August 2006 Archives

Every year my alma mater prouding announces its placement in the US News ranking of the top colleges in the midwest. This year they placed 16th.

A year ago they changed the name from "Huntington College" to "Huntington University." The argument was that a number of other schools were adopting the "university" label, and there seemed to be solid data that the "university" tag would increase the school's stature in people's minds. And maybe it does. I'm not sure it makes much diff to US News. Only 10 of the top 50 schools, and only 2 of the top 10, have the "university" label. I just found that interesting.

The Presbyterian Church (USA), at its national convention, "received" a policy paper which suggests that the church adopt gender-inclusive language for the Trinity. Referring to the Trinity as "Father, Son, and Holy Ghost" is obviously sexist and alienates womyn everywhere. It's a wonder any female would want to become a Christian, huh?

So here are their alternate ways to refer to the Trinity:

• Rock, Redeemer, and Friend
• Mother, Child, and Womb
• Lover, Beloved, and Love
• Creator, Savior, and Sanctifier
• King of Glory, Prince of Peace, and Spirit of Love

So instead of being baptized "in the name of the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost," you could be baptized "in the name of the Rock, Redeemer, and Friend."

I begin most of my prayers with, "Dear Father," for whatever reason. Learned it as a kid, I guess, and fell into that rut. Perhaps I should begin prayers with, "Dear Creator," or "Dear Lover." Yeah, that would catch Pam's attention in a public prayer meeting.

Then there's the familiar Doxology, which ends "...praise father, son, and Holy Ghost." The delegates sang a version which uses alternate language and avoids male nouns and pronouns for God.

I learned about this on Mark Driscoll's blog. He referred to "some folks at the Presbyterian Church (USA) who have free time because no one is going to their church." Oooooh, touche!

We laypersons can be a pain in the butt for pastors. From my perch at our denominational headquarters, I've heard gobs of sad stories over the past 27 years of laypersons who deflate churches and wound pastors. There are entrenched patriarchs who refuse to relinquish power and who selfishly veto ideas for moving the church forward. There are laypersons who care deeply about ministry, but voice their concerns and passions in unhealthy ways. There are outright carnal people who push themselves into positions of power and wreak havoc. There are people who just talk too much, scattering petty criticisms throughout the congregation. There are laypersons who micromanage the pastor.

There are good laypersons, too. Whenever a church is growing, it's not just the pastor's doing. He has laypersons working alongside him in positive ways. But too often, I hear about the negative kind.

During the 1990s, my denomination held a leadership conference which brought together several hundred United Brethren ministers and laypersons. One morning we divided everyone into 48 different groups--24 groups of laypersons, 24 groups of pastors and wives. We instructed them to develop a ten-point "Code of Conduct" for themselves--one code of conduct for ministers, and one for laypersons. I helped compile and condense the 48 different codes. We ended up with a 15-point Code of Conduct for ministers and a 12-point Code of Conduct for laypersons.

I recently stumbled across these codes, and they still contain a great deal of wisdom. Here is the Code of Conduct for Laypersons. This was a reminder to me of what a jerk I can be (the "cares deeply but acts unhealthily" variety) at times. Read this, and pray for laypersons who will follow it.

1. I will be open-minded to change, and will not insist that others follow my preferences.
2. I will focus on the positive in our church and convey that to others.
3. I will abide in Christ and bear the responsibility of that relationship.
4. I will demonstrate a servant attitude in carrying out my church responsibilities.
5. I will continuously evaluate my schedule, balancing family and church time in a way which puts family first.
6. I will not create conflict, and will lovingly confront those who do.
7. I will not criticize the pastor or others behind their backs, but will speak to them personally, always offering a solution with any complaints.
8. I will expand my witness in my corner of God's world, and will do nothing to jeopardize my witness.
9. I will recognize that my talents, time, and resources belong to Christ.
10. I will be consistent and dependable.
11. I will pray for my church, its leaders, and its ministry.
12. I will continually remind myself that the ministry of the church is my ministry.

Last night I dreamed about a master vampire who was tolerating my presence, but from whom I needed to escape. However, it's not easy escaping from vampires. After all, they can fly.

I've always liked vampire lore, and enjoy watching vampire movies just to get the different take people have on them (where they came from, how they act, etc.). I remember the first vampire movie I saw, back when we lived in Pennslyvania, which put it somewhere in grades 4-7. That movie was set in the Old West, and the vampire was ultimately killed by a silver bullet. I'm sure it was a cheesy movie, which is why I've not heard of it since. But I found it interesting.

Later, there was the TV show "Night Stalker," which I really liked. More recently there was "Buffy the Vampire Slayer" and "Angel," two shows that Pam and I watched with great devotion. And many vampire movies have come out in recent years, including one I saw (most of) on a recent Saturday morning, a really really bad vampire movie staring Jon Bon Jovi as the slayer.

