Ask A Ninja - College

I laugh... and laugh... and laugh... and laugh... and laugh.

Iran Cartoon

Wow. I think I'd prefer my kids to watch Scooby Doo reruns, thank you very much.

If this really is run on Iranian TV, its a real indication of the dichotomy that exists in the Islamic world. Most Muslims are peaceful, but a large and growing faction clearly isn't. These people are a menace to their society, and ours; they represent a clear and present danger to the security of the United States.

Interactive Worship Training

We used this a few weeks ago at our weekly meeting. I thought it was hilarious. Kudos to those who made it! How do YOU worship?

Recent God Story II

So yesterday I came to work and found the place trashed. There was junk left everywhere, seriously, it was ugly. And I was so frustrated that for the first time in eight years of ministry, I contemplated quitting. "Is this worth it?" is the question that wafted through my mind. And as I pondered the answer to that question, I cleaned. I cleaned and I sweated. And at the ebb tide of my pity party I was taking the trash out to the dumpster behind our building when I noticed an unopened can of beer just laying there on the grass...

It was as if God Himself placed it there to catch my eye; my own personal burning bush. Only this bush didn't speak out loud, it slapped my upside my metaphorical head. And it shouted, "YO IDIOT! PUT UP OR SHUT UP!" Truly, it was theater of the absurd. I mean, of all the times I taken out the trash, what a perfect--dare I say 'divine'--moment to find a beer! So I picked it up and now it lives in my office, there to remind me that in what I thought was my hour of greatest need, the Lord was laughing.

Did I need a drink? Obviously not, although I wouldv'e told you it was tempting. Did I need a laugh, a slap back to reality? Sure thing, and God delivered.

THE PUBLISHING OF THIS ARTICLE IS IN NO WAY AN ENDORSEMENT OF DRINKING ANY KIND OF ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGE. THE BEER IN QUESTION SITS UNOPENED TO THIS VERY DAY AND MAY BE VIEWED UPON REQUEST. IT IS A KEYSTONE ICE, SLIGHTLY DENTED, WITH A FRESHNESS DATE OF JUNE 7, 2007.

Ordinary Life III

SO this week has seen highs and lows all around. On a positive note, I got a team sent off to Peru, and have two more leaving tomorrow for Arlington, TX, and a location to be named later. On the down side, one of our Peru team had to remain behind because the United States Postal Service screwed up his passport and couldn't get it fixed in time. I am NOT feeling warm and fuzzy about them right now. Also, Mandi and the kids are SUPPOSED to come with me to Arlington, but Nate has a bad case of the flu and the rest of us are exposed, so it could be a real fun trip... Meanwhile, Cru was awesome and let us have www.everylion.com, which I pray will be successful. Its nice to have it taken care of. It should be up and running before Spring Break is over, then we can think of an ad strategy. Everyone is maximum stressed right now, so the break couldn't come at a better time. I nailed down a date for Rod Handley to come to Joplin, which is very good, but I'm at the point of losing sleep over the SRBA 2007 camp season, which is going to be the death of yet. We got the kids registered for Little League, AND soccer season is starting, so we'll have games or practice almost every day between now and the Second Coming, or so it feels. Aagh! Lord, don't let anyone else get sick...

A Note on Suffering: Part 2

I almost cried when I read this, because I understand its meaning at a very basic level. I only hope that my understanding doesn't increase, for I am weak and weary.

The Thorn by Martha Snell Nicholson

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne.
And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, "but Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me."
He said, "My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee."
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

A Note on Suffering: Part 1

I would begin here by saying that I have only tasted evil, never drank deeply from the well of human suffering that exists in the world, and for that I am grateful to God Most High who has spared and protected me from so many things that there can be no doubt but that I am blessed. What follows is simply a few thought I jotted down one morning... I pray it is not too simple as to offend those who have felt a depth of pain I can only hope is never mine. Thank you, Lord Jesus, for my own life and I pray you would comfort and enlighten those who cry out this day to their Maker for the darkness they feel.

