential.

9th Doctor (Christopher Eccleston) - Rose, Dalek, The Empty Child/The Doctor Dances, and Bad Wolf/The Parting of Ways.  When the show was given a reboot, the character of the Doctor became a battle-weary, emotionally scarred time traveler, and Mr. Eccleston does an impressive job of it.

10th Doctor (David Tennant) - Any and every one of his episodes.  As with Tom Baker, anything Mr. Tennant does on screen cannot go wrong.  Entertaining to the last, all the later episodes build on the former, leaving the casual viewer wondering if they've missed an in-joke or thousand.

11th Doctor (Matt Smith) - The current Doctor.  Although the first season builds on itself to the point of self-referential insanity, Amy's Choice and The Lodger are the two brightest points of light from last season.

As ever, I look forward to comments from anyone out there who has seen more episodes, has opinions of their own, or would like to just say something.

27th Confession

I'll admit it: I'm a comics geek.  I loved them as a child: the colors, stories, and characters captured my young imagination.  I loved them up until about a year ago: the writing styles of a few of the authors, the simple expressions in anime and manga, and quite a few classic story arcs from before I could read.

Don't get me wrong: I still enjoy the characters a lot.  I identify with the moody Batman of Frank Miller and Jeph Loeb, the angst-ridden yet wise-cracking Spiderman of J. Michael Starczynski, and the portrait of inscrutability that is Shoji Gatoh's Sousuke Sagara.  Among other things, I proudly own the entire TV series of the Flash (with matching graffiti-style t-shirt!), both Iron Man movies (with matching vintage-style t-shirt!), the first two X-Men movies (the third one isn't worth owning), and the first two Spiderman movies (same justification as the X-Men movies).  I'm seriously considering purchasing The Dark Knight and Batman Begins, as they are great adaptations of the mythos; I already own the 1966 Batman (Some days, you just can't get rid of a bomb!), just for laughs.

And yet, for all the art and good story arcs, the recent turns of events in both major universes (DC and Marvel) pretty much shocked me off comic books for a while (if not for good).  DC, for those of you who aren't as into comics, is the one with Superman, Batman, and Wonder Woman; Marvel's got Spiderman, the Hulk, and Captain America.  In order to boost sales, both "universes" created major story arcs across multiple titles: nothing against business, but I'm not going to catch EVERY title in order to get the entire story.  And the problem is, nowadays, you HAVE to read them all in order to catch the entire plot.  Wikipedia is also a good source for such things; however, you miss all the pretty pictures that way. =(

After the entire "bring back the dead" arc in DC-land, as well as the political upheaval in the Marvel-verse, I decided that the good storytellers have gone away for a bit, and so should I.  It's not just in the comics that this happened: look at the vast wasteland that TV has become.  Heroes is a prime example of this: it started out BRILLIANTLY!  Absolutely brilliant, in terms of casting, plot line, characters - everything had the makings of greatness on it.  And then, the second season tanked.  As did the third.  And the fourth.

I only bring up superheroes today because ABC is in talks with Marvel to bring The Incredible Hulk back to television; DC already announced plans to create a Wonder Woman television series.  While I'm excited to see comics taking on the small screen again (Smallville was a success, why not replicate it?), I'm also horrified at the prospect of the stories being horrible.  With the rise of "unscripted" television - and people named "Snookie" - the networks are making less and less quality programming, and instead grinding out filler.  It's a sad commentary on culture when we make celebrities of people whose behaviors we despise. 

Next up: considering the Doctor.

26th Confession

So last week, I attended one of my son Edan's friend's birthday party at a roller skating rink.  Amazingly enough, even after about nine years off of skates, I escaped with most of my dignity intact after a rough start. 

Not that it was my first time on skates; far from it, actually.  When I was smaller, Mom and Dad took my sister and me to roller skating rinks often; how often I cannot say.  A child's memory is a capricious creature at best: fanciful and full of whimsy, often forgiving and forgetting portions.  Mine, I'm afraid, is much too full of holes to be any kind of reliable witness.  But I recall the place as best I can: in shades of twilight and garish colors, punctuated by glaring strobes and synthesized music, the tinny 8-bit music of the arcade in the background.

It was to this roller rink that I had my first "date" when I was...six?  Seven, perhaps?  I recall it was with Michelle, a classmate of mine in New York, and I was very young indeed.  I remember holding hands during the couple skate, that Dad was our chaperone, that I had no earthly idea why this girl couldn't keep up with me, and I think I recall that I accidentally held her hand too tightly.  Thankfully, I learned many things by the time I had my second date, and that one went much more smoothly; her hand didn't ache at the end of from my grip.

My earliest recollections of skating oddly enough are not on skates of my own, but rather from a Charlie Chaplin short: The Rink made an indelible impression on little five-year-old Ryan.  The speed and grace with which he rolled around the rink, swinging around poles and knocking poor fat Eric Campbell down with his cane, and Chaplin hooking onto a car at the end of the short were all intoxicating and filled my head with all kinds of skating imaginations.  Unfortunately, the closest I got to anything remotely resembling that in the film was falling down a lot, and sometimes pulling down the person by whom I was skating by their arm.

And now, a good twenty-odd years later, the scene has changed.  The music is less Bowie and more country.  The rink has seen better days.  They play the awful Chicken Dance.  And the arcade has fewer "pure" games and more games based on tickets and tokens.  The day afterward, I have a deep gash above my ankle from where the plastic of the skate rubbed through my sock.

But during the free skate, while Edan was not out on the rink (he inherited his father's susceptibility to arcade games), I was out on the rink and the DJ started playing the Bangles' "Walk Like an Egyptian."  I sped up my skating just a little bit, felt the wind blow through my hair, and for just a couple minutes, I was eight again.  The skates didn't hurt, the thrill was seeing how quickly I could go around the rink on these wheels, and I could feel a foolish grin plaster itself on my face. 

May we all never grow up so much, that simple things like wind fail to bring back some measure of joy in our lives.

25th Confession

One of my favorite lines from Dashiell Hammett comes from his novel The Thin Man, later made into a movie starring my favorite native Pittsburghers, William Powell: the wife, Nora Charles (later portrayed by Myrna Loy), says to her husband, "I love you, Nicky, because you smell nice and know such fascinating people."  Although I've been complimented several times about how nice I smell, today's blog is more about the interesting people I know.

When I married into my wife's family, I inherited six nephews and nieces, as well as the parents to go along with them.  My wife's sister, Grace, is the first very interesting person I'd like to celebrate today; her viewpoint is always refreshing, her insights continuously thought-provoking, and her cooking sublime.  Today's posting finds its roots in her contemplation on the perverted nature of the modern American church; perverted not meaning "lurid" or "debased", but rather the classical definition of "twisted".

