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.

Third Confession

Every now and again, radically conservative "Christians" do something to shoot Christ's Bride in the kneecap.  In the eighties, it was the abortion clinic bombers.  In the nineties, it was the abortion clinic bombers AND the ones who spoke against the liberal President's indiscretions.  Today, it's the abortion clinic bombers, the ones who speak out against the liberal President in general, and Terry Jones.

This is not Terry Jones, beloved Python, childrens' author, and documentarian.  Nor is it Terry Jones, the controversial and convicted Canadian politician.  No, this Terry Jones is in Florida, and, if you've not read the news recently, plans to burn copies of the Qur'an at his church on September 11th.

Do I support Islam?  As a Christian, I believe it to be a perversion of the relationship I have with God the Father through Jesus Christ and His Holy Spirit; while I cannot actively support it, I am not called to actively oppose it.  I am called to love the sinner and show a better way, NOT to shock the general public with an amazingly crass display of narrow-minded thinking. 

What does it prove, holding a Qur'an roast?  It shows the flammability of paper, for one.  It shows that you are radically and diametrically opposed to the words of the book, for another.  Maybe it will remind you of other book burnings from the past: comic books in Binghamton, NY, in 1948; Jewish literature in the 1930's and 1940's; Communist literature in the 1950's; and the list goes on.  Of course, in fairness, we have to add the Bible to the list of literature that has gone up in smoke - several times over, if one makes the count.  Or perhaps it will bring to your memory "Fahrenheit 451" by Ray Bradbury.

Of course, scanning through other notable Christian book burnings of the past, we find the KJV exclusive congregants of the Amazing Grace Baptist Church of Canton, NC.  Besides their exclusivity to the 1611 version (possible blog fodder), they held a book "burning" in 2009 which was put out by rain, protestors, and local law enforcement.  They moved it inside and "burned" heretical works of Satan - including: books by TD Jakes, James Dobson, Joyce Meyer; Satan's music, including country (which i can somewhat get behind), CCM (which, again, I'm having a problem not getting behind), jazz (completely over the line), and "soft and easy" (direct from their website, cannot make this up). 

When a church moves in such diametric opposition to the Kingdom of God, I fail to see how God can bless such actions.  We are called to be inclusive, not exclusive; in the world, yet not of it.  Love thy enemy, bless those who curse you, go two miles instead of the required one, give your shirt as well as the requested jacket:  THESE are the methods in which one builds the Kingdom, for His glory and Honor.

I grieve over the people who believe that book burnings are a positive message to those who speak against them.  I pray for the souls in the congregation of Dove World Outreach Center.  While their leader's intent is pure, his actions are reprehensible; may God have mercy on Gainesville.

Second Confession

I try to love everyone; I mean, it takes all kinds to make up the social environment.  Pirates, bloggers, corporations, clergy - each have their function and part to play in sustaining the dynamic tension that is "life".

That being said, sometimes, I really can't stand "church people."

You know the type: the ones who are just a little too enthusiastic in the morning, the ones who are just a little too Heaven minded to be earthly good, the ones who attempt to find out more about you than you're willing to offer.   Of course, this is a generic personality type, or "tribe" as I think of them (probably to be explored in another confession) , not a complete slam on sheep, God bless 'em. 

Allow me to illustrate.

A couple weeks ago, my nephew, Aaron, was baptized.  It was a momentous occasion, and as such, we drove up to Marion to take part.  Marion is in God's country, so it took some driving on my part, aided and abetted by a travel mug of coffee, to get there.  Eventually, we arrive at the edifice where that body of believers meets.  I'm not a morning person, as a general rule, and I'm a bit punch drunk from driving a long distance on not much consciousness.  Stage now set, let's meet THE PEOPLE.

The church in Marion attended by Jeff (my brother-in-law, fine upstanding fellow, nice goatee like mine, but without the natty white streak) is populated with Midwesterners.  Salt o' the earth, not a thing wrong with that.  They advertise free coffee and donuts on their website; when I got there, there was a pot of coffee available in back.  My morning-ness being what it was, that sounded really good; I proceded back to get a cuppa to restore a bit of sanity to my surreal world.

Just a note on that: the more awake I am, the more surreal the world becomes.  If you're ever with me and I fall asleep, BE GRATEFUL: that means nothing weird is gonna happen.  You're with me at about five, sixish at night - watch out!

I must have been more awake than I realized, because before I could get to the coffee pot, I was swarmed by CHURCH LADIES.  They welcomed me, and presumed that I MUST be Jeff's brother.  General rule of thumb when approaching a wild Ryan:  Never Presume Anything.  Of course I don't lie, I just tell them i'm not Jeff's brother.  Not put off in the slightest, they ask who I am.  Rule number two of approaching Ryan in the wild: Don't Ask THAT Question, because quite frankly, I'm still working on it myself.  So I remark that I'm just a guy, and before I can get another statement out, they tell me that they noticed I was with my girlfriend.

Note on that:  I've not had a girlfriend for a good twelve years.  Even when my now-wife, Joy, and I were dating, I knew that we were supposed to end up together.  Guys have that kind of sensing - when she's The One.  I knew from the moment I offered her a Pez, and she mentioned that she same dispenser.

Also, I was wearing my wedding band.  Durrrrrrrrrrrr.

About this time, my wife comes up and tries to pry me away from the grip of the Church Ladies.  She did so, at the cost of herself; as I ran away from them as fast as is socially acceptable, they were scrunching the tattoo on her forearm, just so see what it would look like when she was old and wrinkly like they.

Having said all that, this subset of people is also available for viewing pretty much anywhere.  The overly friendly sales clerk who goes way above and beyond in his unwavering loyalty to THE BRAND or THE STORE.  The chatty person in the store who tells you all about their cats.  The guy that walks up and gives you a telephone number to reach the actor who played Eb on Green Acres (another blog post, maybe).  Maybe they're of the tribe of Dan, while I'm of the people of Issachar, I don't know.  Working through this, I find that the only way I can best love them is from afar.  Preferably the moon.  I'll work with them, and I recognize that, without them, the church is incomplete.  Maybe it's because they aren't a completely redeemed tribe, and in their immaturity they lack self-control, I dunno. 

All I know is, when passing through Marion's church system, mind your tattoo.

First Confession

I really never thought that I'd start anything like this.  Not that I hold anything against bloggers; they're part of the atmosphere of the internet, as much as 4chan and Google.  However, I never considered committing my thoughts to "paper", as it were.  Personally, it seems like sheer folly and arrogance to shout thoughts to the world, as though it would change anything.  It's a bit like voting, in that respect.

However, I also find that, every so often, I need a sounding board, as it were, a forum for bouncing off whatever is in my head at the time.  I usually just let it rattle around and around, until it becomes gibberish and spouts out.  Of course, compound this with the unusually high amount of surreality in my life, and you get something wonderful.

So, come on in, we'll have some talking and some exploration, some interaction and some intervention, and we'll just watch where it goes.  Any and every comment will be met with at least a comment, if not an entire blog post.  I figure it's just the best courtesy that any blogger can give to anyone who comments on their post.  I'm also going to start with a few posts, just to get the ball rolling.  Then, we'll just let this thing evolve naturally.