“Nothing that exists or occurs falls outside God’s ordaining will [including evil]...

How can God govern the choices of human beings without that entailing that those choices are no longer free? How can the same event have two complete explanations? My answer is this: We cannot understand how these things can possibly be... we can understand why we cannot understand it. It is because our attempts to understand this involve our trying to understand the unique relationship between the Creator and his creatures in terms of our understanding of some creature-to-creature relationship.” [Mark Talbot, Suffering and the Sovereignty of God, John Piper, Justin Taylor, eds. (Wheaton, IL: Crossway, 2006) 43, 69]

That may be the best brief explanation of the sovereignty v. free will dilemma that I’ve come across. I mean, people bang their head against this wall ALL THE TIME, and it just doesn’t crack. What interests me the most is that I found it in a book dealing with the Problem of Evil. People think theology isn’t important, but they’re wrong. Evil effects us all, and we all ask, “Why?” And the answer is too often unsatisfactory. Plain and simple, we don’t know. SO, how do we go on from there? When evil or suffering touches your life, and you sigh to the heavens, “WHY, O LORD, WHY?!” and are met with little more than the echo of your own mind, what happens next?

For many, the answer is to turn their back on God. In the silence of their own personal night, they brood and become embittered. Their faith withers, as the seed sown among thorns in Matthew 13, whose faith is choked out by the worry of the world. Or perhaps they are like that sown on rocky soil that withers for lack of a root in the Word of God. Either way, the results are the same; they suffer, and in their suffering, they lash out for an answer they will not tolerate. This I understand. As a child I grew up in an alcoholic home, and God was my scapegoat for the anguish I felt every day. Unlike Job, I cursed God, and in rage asked to die, to suffer in Hell for that would be better than eternity with such a spiteful God. It is a real and human reaction. I do not belittle the bitterness of others. But it is wrong.

“...who are you, O man, who answers back to God? The thing molded will not say to the molder, ‘Why did you make me like this,’ will it?”
(Romans 9:20 NASB)

“Then the LORD answered Job out of the whirlwind and said, ‘Who is this that darkens counsel by words without knowledge? ‘Now gird up your loins like a man, and I will ask you, and you instruct Me! ‘Where were you when I laid the foundation of the earth? Tell Me, if you have understanding,’”
(Job 38:1-4 NASB)

I understand that there is not much comfort in those words, so where is the Comforter in the midst of suffering? I don’t know. I don’t know, but I trust God. I trust Him because He is sovereign. I trust Him in His oft resounding silence because I have said to my own kids, time and again, “Because I said so!” For that is really all this boils down to. If God is all-good and all-knowing and all-powerful, then I am willing to trust Him just like I hope my own kids will trust me when I make them suffer. And you will make your kids suffer! When you get them inoculations, they suffer. When you punish them for wrong-doing, they suffer. When you prevent them from doing wrong, they suffer. And often, they cannot understand why. My five year old twins have been warned many times and in loud voices to GET OUT OF THE KITCHEN! Because there are hot pots on the stove or pans coming out of the over; because our kitchen is small and not always safe. Do they understand? Not always. Should I just dip their fingers in boiling water that they might ‘get it?’ Please, get serious. Yet we demand of God, whose understanding is infinitely greater than ours, an equal knowledge, and we pout when it doesn’t come. ‘Children of God,’ indeed!

“I will lift up my eyes to the hills—

From whence comes my help?

My help comes from the LORD,

Who made heaven and earth.”
(Psalm 121:1-2 NKJV)

I trust God because He is sovereign. Because I have seen His hand at work in my life often enough that I know He’s there. I have experienced His grace, His patience, His love, and when the weight of suffering is mine, I turn to Him who suffered most. Christ is the ultimate picture of suffering, and He did it for me. When the weight of suffering is mine, I turn to His word, that has proven perfect and true hundreds of time over in my own life alone. When the weight of suffering is mine, I turn to the brothers and sisters I have in Christ who are themselves an answer promised in His word, and will pray for me and suffer alongside me because I would do the same for them.