What started out as a genuine outpouring of love from God has been twisted at the very base into something almost unrecognizable.  The career pulpiteer preaches "It was for freedom that Christ set us free, but within a strict set of laws and rules."  The love that a congregation has for its own members eclipses the outreach that it has to the community; as soon as a member leaves a congregation, the circle closes its wound and shuns the new non-believer.  The flock is weak from being fed pablum, mediocrity is rewarded, and the Kingdom of God is only for those who hold on until the bitter end.  Anyone who has talent is milked dry of their enthusiasm by being overworked in the house, and God Himself help the person with a slightly different viewpoint than that of the particular house where the congregant is planted.

It's not really the fault of Americans; the system became flawed back in the days when clergy and laity needed to be clergy and laity.  The clergy shared the good news with the laity because the laity weren't educated enough to read the words on a page.  As has happened today, knowledge and power went hand in hand; those that have the knowledge obtain the power.  And instead of doling out the knowledge freely, the clergy retained their power, even when it was obvious they shouldn't have it.  The Church made itself an enemy of science starting even before the whole Galileo Galilei debacle, and therefore is directly responsible for atheism.  The Church alienates the exceptional people who might be a threat to their personal corporate religious empire, if not consciously (through pressure and the like), then by celebrating the mediocre and the unexceptional.


Speaking of mediocre and unexceptional, did you realize that the most pervasive prejudice in the atheist world is the rampant stupidity of Christians?  The most cynical view Christians as superstitious sheep, following a religion that worships a zombie, without a thought for themselves or others, considering science as something to be mistrusted.  Apply the epithet of stupidity to any other people group - heck, apply ANY epithet to ANY other people group - and watch the hurt feelings pile up.  And yet, as Christians, we feel the necessity to accept this abuse as a pious exercise in "turning the other cheek" or being blessed when people speak ill of you "on [His] account, for my sake." 

The worst part about this is that the abuse isn't just heaped on by the world; it's heaped on by the very clergy that Christians go to for help.  The very people that are called to cover and equip the people of God abuse, misuse, ignore, and mishandle the gifts and people that God gives them!  Unbelievable!  No wonder many people leave the churches where they are called to minister; there is no place given for them, just a bunch of rules.  Because, God knows, it's easier to tell a bunch of people what to do or not to do in a given situation than it is to - Heaven forfend -  BUILD ACTUAL RELATIONSHIPS WITH THEM.  Like the Great Commission calls us to do.  There's enough material in THAT for another angry blog; however, let the following story speak to the situation at hand and be enough.  Many and many a year ago, I saw an amateur production of Godspell, the classic 1970 musical adaptation of the gospel of Matthew.  At the beginning, Jesus interacts with each of the twelve disciples in a personal manner: bumping knuckles with Luke, hugging John, secret-handshaking with Thomas, and so on.  Just before the crucifixion sequence, Jesus interacted with each of the twelve disciples in the same manner, albeit a bit more solemnly: John's hug was more tearful on both parts, for example.  I'd like to think that anyone who claims to be a personal Savior would be able to be personal with me; why is it that His Shepherds are too busy to build that kind of relationship with the sheep? 

Hebrews 13:17 is used a lot to browbeat the laity into submission: OBEY YOUR LEADERS AND SUBMIT TO THEIR AUTHORITY.  The latter half of this verse is nicely glossed over: they have to give an account of your souls.  I wonder, when the great Judgment is passed, whether or not the sheep will be judged more harshly according to how they submitted to leaders, or whether the leaders will be judged more harshly on how they used the sheep that were under their aegis.  Leaders also nicely forget a few verses earlier, where the sheep are called to consider the outcome of their leaders' way of life.  If there's no fruit, why should I follow?

Sorry about the angry timbre of this post; the next one will be about roller skating.  Honest.

24th Confession

Recently, one commented to me that atheism is a religion as much as not smoking is a habit.  I consider that an interesting proposition: after all, is a habit defined only by the observance?  Or can the thousands of recovering smokers consider their "not smoking" to be a habit that they are creating day by day?  Or perhaps a habit is more accurately called a force of personal choice, made unconscious by repetition, to one's benefit or detriment.

Either way, the main focus of the argument was that atheism is not a religion.  While I respect that point of view, I feel that I must disagree.  The hallmarks of any religion are a set of rules, behaviors, rewards, and incentives based around a particular belief; most of the time, these include a creation myth, an explanation of world events, a view on the afterlife, and ethical standpoints.  The rest of the trappings - the sacred texts, the relics, the vestments and music and so on - are peculiar to whichever sect you might study, and of little major relevance other than to enforce a sense of commonality and unity across a local establishment.

So, then, is atheism a religion?  The main "rule" seems to be that there is no Deity, save perhaps the human mind.  Logic, science, and humans seem to be the holy trinity, with the Big Bang Theory servicing as a creation myth.  I use the term "myth" not as a slight against my atheist friends, but rather to serve as a reminder that any story told from that far back without some kind of physical proof must remain a story.  I can no more explain the Christian creation story than they can explain how a precisely ordered everything came from a large explosive nothing.  But it's these traditional stories that are accepted as history that shape and mold the entire worldview of both Christians, atheists, Muslims, Wiccans, and the like.

Thus, this chaotic creation story underpins some of the basic tenants of a world without a God: nothing is ever planned, everything is random, circumstances are accidents, and man has no intrinsic value except from being the last step (so far) in a great chain of evolutionary steps.  After one dies, there is nothing but release and decay, so one ought to eat, drink, and be merry with the time that one has.  There are no rewards save the earthly pleasures one has, there are no great "Reasons" or anything other than natural knowledge, and life is nothing more than a complex biological function.

There are prophets of atheism: Nietzsche, Darwin, Hawkings, Fry.  There are zealots who will argue the non-existence of God for hours on end.  Even the agnostics who have stopped searching are a subset of atheists; otherwise, it'd be an important enough decision that they'd come down on one side of the post or the other.  There is a degree of faith involved in atheism, one to which  I can only dream of aspiring: that nothing matters in the long run.

I wish I had enough time and wherewithal to refute each of these points.  I'm tired, though; I can't really bring myself to argue with it anymore right now.  Eventually, perhaps, but not today.

23rd Confession

There is nothing worse than incompetent leadership.  Leaders are the people who are supposed to nurture talent, encourage risk taking, and eventually release into something greater.  Whether that "greater" is retirement or a loftier position, leadership is not supposed to be threatened by upward mobility; rather, it is supposed to groom it and, in essence, put itself out of a job.