So it's not strange that a vampire should show up in my dreams. In this particular dream, the vampire was distracted upon discovering a barn filled with victims, and that's when I chose to make my getaway, with the help of someone with a boat. This person, in arranging my getaway, broke into a lengthy Broadway-style song and dance which was quite spectacular. The choreography was superb, and I awoke with the tune and words (they rhymed, too) still in my head.

This part of the dream, no doubt, relates to having watched the musical "Rent" that night. I'd been looking forward to seeing this movie for a long time. However, though it had some very good moments, I was disappointed. Beyond the opening song, nothing struck me as worth listening to a second time (unlike the wonderful "High School Musical"). Plus, there were two homosexual couples and only one heterosexual couple, and I wasn't all that crazy about that.

Frankly, I think the song my subconscious mind dreamed up was as good as anything in the movie. And I tell people I'm not any good at writing songs!

Long Blonde Anchorperson: This is an MSNBC Extremely Urgent Special Deluxe Alert. Here is Senior Sensationalism Correspondent Rita Cosby with her very serious and earnest report on something which isn't all that earth-shattering, but Rita lusts for airtime. Here's Rita.

Rita Cosby: Thank you. I'm here in Boulder, Colorado, with a late-breaking exclusive that Greta and Paula would die for. Earlier today, it was reported that John Karr, the suspect in the JonBenet Ramsey murder, ate a Red Delicious apple yesterday and, according to sources close to the investigation, admitted that he really likes apples.

MSNBC has now confirmed that on December 26, 1996, the day of JonBenet' Ramsey's murder, the grocery store nearest to the Ramsey home, a Safeway, ran a special on apples. Specifically--and this is where the story gets very interesting--the apples on sale were Red and Golden Delicious apples. Newspaper archives from that day show that, indeed, a prominent ad announced this special sale. This seems too bizarre to be mere coincidence.

This information could potentially give John Karr a motive for being in that particular neighborhood on that particular day. No doubt prosecutors will be deposing store cashiers from 10 years ago.

MSNBC will continue covering this and other Extremely Important Breaking News as it breaks, until Hurricane Ernesto strikes the southern US, and I need to go stand in the wind and show my journalistic bravado by exclaiming about the gustiness.

This is Rita Cosby in Boulder, doing what passes for "reporting" nowadays.

My garage is Beirut, circa 1984. A tangled wasteland of cords and bottles and tools and spare parts and other household debris, very little of it organized and, on short notice, findable.

So that was today's project: clean the garage. I started with the work bench, piled high with, well, just about everything. Forget about finding a tool there. Easier to just go to Lowe's and get a new one.

Dad helped me build that workbench. Actually, I helped--minimally--him build it. It may be the only thing we've ever built together. I should take better care of it. His own work bench--verily, his entire garage--is pristine, everything in its place. I didn't get that gene. Neither did Stu. Neither did Rick. I guess that gene is still waiting for Child Number Four, which, obviously, ain't gonna happen apart from Abrahamic circumstances.

Well, it's 9 pm, and I just finished with the work bench. Didn't think it would take this long. Everything is organized nicely, and there is actually emtpy space on which, heaven forbid, actual work could be committed in the name of home improvement. The shelf below the work space is cleaned up, too. Didn't get to the stuff clear on the bottom, on the floor itself amidst multitudinous cobwebs.

The rest of the garage is still a mess. I began the day with ambitions to make the whole place sparkle, but alas, I began and ended with the workbench. Maybe next week. Or next spring. We'll see.

Hizbollah is scared. The top leaders are scurrying around in a panic, holding meetings to determine if there is any--any--way to successfully face this new threat soon to descend on southern Lebanon.

The French are coming.

The very thought strikes fear, terror, and fashion-consciousness in the minds of warriors everywhere. In its typical shock-and-awe, overwhelming-force manner, France is sending 200 soldiers to southern Lebanon as part of the battle-hardened United Nations contingent. Some of these French soldiers are even trained in the more exotic arts of war, such as loading and, under extreme conditions so long as nobody might get hurt, firing a weapon. And they all carry, in an easily accessible pouch next to their hair gel, the vaunted French Army Knife (right).

Hisbollah's fighters are quaking in their, uh, whatever they wear. They know that if they fire rockets into Israel or commit other warlike actions, the vigilant French will…watch. With disapproval, mind you. Vigilant disapproval, which they skillfully communicate nonverbally. If such activities continue, the French will escalate to whining. Better wine is now produced in California, but the French remain masters of The Whine.

And if that doesn't quell Hisbollah's hostility toward Israel, the French will do what has always, for them, been a matter of very early resort. They will surrender. This is what Hisbollah fears most. Because when the French surrender, it can mean only one thing.

The Americans are coming.

The Americans will first assert their air superiority over Hisbollah by bombing absolutely everything in sight, including Chinese embassies. Then Congress will appropriate billions of dollars to rebuild what they bombed, financing it all by further cutting taxes to the rich, which makes perfect sense to the Bush Administration. The Americans will then arrive en masse and stay for, oh, 15-20 years. And….