Is that enough? For millions of Believers who have suffered far more than me, the answer has been yes.

“Weeping may last through the night,

but joy comes with the morning.”
(Psalm 30:5)

Golden Years

As people age, they start, at some point, talking about "the Golden Years." And whenever I've heard them referred to, its alway in the future tense, as in, "I'm looking forward to retirement so I can enjoy my golden years."

Such sentiments may be fine for others, but not for me. My 'Golden Years' are now. I have my health, my family, a job I love where I feel used by God. I have a brain full of amazing memories that range from bungee jumping in Branson, Mo, to planting a cocanut palm on Rarotonga with my wife, to fishing for salmon with my father in Alaska. I've been married to the greatest and most beautiful woman I've ever had the privilege of meeting for over ten years, and I have the three brightest and most beautiful kids I've ever seen. As I've said a thousand times, other people think they have good kids, but that's only because they haven't met mine. And what have I done to deserve such a blessed run in life? Absolutely nothing. Other than following Christ to the best of my abilities, mine is an ordinary life...

In many ways I imagine myself like Job before the Lord called him to Satan's attention. I can only hope I fly under the radar better than he did. I suppose, since the Enemy is finite, and there are a few more people on earth now than there were then, that I've got a decent chance of avoiding Job's fate.

As I look to the future, I see, in all likelihood, suffering and pain. Family will pass away, sickness, injury or accident will steal my health if aging alone isn't enough. I see trips to the hospitals that I hate so much. (I could never be a pastor for that reason alone.) I see the loss of innocence in the lives of my children. I see the usual aches and pains that accompany every life, and even if they come late to mine, come they will, as they must. Nevertheless, joy is mine.

Joy is mine, not because of the experiences I've had, or the people I've known, or anything I've said or done. No, joy is mine because in my heart of hearts there is Christ, and nothing can ever remove that. Nothing can shake the foundation of my faith because that foundation is the Chief Cornerstone Himself. My joy is eternal, even if these, my golden years, are not.

Do I boast? Certainly not! I have done nothing to merit the favor of God or man. At least not of my own accord. As it is written, there is nothing good in me, nothing worthy of God's affection, that He Himself did not put there by His own providence. I am not worthy on my own, only blessed, and that for reasons only God can fathom. Why He chose me is a mystery that only He can answer, but I rejoice that He did, and THAT is why my joy can never be taken.

Do I hope for suffering? Of course not. Am I tempting fate? May it never be! My sincere hope is that Christ would return long before I feel the pain of anything dark or evil. I seek not the discipline of the Lord as it is promised in Hebrews. In fact I pray against it... at least to the extent that suffering might be mine. Weak? Yes, but true. Anyhow, no matter what happens in the future, these, I declare, are MY golden years. If I live to be a hundred and suffer every day between now and them, my hope is that I would always recall the season I'm in now. If it be the best I ever have, it is enough.

(And though I declare here and now, I beg you Lord, please don't test me on it!)

Fun and Often Stupid College Memories.

So, when I was in college, I named my bed, "The Word," so that I could tell people I spent time in The Word every morning.

It was in college that my goatee first arrived.

Among the classes on my transcript: Downhill Skiing, Wilderness Survival, Basketball (2X), Tennis (2X), Introduction to Acting, Fencing (3X)

One year I lived with a group of about 4 guys in this nice little house about a mile off campus where we were told by the owner that we had to take care of the landscaping. He had a hissy fit when a shrub died in the hedge out front. We should've known he wouldn't react well when he found out that we NEVER ONCE mowed the back yard. There were weeds growing higher than the eaves on the house. Seriously, ten feet or more. There could have been a tribe of dwarves living back there and we'd never have known. It took a serious effort, but we recovered it. We didn't ask to renew the lease.