There aren't many fond memories I take with me from my time in prison....Did I say prison?  I meant working at CallTech (later TelePerformance).  The hours kept switching, the breakroom TV was always on TNT, and I'm fairly certain I developed digestive issues while there.  The best parts of the job were the people; specifically, my old supervisor Shane.  Shane did more than manage a dude who had lost five jobs within the span of four years.  He modelled what a good supervisor was with impeccable behavior and panache beyond description.  When he reviewed an employee, he looked for anything good to bolster their self-confidence, while gently encouraging development in the areas that were lacking.  When he recognized someone with leadership potential, he made for darn sure that they were on his team.  When he saw that someone had superior abilities, he tried to move them up as best he could.  He is, still to this date, the one man I would gladly work for any day.

TelePerformance also taught me that different management styles are ok, but incompetent management always shows through.  It taught me that yes, it is who you know that matters, as well as how to cultivate contacts to aid and abet in what you need done.  I recall several times that I needed to do something for a customer, but "the rules" said I couldn't.  At the time, I had another good supervisor, Travis, who said, "If you can do it, get it done."  He encouraged risk-taking and problem-solving, no matter how far outside "the rules" I had to stray.  In addition, he encouraged team-building and information sharing, which enabled me to make contacts in a whole lot of places where I'd not have otherwise gone.  Of course, it also meant a whole lot of work, but I suppose that I'd rather be working too hard than not enough.

I've also been in situations where leadership has been less than supportive of either myself or my efforts.  I've been in places where leadership has felt threatened by my abilities.  I recall one place where I was relegated to grunt work, although holding the position and title of management.  I was then expected to do my job, my boss's job, and my people's jobs.  All at the same time.  With excellence.  And pride.

That lasted about a month.

In summary, I suppose I only respect leaders as far as they take the time to become interested in me.  As they grow to know me and my strengths/weaknesses/limitations, etc., they earn more of my respect and trust.  the less they know me?  The less time I have for them, the less I care about their opinions, and the less likely I'm going to actively attempt to enable them to succeed.

22nd Confession

I'm really ashamed at the quality of my last blog.  Maybe next time, I'll do better.

So I got rid of some boxes tonight, blessing another couple people and cleaning out my garage.  My garage is what I pictured my attic would look like, with my garage and pantry added into it.  It's cold, there is stuff everywhere, and it smells faintly of motor oil.  I can count on two hands the number of bladed implements in there that I have never used. There are various and sundry pots and potsherds lying about, and the excess food is sprawled about on the ground.

And yet, there is some curious measure of pride that I have in this place.  There's the ability to prune a tree, when I get up the energy to do it.  I have a seeder to fix my nasty lawn, when we get rid of the dog.  I can sharpen a blade, change oil, cut a piece of timber, drill holes in wood and metal...

So much potential.  So little practical application.  And on my worst days, it feels like it's a reflection of me.

21st Confession

I'm going to take the plunge and write about God.  I realize that, like all subjects of this scope and magnitude, a simple little blog is not going to do justice to Him or anything like that.  I know that having a rational debate about metaphysics is almost on par with herding kittens and draining seas with teacups; therefore, instead of bringing the old arguments to the table, let's take a look at some of the common "proofs" that God cannot exist, and then see if we can move into the realms of how God does.

First things first, though not necessarily in that order.  Let's define "God" as a term - that way, we can start tearing apart His existence.  God is, in simplest terms, an omniscient, omnipresent entity whose major characteristic is love and whose motivations are purely life and goodness.  We could go into the theological benchmarks of "God is a Spirit" and "God is restrained by his character," but instead of all that (it's a simple blog, people, and my degree isn't in theology), let's just picture Him as non-Lovecraftian otherness, too alien to be comprehended, but a very pro-life force.

So this definition automatically leads into the ages old question, "If God is so powerful and limitless, can He make a rock too heavy for Him to lift?"  Simple logic mandates that if the answer is either yes or no, He is not omnipotent; therefore, since omnipotence is therefore a contradiction, it cannot exist.  As omnipotence cannot exist, God cannot exist.

But let's look at the question a little more deeply: the heart of the question lies in the definition of omnipotence.  If we merely restrain the question of omnipotence to the ability to "do" only two tasks, we subtract from the definition itself.  Instead, I look at it as a valid paradox that a truly omnipotent being would have no trouble fulfilling.  After all, what is omnipotence but unlimited ability?  And why limit the ability by staying within the bounds of the comprehensible and rational?  This tidily sums up the issue of the creation of evil, as well: a wholly "good" God can create "evil" through the same way that He can paradoxically create something that should not exist and yet does.

The nature of evil ties into the paradox suggested by Epicurus.  This noted Greek logician supposed the following: "Either God wants to abolish evil, and cannot; or he can, but does not want to. If he wants to, but cannot, he is impotent. If he can, but does not want to, he is wicked. If God can abolish evil, and God really wants to do it, why is there evil in the world?" (Source)  I see this often, especially in people who have been hurt by a death of a good person or a child.  Heck, I see it in myself almost daily: how could a good God allow my child to have died?  I believe in a God who named Himself "The Lord Who Heals," I can quote Scriptural proofs of healing with the best of them, but where was He when my daughter was born?   Where was He when my daughter died?  What kind of "good" is it when so much personal pain exists in my life?  The history of humanity throws up this question many times: 9-11, the Holocaust, any number of deaths that happen to "good" young people who are taken before their time.

It's not my place to salve over these personal tragedies.  I cannot say that God is fair.  But this much I do know: He darn well better exist, if only to set things right like He promises.

On to proofs of existence: they've all been done before.  The causality of creation, the extreme improbability of EVERYTHING happening "just so" only on this planet, man's ability to only explain and create things up to a point...  All of these have been used in the past to prove supernatural, and by people smarter than I.  I might explore some of them later, but before I do, I feel I need to tag this blog with a disclaimer.

I believe in science.  I am a rational person.  I cannot discount or disprove anything that has been factually laid out in front of me.  However, science is not, and cannot be, the ultimate authority on anything, just because it is always changing.  Man couldn't fly until about a century ago, and before that, science believed that Listerine cured gonorrhea.  Science, by nature, must continuously evolve and measure that which was immeasurable until technology caught up with it.  But how much can science measure now?  How accurately?  How much detail slips through their fingers, despite their protestations to the contrary?  And how much more is there to measure that hasn't even been conceived by the minds of scientists? 

20th Confession

Hello again, and welcome back to Confessions!  Joy has threatened to buy me Dove for Men if I didn't get off Facebook and blog like I promised her I'd do.  And you know how ...  Wait.  That's not much of a threat at all....

Our special of the house tonight is a meditation on yards; yards and lawns and the modern American value placed on a "beautiful" lawn are some of the most incomprehensible things in modern life today.  While I certainly enjoy a good patch of grass for lying upon, I really don't understand why Joy won't let me pave the thing and let us be done with it. 