Well, actually, that might be kind of fun for Hisbollah.

Mary Lambert of Watertown, New York, is being discussed all over the web. That's her on the right. She's 81, and has taught Sunday school for 54 years at her American Baptist church. But Mary was recently dismissed as a teacher because her church decided to take a literal interpretation of Paul's statement in 1 Timothy, "I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent."

Rev. Timothy LaBouf, who came to the church a full two years ago brimming with principle, explained that outside the church, a woman can hold any job she wants, whether or not it involves teaching or overseeing men. But not in the church. This seems, to my untrained ear, like he's watering down literalness, but so be it. As a town council member, it's expedient that he do so. He also clarified that he interpreted this only to refer to "women teaching spiritual matters in a church setting." So he was working hard to squeeze the Bible into his preferred mold. Kind of like a George Bush signing statement.

As you might guess, I'm not in LaBouf's camp. I've always been a "grace and freedom in Christ" person when it comes to issues where the Bible isn't firm. So has our denomination. Like many (most?) people, I view Paul's words as wise instructions for that culture, but not as biblical absolutes for all time. Some folks choose to err on the legalistic side when it comes to what women can and can't do, but I can't see Jesus doing that. He constantly did battle with rule-makers. Jesus was about grace and freedom. When he died, the curtain in the temple that separated the men from the women and the Jews from the Gentiles--the thing was torn in two. Hint hint.

I was a big fan of the Dixie Chicks (how can you not love "Goodbye Earl"?) until Natalie Maines spouted off in England about being ashamed that they come from the same state as President Bush. The problem was the context: they were in another country on the eve of war, dissing our President. Had they been in the States, I would have been okay with it. Had those words come from, say, Sean Penn, I would have just chalked them up as the ramblings of a confirmed idiot. The fact that the words came from a women's trio...I do think the reaction was based on a good degree of sexism, the feeling that pop-culture women shouldn't be speaking forcefully about politics. Leave that to the menfolk.

So the context really stunk, and Natalie should have been more discrete. But when you have strong opinions about something, and you're in the public eye and performing regularly in front of thousands of people--well, you're bound to say some inappropriate things. I certainly excrete plenty of stupid, brash, and ill-conceived nonsense on this blog. The difference between me and the Chicks is: nobody cares what I have to say.

But now, the Dixie Chicks have this new song out, called "Not Ready to Make Nice." And let me just say: I think it's a marvelous song. And I admire this threesome's spunk. Most male musicians, faced with a staggering career setback, would have caved in and uttered an apology, eaten some dirt, groveled, etc. The Chicks didn't. While regretting perhaps saying those words in that particular context, they haven't backed off from the sentiments. Good for them! It's costing them lots of money, but they're not backing down.

And as for the song: I love it. And the music video is absolutely stunning. I catch it some Saturday mornings. Here are some of the opening lyrics and then the chorus. I think this is superb writing.

Forgive, sounds good.
Forget, I'm not sure I could.
They say time heals everything,
But I'm still waiting

I'm through, with doubt,
There's nothing left for me to figure out,
I've paid a price, and I'll keep paying

I'm not ready to make nice,
I'm not ready to back down,
I'm still mad as hell
And I don't have time
To go round and round and round.
It's too late to make it right,
I probably wouldn't if I could,
Cause I'm mad as hell,
Can't bring myself to do what it is
You think I should.

These gals have courage and convictions, and I admire it. And they're articulate, able to defend themselves without sounding like celebrity airheads. But Natalie--please, think before you spout off again. In the end, your words in England simply weren't worth it.

In 1988, I was on the planning committee for the annual convention of the Evangelical Press Association. The convention was being held in Indianapolis, and various Christian magazine editors from Indiana comprised the planning committee. Thus my involvement. We spent a year fleshing out much of what we wanted to do. Then the association's leaders asked us to turn it into a joint convention with the Associated Church Press, and it was back to Square One.

The EPA is the conservative group, the ACP the liberal group. The ACP includes publications from mainline churches, and even some Jewish and other non-Protestant publications. But we agreed to give it a try. And so, our planning committee doubled in size, as the ACP added representatives. And we pretty much started over, program-wise. We explained what we had already put together, but they vetoed a number of the speakers we had lined up, because they were too evangelical or not sufficiently politically correct or, for some other reason, weren't properly palatable to their diverse constituencies. But we found some middle ground. Mark Noll of Wheaton College keynoted the opening session marvelously. Sandi Patti (sister-in-law of one of our committee members) gave us a concert to close the convention. I even did a seminar for editors of small-budget publications.

However, the two groups were too distinctly different. I deemed the convention a noble experiment worth trying once, but not repeating. And I don't think they have tried a joint convention again.

