Life is all about the right tool for the job.
Growing up in a family of contractors taught me about which tool is proper for a particular job, and how important it is to choose wisely. For instance, one would not want to try to split wood with an iron wedge and a ball-peen hammer because it would take a whole day's worth of pounding to break a log if if worked at all; but using a nice solid sledge hammer, an experienced splitter can bust a chunk of hickory with one blow. In the same way, a framing hammer would pulverize bricks and cinder blocks, but a tap with a masonry hammer can make a perfect break so that the stone or brick is custom made for it's spot in the wall. Choosing the wrong tool has consequences: an English wrench will round the edges of a Metric bolt every single time; pliers do not hold as tight as vice grips, and if the nut is too wide you will need channel locks to hold onto it anyway; screws that are not self-tapping take twice as much time and work because they need a guide hole drilled first; and everything on God's green earth works better with a good coating of WD-40.
I have a toolbox in my car most of the time so I can be ready to fix what needs fixing; this is mostly due to my philosophy that "a tool in the hand is worth 3,000 in the basement"-- (my dad has been in the business for a while so we have a screwdriver or two at my house, but it always seems that what any of us actually needs is never easily found). Knowing about tools has also influenced my attitude toward all kinds of broken things. When I find that a thing simply will not do what it was made for anymore, it isn't necessarily time to whip out the MasterCard for a new one. That is, I learned early in life what it is for something broken and useless to be redeemed.
My family had an old Chevy pick-up truck for years-- it would break down sometimes, then we would need it for one rough-and-tumble job or another, and we would fix it. When it was fixed, it was redeemed-- it had worth for its original purpose as a vehicle again, and it ceased in its lesser value as an eclectic yard ornament that made mowing seem like an obstacle course. Our adventures using tools to fix that '76 Scottsdale (affectionately referred to as 'the truck of many colors') have helped me learn how broken humanity has been redeemed by Christ.
In Genesis, Adam and Eve's sin carried a penalty of death for the entire human race. Jesus came to humanity both to preach repentance for sin, and to fix the penalty of death: he spent his life living humbly and teaching us how to serve one another, then, while his body lay in the tomb, the everlasting God-part of Jesus used our human nature as a disguise to infiltrate Hell. It was a shabby and powerless place where God's Truth and Life and Light could never be contained, so when Jesus arrived Hell cracked open with an explosive blast to release every righteous soul from death.
Had Jesus Christ been only a good man and not the Word of God, he could have taught us how to repent and how to temporarily put everything to rights, but our nature still would have been vulnerable to death. Had God given everlasting life to us again without walking in a human body, there would be no example of repentance and humility we could follow and relate to, and it wouldn't take long for us to turn again to the sin that damned us in the first place. Humanity needed precisely the Word made flesh-- the one and same Word of God who breathed life into the first human in creation is the only one who, through the cross, could re-create humanity into a people whose very essence and nature is new life.
For Jesus to have been half God and half man, or for the Word to be a creature created by God instead of a part of God's own essence, or for God to lack a human will of his own, would be almost the right tool to save humanity from sin and death-- like using a ball-peen hammer with an iron wedge to try to split a log. None other than the Word of God made flesh, fully God and fully human, could save us entirely. Life is all about the right tool for the job.
"In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was with God in the beginning. Through him all things were made; with him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it...He was in the world and though the world was made through him, the world did not recognize him. He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. Yet to all who received him, to those who believed in his name, he gave the right to become children of God-- children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband's will, but born of God. The Word became flesh and made his dwelling among us. We have seen his glory, the glory of the One and Only, who came from the Father, full of grace and truth." -The Gospel of John 1:1-4, 10-14
Friday, October 8, 2010
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
Tattoos 2
My cousin's husband is a Christian who has a tattoo-- his is a big Georgia State Bulldogs emblem, and it's right smack on his buttcheek. If you ask him, he'll show it to you. His is one of my favorites because of his motive in getting it. Drunken indiscretion? Nope. He did it because it's funny.
He says it's a punchline that just keeps delivering. "The first time your wife sees it in all it's glory-- it's funny," he says. "When you're getting your appendix taken out and you take a stroll down the hospital corridor with the gown untied...it's funny." Every time someone sees it while giving him a sponge bath at the nursing home fifty years from now, it's going to be funny.
When life gets tough for him I bet he can just think about what's behind him and get a good kick out of it. I have always thought that about our hind quarters in general; maybe God put them on us so we could laugh about the ridiculous piece of anatomy that follows us around everywhere we go. I laugh about it on a regular basis and I think God does too because if God can see our hearts, God can definitely see through our fruit-of-the-looms. Whether or not God laughs at all our hineys as I presume, God is definitely in on a very funny Georgia joke.