Lawns, according to legend and Wikipedia, are an import from the Middle Ages' aristocracies.  They'd take a section of grassland, have their peasant charges go out and cut down the over-tall sections with scythes and such, and then go out and enjoy.  Eventually, with the invention of the power mower, the lawn became something semi-enjoyable, with the invention of the lawn party and the whiskey and soda.  Finally, the lawn became such a barometer of gentility and social status, it became fashionable in America.

Personally, I hate it.

Don't get me wrong:  I love a good meadow.  I don't mind the yardwork of raking and mulching and mowing and pruning and clipping and suchlike.  What I hate is the emphasis placed on the aesthetics of cow food. 

Today, I mowed for the last time in the season.  I usually enjoy the last mow of a season, as it means no more wandering around pushing the mower.  I also usually hate the last mow of a season, as it means the next thing I do is shovel the snow.  I don't mind the mower maintenance bits: running the gas out, draining the oil, scrubbing the rust spots off. 

What I do mind, though, is the ChemLawn dude, coming up to my door and offering a free lawn analysis, with option to buy their services.  Analyze my yard?  Dude, I know it's a mess!  Between the bare patches, the dandelions, the odd clumps, and the irregular texture of the ground, I'm ashamed to show it off!  AND THAT'S THE FRONT YARD!  The back yard, comparatively, makes the front yard look as professionally manicured as Gleneagles Golf Course (site of the 1921 Ryder's Cup). 

And why am I ashamed?  Because of a cultural bias that has pervaded the "American Dream".  The home should have a plush, green lawn, free from weeds and other growth, that treads like carpet and smells faintly of apple pie.  Mine is infested with several types of foreign flora, dog mines (anyone want to buy an older neurotic dog, cheap?), trenches, ditches, dead branches, low-lying places that are monuments to former garden plots and raspberry bushes, and a swimming pool.

Word to the wise: if you're considering buying a swimming pool, don't.  Just don't.  We thought that ours would provide a fun, cooling respite to hot summer days, and perhaps a cozy romantic rendezvous point for moonlit nights. 

The water temperature never raised above 40 degrees.  Ever.  Not exactly the cooling that one is looking for on a hot summer's day, nor the shivers one wants to experience during a moonlit rendezvous.

Next year, I hope to do better.  I hope to be rid of the dog (possibly by casting her in a local production of "Old Yeller," real bullets only please), thereby possibly eliminating some of the trenches and dog mines.  I hope to chip and shred the dead branches, and erect a shed in the back corner.  It'll be slightly sunk into the ground, making it bigger on the inside than presumed on the outside.  It'll be blue, and in the shape of a Police Box, and I shall call it my TARDIS.  I'll borrow a tiller, and dig up plots for my wife to plant tomatoes and zucchini and pumpkins and gourds and peppers and berries and sunflowers.  I'll reseed and fertilizer the lawn, especially the parts where the dog has ruined it.

But that's only if Joy doesn't let me pave the thing before winter.

Nineteenth Confession

If you're in the market to support a really good cause for no money?  This is one I highly recommend.  Pepsi is giving away grants to refresh communities, and this center is a great place to get them to give money.  It is run by a friend who genuinely cares for the kids who come in.  It's also mentioned in a news article here; the reporter, when leaving, told my friend that they "wished they'd had a place like this, growing up."  Voting goes through the end of the month; to vote, you have to register an e-mail address.
Normally, I don't advertise.  I don't do testimonials, and I don't believe anything I hear on any ad.  However, I'm asking that whoever reads this post would take the time to vote for the center.

Thanks!

Eighteenth Confession

Let's talk about evangelism.  It's one of the most misunderstood, misused, and inappropriately taught item in the church today.  Any church, every church, that I've ever seen that has a passion for souls has done this wrong.  I get a sense that it's taught wrongly because it's never been modeled correctly.  Especially in the church.  But I'm getting ahead of myself. Let's talk about what Christianity is and isn't, and then we'll go into what evangelism is and isn't.  My view of Christianity has been a long time in coming on this blog, but I think it's time to unleash it.

Christianity is the belief that the world is messed up.  The reason it's messed up is because of humans acting selfish, greedy, jealous...and it's all our own fault that it's messed up.  We humans, as an entire race, are messed up, racing after our own desires and lusts.  We inherited this from our fathers and mothers, all the way back to time immemorial. We name this messing up sin, and it's our fault that we do it.  We can't help it.

Christianity then proves the existence of a good, loving God.  I could go into several proofs, like the existence of an ultimate source, but this is a light-reading blog.  For the moment, let me say that it had to be a rational proof to get me to believe; maybe I'll link to proofs later.  For this post, though, suffice it to say that a good God exists, and He offers every person a free choice: believe in Jesus Christ or don't.  Each way promises freedom; each way, in its own way, delivers its promise.  Each way is a bondage.  It is not an easy choice to make. 

Christianity has principles based upon a relationship with God.  At first glance, it looks like rules; on deeper inspection, it's really just how true love works.  For the times you mess up, there is grace and forgiveness, deeper than human comprehension.  You can turn away from either choice at any time until death, at which point you run out of time and options.

Christianity is NOT fire insurance.  Christianity is NOT about rules and regulations that, if you follow them, you'll have a good life.  Christianity can NEVER be reduced to an intellectual exercise; when that happens, terrible things happen, as history illustrates quite thoroughly.  Just a quick overview of what happens when Christianity stops being a relationship and starts being a thought process: The Dark Ages, The Crusades, hate crimes, and stupid Christians.

That's right:  I said it.  The really "smart" Christians are more often than not the ones lacking in common sense.  The kind that hand out tracts to random people, trying to recruit them into a church.   The kinds that are so convinced that their particular brand of Christianity is superior to others, they leave no room for error in their thinking and beliefs.  The kind of person that can't accept differences, prays for revival in their church, is pleased to hear when someone is vilified in the media, and uses their title of Christian as an excuse for their selfish behavior.

Evangelism is healing the world.  The Bible calls us "more than conquerors," which makes us the rebuilders of this world.  It's not shoving our way of life or beliefs into someone else.  It's not throwing out a tract to someone in the hopes that they read it and change their way of life.  It's not proving something, it's not something done out of a sense of guilt or obligation.  It's not done with an eye to increasing church membership numbers. 

Sorry about the length of this one; next time will be shorter, I promise.

Seventeenth Confession

Of all the most inane questions I've ever heard, "What's your favorite song of all time?" ranks up there among "What's your favorite movie of all time?",  "Does this dress make my butt look big?", and "Are you asleep?"  There's not really a good answer to any of those questions.  I mean, there are plenty of songs that haven't been written and movies not made yet which may render your answer to the first two questions incorrect.  The third question is, as Admiral Ackbar admirably admits, IS A TRAP!!  As to the final question, the best answer, from personal experience is a deep, weary groan, followed by an equally weary, "Yes, dear?"