However, I clearly remember a prayer by one of the mainline guys in the opening session, a prayer that had a profound and enduring impact on me, though you'll consider it trivial when I tell you why. In that prayer, this guy prayed for Terry Anderson, one of the hostages being held in Lebanon at that time. And the way he injected it into his prayer, I knew that his prayers always included Terry Anderson. Meanwhile, I couldn't remember hearing anyone in evangelical circles (like, my own denomination) pray for Terry Anderson, this man who was suffering unjustly. Why was Terry Anderson not on our minds? And why did this "liberal" guy remember Terry as a routine part of his prayer life?

That prayer awakened me to the fact that some of our "liberal" friends are sensitive to issues that we evangelicals need to be sensitive to. Issues of justice, race, poverty, health, hunger, suffering, and much more. These things are on their radar. They aren't much on our radar. And they need to be.

I am so, so happy that we have returned to 24-hour coverage of Jon Benet Ramsey. Society cannot function properly unless we have the fate of a white girl, preferably a rich one, to obsess over. (Oh dear, I am now officially insensitive.)

Chris Kuntz leading worship at Anchor for the last time.

Yesterday in church, we said good-bye to Chris and Lisa Kuntz. Chris has been our worship leader for the past four-and-a-half years, and for those of us in the band, he's a friend. We've laughed and learned and prayed together many times. Mostly laughed, I suppose. And made some great music. I, for one, will greatly miss Chris.

Next week, Chris begins as worship leader at Union Chapel, a United Brethren church located on the north side of Fort Wayne. Chris's parents go there, and both are part of the worship team. The idea of going to Union Chapel arose in May, when Chris was invited to lead worship for a Friday night youth event. Other opportunities have arisen over the years, and Chris has shrugged them off. But he wasn't able to shrug this one off. This one seemed to be of God. And doggone it to pieces, I think it was.

Chris plays acoustic guitar, plays a mean violin, sings, knows sound equipment. Knows what it means to worship. He doesn't hold a college degree. He does hold a great deal of passion for what he's doing. And I'm gonna greatly miss the sonofagun. I told him that while I support his decision, I will commence trashtalking Union Chapel for stealing him away. Actually, I won't. Probably won't. There is a reasonable likelihood that I won't, except in the interests of national security. Having seen Chris wrestle with this decision all summer, I have no doubt that God wants Chris at Union Chapel. That doesn't mean I can't deeply mourn Anchor's loss. Or throw random objects at walls.

The Anchor congregation had prayer for the Kuntz family as we, reluctantly, send them off to a new church. Somewhere in that huddle is Pastor Tim with Chris and Lisa.

At the end of the service, Pastor Tim brought Chris and Lisa to the front and invited people to express their appreciation for what they have meant to them, and to Anchor. Lots of soapy stuff was said, including by Yours Truly. Then there was a massive group-prayer-hug thing. I worked very hard to find an angle to take a photo which actually showed Chris and Lisa. Which means I wasn't praying, of course. Call me bitter.

Chris is one of those old-school guys who throws himself totally into his church. A dying breed, regretably. He's also a wonderful father. I enjoy watching Chris interact with his three young boys (who will now get to interact every week with their grandparents). And Lisa's fabulous. Wonderful sense of humor.

Next week, Anchor's worship team is playing at Union Chapel's 150th anniversary. Or maybe their 100th. It's a biggie, anyway. It'll give us another chance (I refuse to say "one last chance") to play music with Chris. I told Chris I would take a can of spray-paint so I could leave nasty graffiti at Union Chapel. Though I probably won't. Probably. It'll be fun watching Chris--and Union Chapel--flourish in the years ahead.

And maybe, just maybe, God will bring along somebody new to Anchor. As Chris's Uncle Dave Ward told him point-blank as we prayed before practice on Sunday morning, "Chris--you're replaceable." Which is exactly how Chris wants it.

My church supports three young women, all single, serving as missionaries--one in Vietnam, one in a former Soviet republic, and one soon to be headed to Haiti. All three attended Anchor while pursuing degrees at Taylor University - Fort Wayne.

Today, Sharon told about her work in Asia. She helps run a Christian bookstore in what is a predominantly Islamic nation. They have great trouble just getting Christian literature into the country, constantly dealing with governmental opposition.

Sharon was our first missionary, going back to 1999, I believe. I've been very impressed with Sharon. And humbled. This is one brave, committed gal. Because the country in which she serves can be a dangerous place for Christians.

One of Sharon's coworkers, a man, was threatened with a handgun. Another, a woman, was attacked with a knife in an apartment stairwell. Another worker was beaten up, and the store robbed. The Muslim opposition is very intentional. Sharon lives with the very real threat of violence; people are intentionally targeting her and her coworkers. And yet...there she is. And she's going back.

My heroes have always been missionaries. Sharon, with her amazing faith and strength of character, is among my heroes.

Got back late this afternoon from a few days of vacation up in Pentwater, Mich., where Pam's Dad has a beautiful cabin (four bedrooms! decks galore!) along Lake Michigan. We hadn't been there in we're not sure how many years, and that's a shame, because the place is fabulous. I must have walked 50 yards into the lake without the water reaching my neck.