He says it's a punchline that just keeps delivering. "The first time your wife sees it in all it's glory-- it's funny," he says. "When you're getting your appendix taken out and you take a stroll down the hospital corridor with the gown untied...it's funny." Every time someone sees it while giving him a sponge bath at the nursing home fifty years from now, it's going to be funny.
When life gets tough for him I bet he can just think about what's behind him and get a good kick out of it. I have always thought that about our hind quarters in general; maybe God put them on us so we could laugh about the ridiculous piece of anatomy that follows us around everywhere we go. I laugh about it on a regular basis and I think God does too because if God can see our hearts, God can definitely see through our fruit-of-the-looms. Whether or not God laughs at all our hineys as I presume, God is definitely in on a very funny Georgia joke.
Tattoos 1
27 August 2010
I got off the transit bus this morning behind a guy who had a huge United Methodist Church emblem tattooed on his left calf. He's branded forever: Methodist Guy. He won't ever have to explain himself or his beliefs until he's on vacation with his grand kids and they want to know what that reddish squiggle beside the blackish-bluish lines used to be. He will explain to them that he was real cool in college so he expressed his love for Jesus and Methodism in permanent body art. But the UMC logo will have evolved by then, and his grand kids will probably think he was into burning crosses in people's yards during the human rights movement because kids have no sense of time and they just lump all of the history they know into one big day where there were a bunch of wars and light bulbs were invented. It's okay, kids, grandpa is a good person, he was just real cool in college.
I got off the transit bus this morning behind a guy who had a huge United Methodist Church emblem tattooed on his left calf. He's branded forever: Methodist Guy. He won't ever have to explain himself or his beliefs until he's on vacation with his grand kids and they want to know what that reddish squiggle beside the blackish-bluish lines used to be. He will explain to them that he was real cool in college so he expressed his love for Jesus and Methodism in permanent body art. But the UMC logo will have evolved by then, and his grand kids will probably think he was into burning crosses in people's yards during the human rights movement because kids have no sense of time and they just lump all of the history they know into one big day where there were a bunch of wars and light bulbs were invented. It's okay, kids, grandpa is a good person, he was just real cool in college.
Tattoos Introduction
I don't have any tattoos, but I like people who have them. I especially love Christians who have tattoos because it seems to me that a story which warrants commemoration in ink is almost always a great story; as such, I've decided to discuss a few of them with you.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Chapel
Duke's West Campus is a beautiful place. Most of the campus is laid in square-ish gray stones and polished with trimmings like crested windows and heavy wooden doors. The ornate Gothic cathedral style Chapel is the epicenter of beauty here--but it is undoubtedly imposing. And frankly, it looks sharp and pointy; things that look like they would snag your sweater from ten feet away really aren't all that inviting, but when you gaze on the Duke Chapel, it somehow compels you in.
Upon my initial pilgrimage in to the deep and narrow Chapel, I fortunately entered at a time that someone was playing a seventeenth century hymn on the giant pipe organ whose appendages trail up the back wall of the chapel like English ivy on an old garden wall. I walked through the foyer and past a lady at the "welcome" desk whose head was being eaten by a pair of noise-cancelling earphones. "She must not be educated and cultured enough to appreciate classical music," I thought to myself. I signed the guestbook to commemorate my visit, and took a seat on the left row of seats about halfway up.
I looked up at the depictions of biblical characters on the ceiling. I tried to distinguish who was who among the apostles in the stained glass on either side of me. I looked toward the front: table in center, lectern to the side. One can understand much about the theological emphasis of a particular place of worship by what furniture sits front and center. Traditional Baptists put their lecterns in the middle because preaching and discipleship are the center of the service. Most liturgical churches put the communion table in the middle as the Eucharist is the center of tradition. All the hip Evangelical churches have stages with drums or choirs or a keyboard in the middle because music and worship are the main event. I believe the theory somewhat applies to homes as well: those who value knowledge often have bookcases and reading chairs in the biggest room of the home. Others place their nicest things in the central room of the house to show that they've made a good living for themselves, and to enjoy the fruits of their labor with family and guests. I, in all my pomp and sophistication, tend to plant a TV in the biggest room of my house and then point a whole bunch of furniture at it.
Good thing I walked into the Chapel when I did, I got to hear the last piece the organist played. The place had been silent for a long while now.