Back to the original topic of music, there are too many moods and too many songs for those moods, to narrow it down to ONE overall.  I keep a good set of number one songs for a mood, in case someone actually asks that kind of question.  I'm choosing to narrow it down to two or three or four for this particular post and, depending on what comments I get on it, I may or may not post more selections on this topic.  Or not.  Whatever.

So, let's start with the obvious ones:  being a Christian, let's talk religious music first.  As a former Reformed Presbyterian, there's something wonderful about a good a capella song, performed well.  That probably explains the goodly number of Brown Derbies and Rockapella in my playlist, as well as a smattering of other a capella groups.  But when it comes down to it, I'm more about the music than I am the delivery.  For praise and worship, Delirious? and David Ruis, and MorningStar are about the only ways to go. 

From Delirious?:  The incredible majesty of the original version of "Did You Feel the Mountains Tremble?" brings a shout out of me at the beginning of the chorus every time.  It seems that everything, from the opening rim shot, through the amazing lyrics, to the ending fade, is absolutely perfect about this track.  Their live rendition of "Come, Like You Promise" (from Live & In the Can, not the awful version from the compilation album) is an amazing illustration of synergy between the worship team and the worshiping throng.  I think it may have even been a "spur-of-the-moment" writing, way back in '95, but I can find no documentation on the impetus behind the song.  For straight Praise, you can't go wrong with "History Maker," "Show Me Heaven," "I've Found Jesus," or "Shout to the North."  For straight Worship, "Lord, You Have My Heart," "Oh Lead Me," "I Could Sing of Your Love Forever," and "Find Me In The River" overwhelm me every time.  As an added bonus, they recorded a cover of U2's "Pride (In The Name of Love)" which rivals the original in every aspect.

David Ruis came from the Vineyard movement, and his music is both intensely personal and fresh.  Very few other worship leaders compose songs in 5/4 time; I can only think of Leonard Jones at MorningStar who would.  The sheer enthusiasm behind "Yay God!," "Release Me," and "Wide Wide World" are brilliant.  "Whom Have I But You?," "Find Rest," "Faithful," and "Take Me Home" resonate with the part of me described in Hebrews 11: the part of me that admits that this world is not my home, that I long for my own people, and that nothing on earth can satisfy me.  "Tribal Tephilah Session" and "Megwich Kchi-Manitou" are experimental, blending Native American instrumentation and rhythms with a profound sense of worship.

MorningStar has entirely too many incredible expressions of worship to list them all here.  I'm thinking though, that "Come Let Us Go Up To The Mountain - Fly Me Like The Wind" from the album with the same name, is about a twenty-five minute encapsulation of everything right with MorningStar.  "Keeper," "Coming Out of Egypt," "Rush," and "Leaders of the Free World" are aerobic-class praise songs, guaranteed to get your cardio levels up.  With "Holding Your Breath" and "He's Alive" (the latter by Suzy Yarei), the team plays with the title of the song, creating not only a great worship experience, but also a nice little cognitive workout the first time you hear them.  I'd be remiss if I didn't mention Suzy Yarei's "Dance" (composed in Ohio!) and "Creator of the Universe" (the song my bride and I danced to at our wedding) as great songs as well.

Well, there you have some of my top P&W songs.  As ever, I await your feedback as to where I should go from here.

Sixteenth Confession

Well, I've come to a decision.  Starting with post 20, we're going to numbers.  Hooray!

Now, this post was going to be about music and my playlist/collection.  But instead, it's going to be about cheese.

I can almost hear a lot of you moaning out there.  "Another meaningless posting about nothing.  Give us something philosophical or at least interesting."  Well, I think we can make cheese philosophical.  And if not, it'll at least give you something to chew on.  No pun intended.  Well, slightly intended.

Cheese is part of our culture - again, no pun intended.  It gives certain groups of people a sense of community: American, Swiss, Amish, for example.  It separates people: those who like Bleu Cheese and those who don't.  It unites different flavors into a harmonious medley: vegetable lover's pizzas wouldn't be the same without a blanket of mozzarella.  Some cheeses are irreplaceable:  anything other than a nice yellow cheddar on a bacon cheeseburger with barbecue sauce wouldn't be quite right.  However, some cheeses can be blended to make a passable, or better, replacement: a pizza with smoked gouda, provolone, and mild white cheddar is exotic and different than the aforementioned mozzarella, and works nearly as well.

Cheeses also evoke memories of childhood, for better or for worse.  My childhood cheese is extra sharp white cheddar.  I grew up nibbling on that between meals, having slices for snack, and having it on sandwiches and in mac and cheese.  That flavor and texture shaped who I am, from a culinary standpoint.  It opened me to stronger-flavored foods, like its cousin Gorgonzola, for example.  It led me out of the steak and potato realm into couscous, curry vindaloo, and miso soup with kelp.

On the opposite end of my cheese spectrum, there is the dreaded Velveeta.  This unnatural "pasteurized prepared cheese product" is almost as bad as American cheese.  Almost.  Both are of the family of "processed cheese", which makes it more shelf stable, but less flavorful and healthy.  Also, it doesn't act like cheese is supposed to act: another blogger on another site talks of importing Velveeta to Thailand and actually repairing the damaged product.  (Watch out, by the way - the illustration at the head of that page is not work-friendly.)  While I heartily disagree with his taste in cheese, I am glad that he enjoys his reconstituted Velveeta overseas.

So, to end this cheesy entry, allow me to impart an anonymous quote, paralleling a Biblical teaching, wrapped in a koan, and garnished with a slice of Edam:  Worry is today's mice nibbling on tomorrow's cheese.

Fifteenth Confession

I'm thinking about changing the numbering system on the posts, just because it becomes tedious to type out the numbers.  Probably do that in the next post.

So recently, I've been thinking about music.  I'm curious what is currently playing on your iPod/portable music device/radio/whatever. 

The reason I ask is because we're in a media permeated society.  Until recently, if you wanted music to go,  you had AM and FM.  Then came the Walkman, then the discman, then mp3's, and then the iPod.  But it's so transformed our society, I defy you to go walking in a public place and not count at least five devices on three people.  It's all about the music.

I'm listening to Yoko Kanno and the Seatbelts performing "Call Me, Call Me" live right now.  It's a sad little blues number, with a brilliant little back beat that sounds like an old roatary phone.  I love the classics, and it's a little sad that we're raising a generation that only pushes buttons.  Ironic that I type that on a keyboard, which is nothing but a bunch of buttons, eh?