Pam and I read. And read. And read. I made major dents in four books, but didn't finish any of them: Jim Wallis's God's Politics, Ann Lamott's Plan B, Don Miller's Searching for God Knows What, and Robert Parker's Back Story, which I took by mistake, having forgotten that I read it a few years ago. But I'm now two-thirds of the way through it again.

On Thursday night, we attended Pentwater's weekly band concert in the park. It's not really a concert. People who play band instruments show up (or not) and arrange themselves on chairs under the covered gazebo. There doesn't seem to be a director. After each song, they pause for a minute or so, then the drummer signals the next song, and off they go. An hour of that. Not the best band-playing you've ever heard, but quite enjoyable. But the music isn't what interested me most. It was the overall atmosphere.

I read a lot of books by Christians who care about the poor. You know, "liberal" Christians, those social-justice peaceniks who live in communes and, incredibly, do not see the blatant inconsistency in claiming to be a Christian while voting for Democrats. Sadly, because of what is an obviously compromised state of mind, I actually learn a great deal from these folks.

About a month ago I finished "God in the Alley," by Greg Paul, who leads a small church in Toronto among prostitutes, the homeless, drug addicts, and general down-and-outers. Reading books like this demolishes the canned solutions and simpleton answers that we well-fed evangelicals (and the entire Republican Party) routinely fling at deep social problems.

I most remember the story of Rose, daughter of a heroin addict, now a prostitute trying to care for her own two children, whom she loves deeply. How can she be a prostitute and be a good mother? Greg Paul describes her as a commendably good mother.

Despite the fact that nobody anywhere ever has modeled healthy parenting for her, she is absolutely dialed in to those children. You make some remark to that effect, and her eyes fill with tears.

"I love them," she says, simply, softly. "I'd do anything for them."

And she does. Every night, in cars, hotel rooms, alleyways. Every night, she sacrifices her body for the children she loves.

Wow. There's a whole world--a complicated, untidy, messy world--that I know nothing about, living in my comfortable middle class suburban home. I can sit back and render judgement on Rose, state what she needs to do to make her life right. But I'm largely ignorant of the real dynamics of such situations. I catch many glimpses of it at Anchor, my own church, as we interact with people in deep, deep holes. And I do, finally, get my hands a little bit dirty (as opposed to just writing a check).

I grew up hearing easy answers to social problems spewed from pulpits. But we don't know what we're talking about. Greg Paul offers no easy solutions. He just tells stories about people in this blighted area of Toronto, and sometimes the stories have happy endings. Greg Paul knows what he's talking about. And having read his book, I know a lot more.

I have never in my life worn sandals. Talk about flagrantly refusing to be like Jesus.

I'm a sneakers guy. I would prefer wearing nothing on my feet except for sneakers. Sneakers and white sweat socks. That's who I am. Always ready for action.

If you wear sandals to a picnic and they want to play softball or something, you're out of luck. I don't like being out of luck. In addition to shunning sandals, I've never worn cowboy boots. My brothers have, but not me. I severely dislike flip-flops, and will only wear them to go swimming. Dress shoes make my teeth ache. The sooner I can get out of them, the happier I am. The happiest I am is when I don't need to wear dress shoes to begin with.

I have several pairs of casual shoes that I wear to work, but they are soft and pliable and comfy. Not as comfy as sneakers, but they'll do. I get kidded about wearing sneakers to church, whether I 'm wearing Dockers, jeans, or shorts. I didn't wear sneakers at my previous church, because it somehow seemed inappropriate, but the first week at Anchor, I was in sneakers and have been ever since. Will make an exception on Easter. I'm a sneakers guy, and Anchor is a sneakers church, and all is well in my world.

Hammer and nail, hand and glove, rhythm and blues, Harley and Davidson, lock and key, sneakers and Steve. We go together. No doubt about it.

I believe a President should leave the country better than he found it. That's not unreasonable. But in my lifetime, three Presidents have failed that test. Lyndon Johnson left us mired in Vietnam. Richard Nixon extracted us from Vietnam and did other good things, but those pluses were outweighed by the nation-shattering disillusionment of Watergate. And then George W. Bush.

Jimmy Carter was not a great president, but he did some good things and left us slightly better off than he found us, particularly in putting us some distance from the bummer days of Watergate. George H. W. Bush did no harm. Eisenhower, Kennedy, Reagan, and Clinton (I know, you object to me saying anything good about Clinton) left America in much better shape than they found it.

George W. is, in my book, the worst president of my lifetime (not the worst ever, just the worst since I've been around). I voted for him twice, thank you. He entered office in 2001 with enormous promise and almost unprecedented advantages--control of both the House and Senate, a sympathetic Supreme Court, a majority of governorships, a severely reduced national debt (thanks to Clinton and the dot-com boom), and a leaderless Democratic Party. But to me, he has squandered it all, accomplishing practically nothing. He'll blame it on 9/11, which was a true-blue disruption in his Presidency. But I don't think history will let him cop-out with that excuse. With many issues, Bush has been very intentional in producing lots of bad outcomes.