Same house, same guys. Someone left some spaghetti in a Tupperware container in the back of the fridge... for the year. Although it was never opened, the colors visible through the plastic changed from red to green, and then blue and ultimately pink. At somepoint the contents liquified. We were literally scared to open it. At the end of the year, two of us hosed it at the side of the house. One to hold the container with a painter's mask and rubber gloves, the other to stand ten feet away and hold the hose. I held the hose, Greg Templar held the container. We feared for our long term health after being exposed like that.

One summer I worked a concession stand for the Eugene Emeralds, a short season single-A baseball affiliate of the KC Royal. There I met Mookie Wilson, a member of the '86 Mets, my all-time favorite team. (I am still a hard-core Mets fan.)

I graduated in '95 and don't remember having e-mail, let alone registering on-line.

My college road trips always began in Eugene, but ended in: Phoenix, Seattle, Anchorage, Tijuana, and San Francisco.

I helped perfect "Theme Dates." What's a theme date? C'mon, genius, figure it out. Example 1: Wild Life Date: Began with a trip to a wildlife park, then a showing of Disney's 'Lion King,' and finished with dinner at a restaurant serving wild game. Example 2: Planes, Trains, and Automobiles: Began with a flight to Seattle, continued with a drive to the ferry to Bainsbridge Island, spent the night with friends there, and somewhere we squeezed in a trolly car. Yeah, that one was a little spendy, but you only live once. Example 3: Alaskan Theme Date (Plaid flannel required): Began with duct-taping antlers to the car, wearing plaid flannel shirts, jeans and boots, and going to a barn dance. Dinner was Alaskan salmon and moose steaks. How did we acquire moose? See 'road trips,' above. Theme dates are awesome, and best executed as a group date.

I was present at the invention of Solidaire. Its group solitaire, but the person with the worst game has to perform a previously agreed upon dare. Example: Eating a tablespoon of a spice picked by the blindfolded loser. Having "I love Cheese" inscribed on your forehead in black sharpie. Streaking the circumference of your block while singing, swirlies, playing the next round with you face completely covered in butter--not spread, butter.

Primal Scrap: I came home one day to find two of my eight housemates winging rolls of toilet paper at one another across the living room. Before it ended there were at least five of us involved and anything not nailed to the floor was a projectile, including the recliner and a potted plant. Someone tried to throw the TV, but some things are sacred. I still have a scar from defending myself from a pop can. The scariest moment was probably when I popped up from behind our sofa holding a good sized plastic potsherd only to find myself face to face with a roomie holding the recliner over his head ready to drop it on me. We both saw what was coming, screamed at each other and retreated without firing. From that experience I discovered that a roll of TP, dipped in the toilet, has the ability to knock a man flat without leaving a mark. They were easily the projectile of choice.

"Light the candle!" Those were the last words before a Roman Candle started sparking in the back seat of my '86 Honda Accord. I was traveling with a group of friends in Alaska, and we were in the middle of a bottle rocket was with more friends in the car behind us as we drove home to Anchorage where we were staying for the '92 Cru Alaskan Summer Mission Project. Luckily, no one was injured, and the car survived, but it was definitely stupid.

On the '93 Cru Bolivian Summer Mission Project, I drove the project director out of a poker game in his underwear, and smoked cigars on the roof of our hotel almost every night.

Deep Thoughts

This thought struck me yesterday as I was listening to a completely unrelated sermon. I understand that it is a gross oversimplification of difficult issues, but I only had the back of the bulletin to expound on. :-)

Matthew 28:19-20 "Go therefore and make disciples of all the nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I commanded you; and lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age."

IF Matthew 28: 19-20 is our mission statement, and if everything we do is to be done insupport of it, then the litmus test for orthopraxy is discipleship. Social drinking and other hot-button issues must be considered in light of only one question: Does it or does it not constitute a positive contribution to the discipleship
process?