Of course, we needed our mix tapes to lead us to this point; piracy moving society forward.  Of course, now that we've reached a level of corporate paranoia about anything downloadable, I wonder where we're gonna go from here.

I know where I'm going: straight home for the weekend.  Talk to you Monday.

Fourteenth Confession

I like to eat.  It's one of those things that doesn't make too much sense when you say it aloud, but it makes perfect sense if you look at my track record.  Squid in its own ink, Chinese food, Thai cuisine - all of it delicious and all of it fun.  If there's something on the menu that I've not had before, I want to give it a try.  After all, it wouldn't be poisonous if it were on the menu, right?  ....right?

That being said, my favorite place to eat breakfast is at the local gas station or convenience store, especially when I'm on the road.  I usually stay at a place that serves a free breakfast, so I grab a couple eggs from there, then head on over to ye olde filling station for my morning energy drink.  Last time I was out of town, I tried the Monster Java varieties, and found that  the Irish was one of my new favorite ways to take my iced coffee.  When I'm at home, breakfast usually consists of two yogurts and something else from the fridge.  Sometimes cereal, sometimes not.  The past couple days, I've even had a grapefruit, which is a rare treat. 

One rule of thumb for dining out: the more questionable the surroundings of the Asian food restaurant (yet SAFE, don't be stupid), the better the cuisine there is.  For example, my favorite Thai restaurant in the Columbus area is in a dilapidated strip mall off of Sawmill Parkway.  The Thai Orchid, from the outside, reminds me a bit of the Chinese restaurant from "Big Trouble in Little China."  Not much to look at, but once you get inside, it's all a bit posh.  The menu is brilliant; however, beware when it says that the food is spicy.  The last time we ate there, Joy had something tasty, and I had something incredibly hot.  It was so hot, my mouth literally went numb; I had to go to the restroom and gargle some mouthwash to restore equilibrium.

Chinese buffets are, in my humble opinion, a great way to be introduced to Chinese cuisine.  Typically, there is a lot of food, a good variety, and a few dishes for the inexperienced to fall back upon.  No one goes away hungry, and if you're up for it, there's always something slightly more exotic than mac and cheese to eat.

I like my steak, but I also have a fondness for vegetables.  I have a tendency to stress eat celery or a bag of lettuce when I'm upset.  I'm not sure if that's some programming from my parents' raising me, or if it's something more sinister.  But a well mixed salad is a work of art: the crunch of spinach and radicchio, the flavor of beet greens, the tingle of the endive... and that's just the leaf basis.  Add some celery for benefits, carrot for color, peanuts for crunch, cucumber for cool, and radish for spice, and you've got yourself the beginnings of something wonderful.  Chunk up a chicken or some roasted cow atop it, and you've got a meal.

Now I'm salivating for dinner tonight...

Thirteenth Confession

Short Term missions trips are, more often than not, supposed to change the people who go on them.  It gives them a whole new appreciation for the lives they lead and the things they take for granted.  It usually doesn't have a long term effect on anyone except for the people who went, and the people who they met (if the short-term vacationers - sorry, missionaries - keep in contact with them).

Church culture has a very "sunshine patriotism" vibe about missionaries.  Maybe once a month we hear about the families who have left the church to go elsewhere, to faraway places to preach the gospel.  We are sometimes stirred to give, hearing about those who have "loved not their lives to the death."  These stories make us think, "what am I doing with my life that is so important that I can't go die for Jesus?"

Of course, there is a specific grace for people to do specific things.  Teachers who are great teachers do it out of a sense of love, and are motivated more deeply than I can work up.  Doctors who operate with skills and make it look like art.  Lawmakers who are passionate about people legislate well - of course, there hasn't been one since about 1823, but still...

I suppose that the take-away SHOULD be to do what you love with all your heart; unfortunately, their situations sometimes become church sales pitches via guilt trip: "Come on, folks, give some money.  Can't you see they're DYING?  FOR JESUS!!!???  Can't you give a dollar for that?"  I can see the same thing on television in between late night.  But of course, every dollar I give to church goes to a real person.  Minus the overhead for sending it over. 

If I want to support a foreign mission, I want to see where the money goes.  So that's why I went to Cagayan de Oro, to the school we supported when our daughter died.  But we didn't stop there: we keep in contact with the teachers at the school.  And it's not stopping there:  someday, when I become a rich and successful business owner, I'm going to open a bank account in Cagayan, and funnel a percentage of the profits directly to the account.

But for now, I do what I can.

Twelfth Confession

I make a terrible sick person.  I get mopey and grumpy, and don't function well at all.  Well...grumpier than usual.  Because as a whole, I'm a fairly grumpy person.  Not that I have many reasons to be.  Because, most of the time, I shouldn't.

I mean, it always could be worse.  It could be raining.  Those meddling kids could have torn up my yard.  It's a head/chest cold, not pneumonia.  It's not a tumor.  God's still on the throne, we all win in the end.  It all comes out okay in the end; therefore, if it's not okay, it's not the end. 

Then why am I still disconsolate?  Because it's not good enough until it's GOOD, not when it's slightly lacking bad.  Good is something pleasant and desirable: more than enough health, more than a conqueror, more than plenty.  Good is not the lack of anything bad, but rather more than enough to compensate for that which is bad.  While on earth, bad is.  Evil exists.  Good always overcomes, but it's sometimes a nail-biter.  Sometimes, good doesn't even look like it won at the end of the day.  But the thing is, we're so short sighted to see the current tragedy, we miss the long view:  what comes AFTER the tragedy determines the depth of the tragedy, not the tragedy itself.

Short one for 12.  Time to move on.

Eleventh Confession

Today, I was going to write about the Philippines and short-term missions trips.  That was before I saw the picture of my Gram.

 My Gram is, for all her personality quirks, a wonderful woman.  Her obsession with creamy peanut butter, colby-jack cheese, and navel oranges will no doubt feed several in-family jokes.  (This pun brought to you courtesy of Righty Dounz.)  She loves her singing stuffed bear - a fireman bear, with Lee Greenwood singing "Proud to Be an American."  She still has the high school band photo of me with huge glasses, sans hair, and plagued by terrible acne in her wallet.  She will talk for any length of time about her various medical ailments - and if the area is visible in mixed company and the opportunity arises, will show it to you without provocation. 

The chiefest of her quirks, though, is that Gram never smiles for photographs.  NEVER.  She could be holding a cooing infant (in fact, in a few pictures, she is), but her expression comes straight from Grant Wood's "American Gothic."  I have seen her enjoying herself at a party, talking animatedly while playing cards.  Someone brings out a camera, and suddenly her face hardens until the lens is pointed away from her.