I read in one of my magazines that Madonna is getting involved with relieving suffering in the African nation of Malawi--raising and contributing money, and promoting awareness of the needs in Malawi. This is a good thing. However, the article said Madonna has never actually been to Malawi, and suggested cynically that maybe this was some celebrity good-cause stunt. I don't think it is. But it's interesting that Madonna is drawn to a place she's never been.

But then--how different is that from a lot of missions promotion? Across our churches you'll find people who have a special burden for a particular part of the world that they, personally, have never visited. Might be Africa. Might be China. Might be Latin America. Might be India. The interest could have been sparked by any number of things--a missionary they know who serves there, an article or book they read as children that sparked an enduring fascination, a family member who once visited there, or even just purely a God-prompting.

You can be genuinely concerned about a place, even highly knowledgeable about it, without having actually visited. Though visiting certainly helps.

So, I guess I'm on Madonna's side. If you have a burden for Malawi and want to help—you go, girl!

Additional Note: After posting the above, I remembered hearing a few days ago that part of Madonna's standard contract is that her accommodations include a brand new toilet seat, which must be unwrapped in her presence. Yeah, I doubt she's going to Malawi anytime soon.

When I was a teen, I devoured prophecy books like The Late Great Planet Earth and heard doomsday sermons that scared the heck out of me. But by the time I turned 20, the skeptic in me took firm command and hasn't relinquished his grip. I decided I wouldn't get my underpants bunched up over that stuff anymore. Lots of people with high prophecy IQs restock their bunkers every time the Palestinians throw a temper-tantrum. But I refuse to join the hysteria. So while wars and rumors of wars and all kinds of biblical stuff happens, turning otherwise rational people into drooling doomsday-mongers, I remain cynically calm. It's one way to relieve stress. Thus far, I have a nearly 30-year stockpile of I-told-you-sos.

I'm thinking about this because lately, our pseudo-news TV shows have been playing up the fear (or glee) among evangelical Christians that the current turmoil in Israel may usher in the Apocalypse. That we're on the verge of the Left Behind books becoming reality. Jon Stewart's "Daily Show" ran through a whole bunch of reports last Thursday night. Blogs talk about why, this time, The End really--seriously, we're not kidding this time--is nigh.

I hate to be a spoilsport. I know that Christians for 2000 years have been expecting the latest crisis to trigger the Second Coming, so when I say "It ain't gonna happen this time, neither," it's just gratuitous piling-on. But that's my view. Maybe it'll happen in 50 years, maybe 100. But not anytime soon. And boy of boy, does that opinion irk today's Christians, who yearn for God to flush the cosmic toilet in their lifetime, and who can quote me chapter-and-verse conclusive proof that this time, the stars are correctly aligned. "Steve, just read Revelation! It's all right there!"

The genie is free, the Furies unleashed, the dam breached, Pandora's Box unlocked. The Four Horseman, atop fresh saddles, are galloping in my direction, promises of "Vengeance!" on their breath.

Yesterday was Pam's birthday, and the birthday of Chuck, her "second" Dad. I took them both to Logan's Steakhouse, something generally viewed as a good deed. If we had gone to Bandido's, they would have gotten free meals, and it would have been a very cheap date for me. But no, I opted for Logan's, with the peanut shells littering the floor and the tasty warm rolls.

As we ordered, I asked our waitress, "Do you do anything special for people with birthdays?" I was fishing for discounts or free meals.

"We yeehaw," she told me. "Who is having a birthday?"

I pointed to both Pam and Chuck. "Both of them. Father and daughter."

Pam was of a mind to crunch my skull with a crowbar. We've had this agreement that we don't embarrass each other publicly on birthdays. We nearly always eat out on birthdays, but never rat out each other to the waitress. I detest having "Happy Birthday" or other fusses made over me, and Pam detests it even more. So what I did at Logan's violated a sacred covenant, marched across No Man's Land to break a truce. We will, perhaps, need marital counseling to recover the trust I flagrantly threw to the wind.

But, being weak-willed and impulsive, I couldn't resist. Not with two birthday people present. Chuck merely grimaced, annoyed by his son-in-law's transgression, yet playing the good sport. But Pam promised that my upcoming 50th birthday would involve gift-wrapped retribution. Actually, I figure on get nailed on my 50th no matter what, good behavior or not. And yet, some fuses simply shouldn't be lit.

When we finished eating, our waitress and two fellow servers came to the table and asked Pam and Chuck to leave the booth and come stand beside them. Pam refused, and Chuck said, "If she's not, I'm not." After some futile coaxing, our server finally realized it was a lost cause. She then yelled out to get everyone's attention, and then led the restaurant guests and workers in a loud "Yeehaw!" People applauded, and that was it.