Its a simple, yes or no question. to those who would claim that such issues require more flexibility to respond; grow up! You must respond, yes or no, and live with the consequences.

And what if we can't agree?

If we can't agree individually, we must still be bound together in unity. As long as we stay focused on the MISSION, we are united. Let the discussion of secondary issues take place, but let it be that, discussion. In orthopraxy we remain consistent. Effectiveness depends on it. If we would be effective in our mission, we've got to learn to fight for the truth that matters, not opinions that don't.

In hindsight, its a bit sophomoric, far too simplistic to be of any real value. Although the last sentence bears the mark of greatness, it remains undefined, and that's the real problem. What is 'truth that matters?' For some, social drinking is an issue worth fighting over. For others, its silly. I guess the simple solution is to find the common ground we ALL agree on, fight like hell for that, and let the rest go.

Even social drinking? Even social drinking. Too often we get caught up in arguments and debates over things that have value, but not not enough value, and it drags us away from priority one. We become legalistic, or belligerent, and most of the time it seems we do it in the worst possible moments; when we're in public, where an on-looking world can point and laugh at our endless squabbling. how many people have gone to hell without Jesus while we scream and moan at (or worse, about) one another. They'll know we are Christians by our gossip and infinite capacity for pointless debate.

I wish I could go on, but I'm late for dinner.

Devo VIII: On Evil

"Then the LORD said to Job, 'Will the faultfinder cintend with the Almighty? Let him who reproves God answer it.'
Then Job answered the LORD and said, 'Behold, I am insignificant; what can I reply to You?"
Job 40:1-3

Everywhere I turn lately, I am confronted with evil. It's presence has been felt in the ministry God has entrust to me, in the lives of those around me, and most significantly within my own family. Its touch seems everywhere. And the more I am confronted with it, the more I am convinced of the need for a sovereign God, the more I understand how absolutely critical it is to have a working knowledge and relationship with that God. The time to work out the Problem of Evil is not after it arrives in our lives, but beforehand. We cannot wait until our child has been molested, or the cancer is diagnosed, or our loved one is struck down by some tragic accident of man or nature. No, we must not wait! We must act now. The time to batten down the hatches is before the storm. The time to study is before the test. How many of us procrastinate, then flounder and fail when evil comes.

Job's God, the God of Abraham, and Isaac, and Jesus, was sovereign. And it is only in that sovereignty that comfort comes. Yes, He knew evil would happen, but He also knew that it was for the best. No, I don't understand how, but I don't need to either. Do I want to? Of course. I want to scream and curse and shake my fist at fate as much as any man. But I don't because, unlike any man, I DO know Him who is the Almighty, and I trust Him no matter what.

Blessed is the person who understands that we must trust God's heart whn we
cannot understand His hand; blessed is the person who knows that we must stand
in awe in the presence of the mystery of God's purposes. Blessed is the
person who keeps on believing no matter what. Blessed is the person who
lets God be God.-Erwin Lutzer

Ordinary Life II

"isu smf" The first attempt of our five-year-old son to spell the name of his big sister (Alyssa Smith).

Character counts

"The only thing that walks back from the tomb with the mourners and refuses to be buried is the character of a man. This is true. What a man is survives him. It can never be buried." J. R. Miller

How true! How true, which begs the question, how true are you? I spoke last semester about Integrity and that integrity implies wholeness. It implies being the same person on-line and in person, being the same person to my face and behind my back, being the same person before my friends and before my God.

Character counts, now and always.

Ordinary LIfe

Life is good right now. It usually is for me. What have I done to deserve such a wonderful life? I have no idea. Other than accepting the unmerited grace of God in Christ Jesus, I am as miserable a sinner as ever existed.

Nate just started Upward Basketball at FBC-Webb City last week. Today was his second game. I am so proud of him. He's such an amazing little boy. He jump shot needs work, but he has the sweetest spirit you'll ever find. I hope I can be an encourgement to him.