After I had a satisfying eyeful, I prayed for a while. (Though my most heartfelt petitions seem to take place in mundane or even ugly settings, I have always felt that God somehow hears me better when I pray in beautiful places.) Upon a few minutes of meditation, I thought about the liturgy which had echoed off the walls surrounding me. The science books say that sound waves never stop-- so I tried my hardest to hear an echo of something old and holy and profound. I heard nothing. My mind wandered to thinking of what kind of words a building like this inspires. "Old, pretty words. Old, pretty words for an old, pretty building," I mused. Thinking about the liturgy reminded me how much I love words. "I'm here because I love words," I thought. "I'm here because I love God, and I love people, and love words about loving God and loving people."
Vocation asks the question, "What makes your heart and mind and blood tingle? What makes you want to learn and act and be all at once? " Then answers, "whatever person, place, or thing captures your thoughts and taps your emotions is your passion-- and passion is the starting point for where you will be both needed and fulfilled." In short, everything about theology and most things about ministry make me tingly, and that's why I came to seminary in the first place. My motivations are kind of selfish, really.
The organist must've just taken a break. He or she is playing more music, very similar to the hymn I heard before. Beautiful, that music.
I decided to venture down some stairs to the left of the pulpit beside a sign that read "Formation of Young Methodists." The narrow, cold stone stairwell led to the current children's ministry area. I kept walking on because there were signs with arrows that beckoned me to do so; if I ended up somewhere I shouldn't be, it would be the fault of all the arrows. I walked past the little tables and little chairs, past the crayon station, and found myself in the corner of a stone block room which had inscriptions of names and dates everywhere...they were birth dates and death dates. "They have children's church in the mausoleum." I calmly thought. Then I said aloud but under my breath--" They have children's church in the mausoleum?! Creepy! Those poor kids!"
It was becoming apparent that the organ guy was practicing, because he was definitely playing the same song over and over. He played, he stopped, he started again.
I went back upstairs, looked around a bit more, and finally moved toward the foyer to exit. I met some fellow sightseers on my way out, and one of them was wearing a pair of hideous shorts that demanded a second second look--it was then that I caught it from the corner of my eye. It was a motion sensor just inside the door, and it made the organ music play when people walk in. The same such crass mechanisms are found in mounted singing wall trout and that annoying jack-o-lantern on your neighbor's porch that scares the bejesus out of you. Once again, like a cell phone ringing during church, a perfectly nice moment was ruined by technological advancement. Which reminds me...
"Brothas and sistas, (heavy breathing into microphone) I hope not oooonly in the redemption of this earthly bo-dy, (heavy breath) But that there is coming a day, (hhhuhh-hihhh) when there will be no need for sound systems which screech feedback during the worship of our Lord and King! Hallelujah! I look forward to that day!" (Yeah, preaching isn't my strong suit. But at least I'm trying to build to your eschatological hope here, folks...if it isn't working, read the Revelation of John, start to finish-- turns out that it's about how we win in the end, and not just about counting and multiplication and dragons and streetwalkers or whatever TBN has been telling you.)
This, my friends, is why ladies who make little kids color in crypts also wear earmuffs.
Upon my initial pilgrimage in to the deep and narrow Chapel, I fortunately entered at a time that someone was playing a seventeenth century hymn on the giant pipe organ whose appendages trail up the back wall of the chapel like English ivy on an old garden wall. I walked through the foyer and past a lady at the "welcome" desk whose head was being eaten by a pair of noise-cancelling earphones. "She must not be educated and cultured enough to appreciate classical music," I thought to myself. I signed the guestbook to commemorate my visit, and took a seat on the left row of seats about halfway up.
I looked up at the depictions of biblical characters on the ceiling. I tried to distinguish who was who among the apostles in the stained glass on either side of me. I looked toward the front: table in center, lectern to the side. One can understand much about the theological emphasis of a particular place of worship by what furniture sits front and center. Traditional Baptists put their lecterns in the middle because preaching and discipleship are the center of the service. Most liturgical churches put the communion table in the middle as the Eucharist is the center of tradition. All the hip Evangelical churches have stages with drums or choirs or a keyboard in the middle because music and worship are the main event. I believe the theory somewhat applies to homes as well: those who value knowledge often have bookcases and reading chairs in the biggest room of the home. Others place their nicest things in the central room of the house to show that they've made a good living for themselves, and to enjoy the fruits of their labor with family and guests. I, in all my pomp and sophistication, tend to plant a TV in the biggest room of my house and then point a whole bunch of furniture at it.
Good thing I walked into the Chapel when I did, I got to hear the last piece the organist played. The place had been silent for a long while now.