This picture, though, catches Gram off guard.  Apparently, the retirement home at which Gram (and Pap, bless him) reside brought in festivities for the residents.  Face painting, live music, concession stand food, and a generally "folksy" atmosphere brought a kind of "country fair" into the home.  During the festivities, Gram apparently left her room with her walker and sat on a couch, listening to the musician perform.

A word about the musician: I don't understand him.  He has a Steelers sticker on his forehead; this, of course, is par for Ryan's surreal life.  In addition, he plays the accordion.  This, in and of itself is offensive, as the only good accordion is the one in the Titanic.  To add a degree of the unnatural to this foul abomination, this particular musician attached a synthesizer to his accordion.  A synthesizer.  To an accordion.  The mind reels.

But so, apparently, did Gram.  Because during one of his songs, Gram left her walker behind and danced with Sam.  Sam is one of the kitchen staff at the home.  Sam looks nothing like Pap, by the way.  Just sayin'.  And yet, there they are, Sam and Gram, dancing to synthesized accordion music, played by a man with a football helmet stuck to his broad forehead.  And Gram is smiling.

Sometimes I think that my surreal life is rooted in the accumulated quirks of my lineage, genetic and non. Sometimes I think that maybe, some day, I will be in a home, and I will dance to some golden oldie.  (Cake, anyone?  Or maybe some Green Day for seniors?)  Maybe forehead stickers will be fashionable, even. Perhaps the accordion will even become palatable.  *shudder*  I don't know.

All I know is, Gram is smiling in this picture.  And that makes it special to me.  God bless you, Gram.

Tenth Confession

I love the world too much to be trapped in one culture.  Americans get it all wrong, most of the time.  They sleepwalk their way around life, living to work, using an outdated schizophrenic voting process to elect the leaders that they'll complain about for the next five years.  They get the freedom bit right, but then use it to bludgeon people to their way of thinking.

I remember being at a church in the past, where a congregant stood up in tears over a school board meeting.  Apparently, they were discussing adding some Margaret Atwood to the curriculum, and during the discussion, some of the students added in their two cents.  One stood up and said that truth was relative: whatever is true for one person could be false for another, or partially true for a third.  Of course, if someone hit that student full across the face and, upon being questioned, said something along those lines...

Of course truth isn't relative!  A person's revelation of the truth is slow and always unfolding, but the truth itself (or Himself, for my overly religious readers) never changes.  To build a house on "relative" measurements would be folly; the universe, being much more complex, therefore, must be built on sterner truths than relativity. 

So...anyway....

My quest is not to know all the right answers.   That's impossible, and makes life incredibly dull for a human.  Rather, I'd rather find the right questions to ask, and in searching for the right questions, I find all the answers I need.

Ninth Confession

Those of you who know me, even in the least, would probably agree that I'm not what is considered "normal."  Apparently, I become more surreal as the night progresses.  My wife makes claims of ludicrous statements, made by me, late at night.  She has even gone so far as to threaten to tape record them for posterity.

It all started long ago, when I was working at a pizza joint that shall remain nameless, just because I try not to dirty my mouth with ANY pizza company from under the Yum! brands umbrella.  Just sayin'.  I would come home at one in the morning, smelling of garlic and spices, tomatoes and prepared meats, dealing with the general public...

An aside, then back to the topic on hand.  Treat the poor wage slaves who serve you food with the utmost respect until they don't deserve it anymore.  A good waiter/waitress is worth their weight in weapons grade plutonium; having worked with some of the best, I know.  Unfortunately, like weapons grade plutonium, they are also volatile and need very special handling. 

So there I was, tired out of by gourd, and apparently, some time in the morning, I woke my wife with the pronouncement that "the breadsticks had to come out of the oven."  Apparently, I was flailing about violently, thrashing in desperation, trying to get the breadsticks out of the oven.  Failed miserably, apparently.

The other night, I topped this by gibbering on at some length about an older milkmaid, ringing a bell pull with wedges of cheese twined into the rope, protesting about the inhumane treatment of the dairy cows.  I have never, at least as far as I can recall, been interested in bovine rights, nor the humane and ethical treatment of tomorrow's bacon BBQ cheeseburger.  Apparently, though, I have some deep seated cow issues that need dealt with.  I need to grasp the bull by the horns and feed it dynamite... 

Maybe not.  That would be abominable.  (Bonus points if you get the pun.)

There's no real point to this meditation.  Some days are just like that, after all.

Eighth Confession

I've never believed in the Loch Ness Monster, or Bigfoot, or the Bermuda Triangle.  I find it difficult to believe in anything that the Weekly World News reports as factual, simply because they were Photoshopping things before Photoshop became mainstream.  Truth is something so rare these days, that any source of it must be kept as pure as possible.  Which leads almost directly into...

I have no problems believing six impossible things before breakfast.  I find it a useful exercise in keeping my mind active, limber, and in perspective.  I also believe in creating moments of small social awkwardness, at mostly appropriate times, just to keep oneself - and the general public - from sleepwalking through life.  I recall the phrase from "Standing Outside a Broken Phone Booth With Money in My Pocket," from the one hit wonders Primitive Radio Gods: "If I die before I learn to speak/Can money pay for all the days I lived awake/But half asleep?"  The particular phrase "awake but half asleep" resonated within me from the very first time I heard it fourteen years ago.  Looking around at the world, I see so many people like that: numbly walking through life, keeping their head down, surviving from day to day.  There are so few that want to celebrate their lives, let alone enjoy the mess that life is.

Because that's exactly what life is: messy.  It's not neat.  No nice little containers, no labels that are truly accurate.  Magritte illustrated this point brilliantly in his painting The Treachery of Images: nothing is what you call it.  No matter what you define, there is going to be someone who sees it differently.  (Give me your trolls, your huddled masses yearning to speak freely....)  And yet, we humans keep on making order, attempting to communicate with each other, urgently trying to make the world make sense.

But yet, in this order we create, we must guard against becoming prejudiced against those things that don't fit into our nice, neat little existence.  Tragedy, new experiences, unexpected happenstances, even God Himself - these are just a few of the people and instances which people can't deal with because they don't have a frame of reference for such things.  And this lack of reference becomes a box through which creativity becomes stifled. Creativity block is another term for inability to see through one's own short-falling blindness: while I understand what it is, I dismiss it as casually as I do Bigfoot.  It's something that can be overcome, simply by opening up a little more.

I suppose that, were I to sum up, I'd say three things:
1)   You do not talk about Fight Club. (My blog - and I prefer three talking points to two).
2)  Trolls are welcome here.  I respect your right to remain anonymous; flames are welcome, but spam never is.  However, if you troll often enough, I reserve the right to ask more about you.
3)  Just because you can't define it, doesn't mean it doesn't exist.  Just because you can define it, it doesn't mean it exists.