What is God teaching me right now? Dependence on Him. I cannot keep up with life on my own.

Snow Day

Its a snow day! Yay. Actually, its an 'ice' day, since we have about two inches of solid ice on the ground. On Saturday night, after church, we stopped by Wal-mart to grab some chicken breasts--and where do they find these chickens anyway? Most of the breasts they sell these day would make a Playboy Bunny green with envy.--Anyway, we were getting some chicken breasts when I decided to cut cookies in an empty section of the parking lot. When I say empty, I mean no one had parked there for days. SO I took our 4-Runner out of four-wheel-drive and started sliding around on the ice. The girls were with us and they screamed and giggled with delight. It was fun. Still, I was surprised to see that all that spinning and sliding didn't even leave a tire print on the ice. You wouldn't know we'd ever been there if you didn't see us playing on the ice. It was eerie, really. I mean, shouldn't a mid-sized SUV at least leave a scratch or something? Guess not.

Then last night at about 7:30 the power went out at our house. It stayed off until about 7:30 this morning. We had plenty of flashlights and the fireplace kept us warm, so it wasn't a big deal, but still, it was a nice experience to share with the kids.

Nate should be coming home tonight, weather permitting. He's flying in with his Nana. I know its only been two weeks since I saw him last, but I miss him a lot. He's my son and I love him.

Our First Fight

I don't know what made me think of this, but as we approach 10 years of marriage, I pause to reflect...

I’ll never forget our first big fight: It was during our first year of marriage while we were living in a duplex on South 35th Street in Springfield, OR. After exchanging a few heated words, Mandi, as a joke, locked me out of the house while I was taking out the trash. Angered and stupid, I decided to get even by getting in the car and leaving, also as a ‘joke.’ Seeing me pull away from the house my new bride assumed I was leaving her, so she tried to get in her own car and chase after me.

Meanwhile, I circled the block and was able to observe her chase by following after. Unsure which way I went, she headed for my parents’ house. They were the only family we had in town at the time. When she arrived and found out that I wasn’t there, she was distraught. A few moments later I arrived. We yelled, she cried, we made up as only newlyweds can, but in the end, it was mostly my fault. What was it actually about?What was the root of those first heated words that led to our fiasco? I have no idea.

VOTE FOR MARK!!!

Will somebody please fire Bud Selig! Baseball is out of control and in the absence of any alternate candidates, the buck must stop on the Comissioner's desk. My latest gripe (apart from the lack of a salary cap, which is killing MLB) is the silence emanating from the comissioner's office in the face of the maelstrom surrounding Mark McGwire's eligibility for the Hall of Fame.

All over the country Baseball Writers' Association of America are pooh-poohing Mr. McGwire's candidacy for the Hall of Fame and declaring their refusal to vote for one of baseball's greatest stars and one of the most statistically qualified candidates of all time. Why? They claim he 'cheated' by using steroids.

Is there empirical evidence to support such a claim? Nope.

Do his statistics demonstrate circumstantial evidence of steroid use? Arguably, nope. (Several sluggers with similar statistics have never fallen under suspicion, why should McGwire?)

Did he ever, even one little time test positive for steroid use? Nope.

Did he ever admit steroid use? Nope.

Even if he was guilty, would it have been a violation of league rules? Nope.

The plain fact of the matter is that the case against McGwire entering the Hall of Fame is paper thin, and when examined impartially, won't stand up. To keep him from his appointment in Cooperstown, even for a year, is simply ridiculous. He's earned it, let him go in.

And even if he did use steroids like others chew gum, so what? "Cheating" has always been a part of baseball. How could any league that actually tracks 'steals' have a problem with cheaters? Okay, that's not fair. And cheaters shouldn't prosper, but Gaylord Perry's spitball is in the HOF.