After I had a satisfying eyeful, I prayed for a while. (Though my most heartfelt petitions seem to take place in mundane or even ugly settings, I have always felt that God somehow hears me better when I pray in beautiful places.) Upon a few minutes of meditation, I thought about the liturgy which had echoed off the walls surrounding me. The science books say that sound waves never stop-- so I tried my hardest to hear an echo of something old and holy and profound. I heard nothing. My mind wandered to thinking of what kind of words a building like this inspires. "Old, pretty words. Old, pretty words for an old, pretty building," I mused. Thinking about the liturgy reminded me how much I love words. "I'm here because I love words," I thought. "I'm here because I love God, and I love people, and love words about loving God and loving people."
Vocation asks the question, "What makes your heart and mind and blood tingle? What makes you want to learn and act and be all at once? " Then answers, "whatever person, place, or thing captures your thoughts and taps your emotions is your passion-- and passion is the starting point for where you will be both needed and fulfilled." In short, everything about theology and most things about ministry make me tingly, and that's why I came to seminary in the first place. My motivations are kind of selfish, really.
The organist must've just taken a break. He or she is playing more music, very similar to the hymn I heard before. Beautiful, that music.
I decided to venture down some stairs to the left of the pulpit beside a sign that read "Formation of Young Methodists." The narrow, cold stone stairwell led to the current children's ministry area. I kept walking on because there were signs with arrows that beckoned me to do so; if I ended up somewhere I shouldn't be, it would be the fault of all the arrows. I walked past the little tables and little chairs, past the crayon station, and found myself in the corner of a stone block room which had inscriptions of names and dates everywhere...they were birth dates and death dates. "They have children's church in the mausoleum." I calmly thought. Then I said aloud but under my breath--" They have children's church in the mausoleum?! Creepy! Those poor kids!"
It was becoming apparent that the organ guy was practicing, because he was definitely playing the same song over and over. He played, he stopped, he started again.
I went back upstairs, looked around a bit more, and finally moved toward the foyer to exit. I met some fellow sightseers on my way out, and one of them was wearing a pair of hideous shorts that demanded a second second look--it was then that I caught it from the corner of my eye. It was a motion sensor just inside the door, and it made the organ music play when people walk in. The same such crass mechanisms are found in mounted singing wall trout and that annoying jack-o-lantern on your neighbor's porch that scares the bejesus out of you. Once again, like a cell phone ringing during church, a perfectly nice moment was ruined by technological advancement. Which reminds me...
"Brothas and sistas, (heavy breathing into microphone) I hope not oooonly in the redemption of this earthly bo-dy, (heavy breath) But that there is coming a day, (hhhuhh-hihhh) when there will be no need for sound systems which screech feedback during the worship of our Lord and King! Hallelujah! I look forward to that day!" (Yeah, preaching isn't my strong suit. But at least I'm trying to build to your eschatological hope here, folks...if it isn't working, read the Revelation of John, start to finish-- turns out that it's about how we win in the end, and not just about counting and multiplication and dragons and streetwalkers or whatever TBN has been telling you.)
This, my friends, is why ladies who make little kids color in crypts also wear earmuffs.
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Canteens
10 September 2010
Hydration is all the rage on college campuses these days. But nobody who is anybody is caught with a disposable water bottle-- to drink Aquafina is to openly admit that you hate whales, penguins, panda bears, unicorns, and all the other endangered species of earth. The ecologically responsible thing to do is to carry a plastic or metal water bottle (a canteen to generations past) and refill it however many times per day you intend on visiting the W.C.
Now, this refilling business is a rather novel idea for many of today's college generation. Other than getting a refill of Mountain Dew at Taco Bell, today's collegiate has grown up with travel beverages largely marketed in disposable single-serving, single-use containers. To leave the house with a container with the intention of keeping up with it all day so that it might be washed (maybe) and reused tomorrow, is a difficult premise. I make this assumption because I have seen enough abandoned water bottles on campus to figure that it must be quite the daunting task to keep up with one, even though that annoying jingly carabineer on the cap clips it to pretty much anything in the world.
In effort to keep myself hydrated through the physically rigorous task of sitting and reading all day, and to show my kindest regards to the dolphins, I recently bought a small metal canteen bottle. It should be noted that I chose metal over plastic because consuming foods from plastics might be slowly poisoning us with carcinogens, eventually leading to cancer. (It's a fancy time for that scientific research, as everything I have ever eaten has been in plastic at some point.)