The ordeal was much less painful than enduring the "Happy Birthday" song. And yet, I breached a dam tonight, and I must now live in fear of the inevitable, but yet-unknown, consequences. Sin is rarely worth it, never satisfying. I'm afraid Pam shall teach me that lesson with utmost clarity.

On the outskirts of Huntington this morning, I passed a hitchhiker. He was probably around 50, with a thick gray beard, and he seemed harmless. There I was, driving a pickup truck with an empty seat beside me, just a couple of miles from work. And yet, I drove right on by...feeling terribly guilty as I did. Guilty, but conflicted. I still recall from probably 25 years ago a Reader's Digest article about a guy out west who picked up a nice-looking hitchhiker who went postal on him with a hunting knife. It was a very vivid article. You just never know.

So what would Jesus do? Would he drive by on the other side of the road? Was Graybeard, plodding down the road on a hot morning, an angel in disguise? The biggest part of me says people simply shouldn't be hitchhiking, and that picking up a stranger isn't much different from taking a stroll at midnight on East Pontiac Street. But nevertheless, every time I pass a hitchhiker, and I'm by myself, I feel a twinge of guilt as I pass by, trying to read the person's face without making eye contact.

Last night Pam and I watched the Disney movie "High School Musical." What a delight! We watched all of the special features on the DVD, then went back and watched for a second time three of the musical numbers. The story, the music, the dancing, the acting--it was a total package of goodness and fun. I'll be recommending this movie far and wide.

Two weeks ago I read A Day with a Perfect Stranger, by David Gregory. I found this book at Meiers. This undersized 112-page hardback is actually a stand-alone sequel to Gregory's book Dinner with a Perfect Stranger, which I now must, absolutely must, read. A Day is about a woman on a plane, going on a business trip, and the conversation she strikes up with a seatmate. Her husband claims that he had dinner with Jesus himself, and now he's gotten all religious, and she doesn't know what to make of it. She figures on getting a divorce. On the plane, in the terminal, and then on a second plane, this woman and "perfect" stranger engage in a fascinating discussion about religion. I tell you--this is a wonderful, engaging book. I finished it in one day. David Gregory is obviously an evangelical Christian. I'll read Dinner with a Perfect Stranger, and then eagerly await any future Perfect Stranger books, because this story isn't over.

What I'm reading now.

• Novel Without a Name, by Duong Thu Huong, a tale of the Vietnam War told by a North Vietnamese soldier.
• Searching for God Knows What, by Donald Miller, the author of the outstanding Blue Like Jazz (perhaps the best book I've read this year).
• Adventures in Missing the Point, by Tony Campolo and Brian McLaren. My niece Paula highly recommends this book. Thus far I like Campolo's chapters, not so much McLaren's chapters.

There's a young man, an expectant father, I've been praying for every day this summer. I hardly know him, but I've wanted the chance to get closer and, hopefully, gain the right to invest in his life. Since we only have one service this summer, and it's an early one, most of that age group haven't been coming to church (hey, most aren't even Christians, so don't criticize them for lacking commitment or making excuses). So I haven't even seen this guy since early June. But I've continued praying for him, because God most definitely put him on my heart.

But today, at a get-together at a home after church, he was there. And when I took my food outside, he was sitting on a chair by himself. I joined him, and had the kind of conversation I've been wanting to have all summer. Chalk up another answer to prayer. It's so sweet when it happens.

Last night was great fun, one of those therapeutic times when you laugh and laugh and laugh.

My Uncle Mark and Aunt Susie were out from Boulder, Colorado, where they've lived since 1969. He retired this spring after a whole career, 40-some years, with IBM. Mark is my mom's younger brother. As I write, Mark and Mom are attending their high school's reunion. This was not a big school--Uncle Mark's class had 17 students--and the school doesn't exist anymore, so basically the reunions include anyone who ever attended that school regardless of year.

Last night, we all met for supper at Balyeats, a wonderful home-cooking restaurant in downtown Van Wert, Ohio. I'd heard how great it was, but hadn't eaten there. A serious omission in my life. The swiss steak was incredible. Mark and Susie also brought their daughter (my youngest cousin) Wendy, who is eight years younger than me. Plus Wendy's two young children (husband Curt, a veterinarian, remained back in rural Wyoming keeping the wildlife healthy).

During the meal, and later at the Holiday Inn Express where they were staying, we gabbed and reminisced and laughed wonderfully. My parents have always been close to Mark and Susie, and they carry on when they're together. Pam and I got a glimpse of that some years ago when we joined all of them at Mark and Susie's house in Boulder for several days. We had a great time.

Wendy, my cousin, is a real hoot. Very expressive, with a quick wit. Both of her parents are quick-witted, but Wendy tops them. She's just a delightful girl. I really didn't know her as a kid growing up; we older cousins preferred to avoid Wendy and my brother Rick, the two youngest. Our loss. Wendy is just doggone fun.