Seventh Confession

"Macho" is a subculture that has gotten too good of a name among the ignorant.  To many, it is the celebration of the masculine: this would be true enough, and good enough, if that were all the further it went.  To the homosexual community, it is the embraced term for enjoying all things male.  All.  Things.  Male.

Seeing as how the homosexual community has co-opted this word completely, what is the church's response to this?  They call Jesus "macho."

In a classical sense, I can go along with this; however, saying that Jesus was homosexual is, of course, not where I'm going with this.  However, most gay men call hanging around with 12 other guys and a prostitute, drinking wine and discussing life "Thursday".  The religious church at large calls it "abominable." 

I personally don't understand most aspects of the gay subculture.  I comprehend the terms, I know quite a few gay men and lesbians for a "Christian," and find the people in the subculture approachable and friendly.  I just can't sashay that way.

But what, I wonder, would the church I attend do with a gay attendee?  Would they be able to tell them from the straights?  I know what the Bible teaches about the sin of homosexuality, as well as what it teaches about separating the person from the sin.  But would my church be able to effectively minister to that man's needs? Or would they be too bent (forgive the pun, couldn't help myself) on changing the person into what they view as acceptable?

There is obviously more to be said about the church and homosexuality; however, it's not for me to say it in this blog.  It's almost time for a new topic, after all.

Sixth Confession

I don't believe in writer's block.  I don't believe in artist's block.  However, I do believe in people becoming so frustrated and short sighted that they lose track of what they originally set out to do: express themselves.

I can think of half a dozen times when I've sat at a piano and tried to compose something new and fresh and exciting.  Most of the time, if I put pressure on myself to do something new and brilliant, it comes out insipid and tired.  However, if I put all the demand behind me and instead play an old standard, I hear a musical phrase and think, "Yeah, I could work with that."

Too many times, I've also seen myself get hung up on too many options, but not enough motivation.  I can honestly point to that as the reason why I've not gone into business for myself, I've not written more music, or I've not done anything else creative.  I suppose that sticking to a blog will keep me on track, to some degree.  However, I also know that stagnation comes without circulation: if I'm not constantly challenged, I'm not going to be as brilliant as I could be.

So with that, I throw this posting to the public -- what should I brilliantly post about next?

Fifth Confession

I have a lot of trouble with church leaders.  Maybe it's because I'm of a different tribe (they're Dan, I'm Issachar); maybe it's their style, or maybe it's a difference in focus.

I, for my part, love individual persons entirely too much.  Whole people groups can fall by the wayside - no tears shed by me.  One person gets saved - I'm flooded with joy, relief, and then almost immediately afterward, dread.  Why?  Because probably, they'll end up like church people.  And that, in my humble opinion, is a fate worse than death.  Not because salvation is bad - far from it - but instead of building a relationship that allows a person to grow into their fullness in Christ, most churches make a person into the image of the Pastor's Heaven.

Is God a Republican?  Is He a red-blooded American?  Does He vote conservatively?  Does He believe life was better back in the 50's, when patriotism and family-friendly entertainment were a way of life?  Is His Kingdom's hallmark staunch rules, with any lapse greeted with a disapproving stare and an angry lecture about decaying moral fiber?

Of course the answer to the above question is a vigorous "Heck No!"  But it's easier to put a mass into a box than to recognize each individual and see the qualities God placed in them.  It's simpler (and more effective) to tell everyone to hold to certain "virtues" than it is to befriend every single last one of them and find out what they need, where their need for growth is, and releasing them into what God has for their life.  To that end, and please forgive my cynicism, the church has become more of a morality business model than it has been an empowering bastion of hope for a lost and dying world.

Please don't misunderstand me.  The local church is necessary - vital, even - in the world today.  But in its zeal to build the Kingdom through sheer numbers, we have lost touch with the elements of basic Christendom.  The church demands a tithe, whereas a follower of Christ spends their money to feed and clothe a family.  The Pastor booms down from a pulpit, whereas the follower listens to the hurting and lost.

I'm not speaking against anyone, or against anything that Jesus has set up.  The Pastor is a gift from Jesus to the Church, for the feeding and care and equipping of the saints.  The entire five-fold ministry was given to care for and prepare the saints for the world; yet, it seems that more and more, the shepherds of the house smell less and less like sheep and more and more like leather.  The honor of a pastor is the glory of his flock, not the veneration by the saints.  The flock that is well tended honors their shepherd without prodding, oh happy sheep they!  But quis custodiet ipsos custodes, indeed?


I love the house that God placed me in, and I live to watch the people there grow into maturity.  May everyone grow into their proper station, fully into where God wants them to be.

Fourth Confession

I hate to travel alone.  Simply put, when it comes down to traveling for business, I see the hotel, the job site, and whatever restaurant in the area that accepts my company's American Express.  Sometimes, I catch up with family that is near the site; most of the time, though, I don't. 

Simple fact of the matter is, when I'm put alone in a hotel room, there's too much time for me to hear my own inner voices: the doubts and guilts of the past come whispering back, not mollified by the forgiveness promised me by my Father.  The room is never quite right: too cold, too hot, uncomfortable bed, weird smelling shower, slow internet connection, sandpaper on a roll (womenfolk, can I get an amen?), nothing ever on TV...

Some rooms and places are better than others.  For example, the North Kansas City Public Library is right down the road from my hotel room.  There's free breakfast every morning, which means I can use some company dollars to buy an energy drink in the morning and replenish my gum supply.  I'm in a room with a couch; how does THAT not rock?

So why is the only song running through my head Simon and Garfunkel?  Where each town looks the same to me, with its movies and its factories, and every stranger's face I see reminds me how I long to be...

Homeward Bound.  There's an interesting concept.  I've never really felt "at home" anywhere I've ever lived.  It's almost as though I've known that wherever I was wouldn't be where I'd end up.  It's a bit odd, feeling homesick when you've already accepted that the only home you'll ever feel at home in isn't of this earth.  And yet...

Home really isn't about a place, for me.  It's about my people, the ones I call family, the ones who accept me despite themselves (and myself).  When God talks about Abraham's death, I can only pray that someday, it will apply to me: he breathed his last, and died at a good old age, full of years, and was gathered to his people.  I suppose that, especially these days, being surrounded by so many "not my people", I long for the day when I am gathered to a people who think like me, can understand what I went through because they went through it, and don't mind my rough-hewn texture, as they are rough as well.

The unknown author of Hebrews talks about the great cloud of witnesses who surrounds us.  I know that my theology has no basis, but something in me really want to believe it's my people, my true brothers and sisters on the other side, calling out their encouragement across the ages, until one day, I see them face to face.