I admit that Iwrite today not with the purpose of defending the use of disposable containers, but rather to make a confession: I am a Southerner. And as do many of my comrades, I suffer from a delightful obsession with sweet tea. It delights my taste buds with biscuits or with fried chicken, with rice or bean, with earthy venison or a simple sandwich. I like ooo-gobs (1) of sugar and a glass big enough to hold all the oily water in the Gulf. I drink so much of it that I worry it will somehow show up in a specimen or blood sample and my doctor will threaten to send me to sugar rehab if I don't stop. Needless to say, my sweet tea habit is an unhealthy one. It has become my ritual every morning to fill my canteen bottle to the brim with sweet tea, gulp down the first three inches of it, then again top off the bottle and screw on the cap.
I confess not only that I have an unhealthy habit, but that I have felt as if I am somehow cheating the fools who are actually have water in their water bottles. I enjoy my tea for the first few morning hours while they gargle down gulps of tepid water. I quietly feed the wiles and pleasures of my addiction while they monotonously hydrate all the day long.
Today for the first time I wondered if any others might be as bold and ingenious as myself by venturing to put something other than water in their water bottles too; I drink my glorious tea, and once, I knew of a lad who sipped coffee mingled with Irish whiskey from his tumbler every morning during Greek class. It is a curious incident that these conveniently opaque bottles have become such a craze among college students, isn't it? Eco-friendly, my hiney (2).
(1) 'ooo-gobs' is one of my mother's words, herein referred to as Glenna-isms, meaning "way more than there should be."
(2) 'hiney' - a Glenna-ism referring to one's hind quarters, as in "If I ever hear you talking during church again, I will take you to the bathroom and tan your hiney!!"
Hydration is all the rage on college campuses these days. But nobody who is anybody is caught with a disposable water bottle-- to drink Aquafina is to openly admit that you hate whales, penguins, panda bears, unicorns, and all the other endangered species of earth. The ecologically responsible thing to do is to carry a plastic or metal water bottle (a canteen to generations past) and refill it however many times per day you intend on visiting the W.C.
Now, this refilling business is a rather novel idea for many of today's college generation. Other than getting a refill of Mountain Dew at Taco Bell, today's collegiate has grown up with travel beverages largely marketed in disposable single-serving, single-use containers. To leave the house with a container with the intention of keeping up with it all day so that it might be washed (maybe) and reused tomorrow, is a difficult premise. I make this assumption because I have seen enough abandoned water bottles on campus to figure that it must be quite the daunting task to keep up with one, even though that annoying jingly carabineer on the cap clips it to pretty much anything in the world.
In effort to keep myself hydrated through the physically rigorous task of sitting and reading all day, and to show my kindest regards to the dolphins, I recently bought a small metal canteen bottle. It should be noted that I chose metal over plastic because consuming foods from plastics might be slowly poisoning us with carcinogens, eventually leading to cancer. (It's a fancy time for that scientific research, as everything I have ever eaten has been in plastic at some point.)
I admit that Iwrite today not with the purpose of defending the use of disposable containers, but rather to make a confession: I am a Southerner. And as do many of my comrades, I suffer from a delightful obsession with sweet tea. It delights my taste buds with biscuits or with fried chicken, with rice or bean, with earthy venison or a simple sandwich. I like ooo-gobs (1) of sugar and a glass big enough to hold all the oily water in the Gulf. I drink so much of it that I worry it will somehow show up in a specimen or blood sample and my doctor will threaten to send me to sugar rehab if I don't stop. Needless to say, my sweet tea habit is an unhealthy one. It has become my ritual every morning to fill my canteen bottle to the brim with sweet tea, gulp down the first three inches of it, then again top off the bottle and screw on the cap.
I confess not only that I have an unhealthy habit, but that I have felt as if I am somehow cheating the fools who are actually have water in their water bottles. I enjoy my tea for the first few morning hours while they gargle down gulps of tepid water. I quietly feed the wiles and pleasures of my addiction while they monotonously hydrate all the day long.
Today for the first time I wondered if any others might be as bold and ingenious as myself by venturing to put something other than water in their water bottles too; I drink my glorious tea, and once, I knew of a lad who sipped coffee mingled with Irish whiskey from his tumbler every morning during Greek class. It is a curious incident that these conveniently opaque bottles have become such a craze among college students, isn't it? Eco-friendly, my hiney (2).
(1) 'ooo-gobs' is one of my mother's words, herein referred to as Glenna-isms, meaning "way more than there should be."
(2) 'hiney' - a Glenna-ism referring to one's hind quarters, as in "If I ever hear you talking during church again, I will take you to the bathroom and tan your hiney!!"
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