I'm not saying anything specific here. No stories for you to envision. I do have stories. Things that made us laugh. But you had to be there. And you weren't, so what do you care? I'm just thrilled to have relatives like this. And I'm dismayed that, because of the distance, I see them so seldom.

If the sky looks the least bit dark to the west, or to the north or south, there's only one thing to do: check Channel 74. The Weather Channel. Sure enough, there's a big patch of yellow, with some mean red inside. The shape changes slightly with each sweep of the radar.

I'm trying to remember life before Channel 74. We had little more to go on than a little "T-Storm Watch" notice in the upper left-hand corner of the TV. My, how vulnerable we were. That was a scary, scary world.

I remember, long ago, going for an extended bike ride when I spotted a huge thunderstorm coming from the west, with lots of lightning, between me and home. I was on the northeast side of Huntington, out on country roads. I pedaled furiously. The torrent struck just as I reached the outskirts of town. I could hardly see through my glasses. But I raced on back to my apartment, totally drenched.

If The Weather Channel had existed, I probably would never have left the apartment. I would have seen that patch of red surrounded by yellow surrounded by green and wisely avoided that little misadventure. Like a wussy. But I would also be searching for something to write about.

Channel 74 is surprisingly accurate. We can look at the screen and declare, "Yesiree, looks like it'll miss us by a couple of miles. Probably nail the Village of Coventry." The other night, we were supposed to get rain to finally cool down the place. I checked Channel 74 before going to bed. We were getting missed, but a long horizontal string of storms stretched across southern Michigan. I did not think to offer a prayer for the poor slobs living in its path. Of course, we got hit the next day. We watched it. On Channel 74.

Anyway, thank God and Mighty Doppler for Channel 74. Like so many things in our 21st Century lives, so replete with gadgets and services and ready information, it's one of those things we think we can't live without.

Our little prayer group met again last night, and Josh joined us. Josh is a high school dropout who most of us remember from the Friday night, probably four years ago, when a huge, honkin' sheathed knife fell out of his trenchcoat and clattered onto the linoleum floor.

Josh moved away, but now is back, and spends his days wandering Third Street as he waits to begin taking classes to get his high school diploma. He came to church this Sunday, and I invited him to come to our prayer meeting. I doubt that he's a Christian. Likewise for a few other teenagerish young adults who have been coming regularly. But they're trying to connect with God, and they're definitely connecting with us five adults who attend.

My heart leaped tonight when I saw Josh sitting at the table in the back of the (sweltering) sanctuary where we meet. I walked over to him, squeezed his shoulder, and said, "Josh, you made my day!" And he did.

Another window got busted out this week, a window which had gotten busted earlier during one of our concerts. But the culprits were caught this time--from what I hear, just two young kids. The windows have all been fixed.

Since our little prayer group--never more than 11 people--has been meeting, three families have announced that they are leaving the church. Three key, active, talented families. This hurts. I can't imagine that our prayers are driving people away. But we definitely need to pray for God to raise up more workers. Because if we're to continue making an impact on our community, we need them.

Pluto is a planet only by popular opinion. Many astronomers would say it's more a round chunk of ice, and that it's smaller than several similar objects discovered well beyond Pluto. A fellow named Mike Brown has discovered 15 such "planets," some of them twice as far from the sun as Pluto is. He's not in favor of giving them planet status. And yet, if tiny Pluto is considered to be a planet, why shouldn't Xena, a large round object which is even larger than Pluto?

In the past, Brown argued for eliminating Pluto as a planet. But public support for Pluto--not based on science, but on mere sentiment; it would be like taking statehood away from Alaska--was too strong. Pluto, since its discovery in 1930, has been part of our culture. And Brown, being pragmatic, says, "There are places where science reigns, and others where culture reigns. Science doesn't have to win this one. I'm willing to give up the hard-nosed science view of what a planet is in lieu of a cultural view."

I like that approach, and I see it applying to Christian political action.

It's hot. Perhaps you've noticed.

When we lived in Lake Havasu City, Ariz., I didn't mind the heat. And we're talking 115-125 degrees. The national nightly news often cited nearby Blythe, Calif., as the hottest place the nation. We were usually hotter in Lake Havasu City, but in those days we lacked an official weather station. So we didn't count.

I was a teenager back then, which may account for my imperviousness to the heat. Plus, it just meant we took a jaunt to the lake or found a swimming pool. I spent a lot of my teenagerdom in the water, and I miss it. We had youth group outings on the lake all the time. The piano in my house was once in the back of a pickup truck on the beach in Lake Havasu City.

In California, I played tennis on two conference championship teams. My junior year, in the first round of the San Juaquin Valley championships, I played three matches one afternoon in 115 degree heat. Ate an orange between matches, drank plenty of water, and won two out of three (doubles matches) so we could advance to the next round.

Yessiree, I'm quite the macho man.