My point is this: If you're going to punish people, you ought to be ready to prove they're guilty first. And steroid use in baseball is not something that the BBWAA are capable of proving. In fact, while we're ranting, how do you disprove steroid use? I mean, the BBWAA assumes that you're guilty until proven innocent, apparently, so how do you escape their judgement. It can't be easy. After all, these are the same idiots that can't even agree on whether an MVP can be given to a pitcher, and they've had years to it. Rocket scientists they're not.

For Pete's sake, the guy was Time Magazine's Man of the Year in 1998! Name one other baseball player with that credential.
Vote for Mark!

Time's MOY article:

A Mac For All Seasons

Mark
McGwire's 70 home runs shattered the most magical record in sports and
gave
America a much-needed hero

BY DANIEL OKRENT

The choirs that sing of baseball can get pretty moist--green grass,
beautiful proportions, fathers playing catch with sons--sometimes you'd think we
were talking about brotherhood, God and Mom and not some game played with a
stick and a ball. More bad sentences have been committed in its name than in
that of every other sport.

But there have been more good ones too. One of the best is
from A. Bartlett Giamatti, who was Commissioner of Baseball back when there
was still a Commissioner of Baseball. "Baseball is about going home,"
Giamatti wrote, "and how hard it is to get there and how driven is our
need." Certainly that need could not have been more driven, more
powerful than it was in the political plague year just passing. We needed
Mark McGwire in 1998, needed him desperately. He couldn't banish the stain
of sleaze that leached through our public life this year, nor could he
restore civility to our discourse or turn the media's attention to rotten
schools or Serbian brutality. He is, after all, only a baseball player.

But what a baseball player he is, and what a year it was, and what balm
he brought to a nation that seemed to spend the year flaying its flesh. It
may be true that Babe Ruth said, on being asked to justify his earning more
money than Herbert Hoover, "I had a better year than he did." Surely if
McGwire were asked the same question regarding the current occupant of
Hoover's office, he could make the same reply. And we would respond, "Thank
heavens."

Complex societies do not easily find leaders to follow, even
causes to unite behind. If Ronald Reagan was our last widely beloved
President, you'd hardly know it from the depth of antipathy he provoked in
40% of the population. The good war--the universally endorsed war--is a
half-century behind us. Entertainers? Not a chance. Our tastes are too
motley, our options too many. And the entertainer's natural vanity is
implicit in his choice of a career.

But no one could gainsay Mark McGwire. Nor could we have invented him:
he was that close to perfect. He assaulted the most textured record in the most
apposite sport--the sport closest to the American bone and yet most in need of a
rehabilitation of the spirit. McGwire built steadily toward his moment, through
11 seasons marked by astonishing accomplishment and devastating failure. He
remained at once focused on his goal and joyful in its pursuit, during which he
embraced his closest rival. He never bragged, never proclaimed that he was the
great white hope or the straw that stirred the drink. But--and this may be even
rarer in professional sports--neither did he paw the ground in false modesty. He knew he was good, and knowing it made him even better.

It's not so hard to figure out why we look to the athletic arena for
heroes. No ancient Greek dramaturge would turn his back on material like this:
one man tested in crisis; the victor emergent from the sweat and roil of combat;
gifted with superhuman size and godlike strength; and, perhaps most important,
confronted with the brutal and inescapable vulnerability that all great athletes
must face--the daily threat that an inferior force might vanquish them. Athletic
heroism attains the heights of glory through its very proximity to defeat. And
it dramatizes the worth of workaday values we want our kids and our neighbors'
kids to absorb: diligent attention to practice and homework, concentration,
persistence, equanimity, teamwork.

In no sport is this more visible than it is in baseball. The other team
sports, so dependent on the careful knitting of disparate talents for every act,
never isolate the hero quite the way baseball does--especially when it places
him alone in the batter's box and challenges him to perform the most difficult
feat in all of sports. Even off the field, the baseball star has always seemed
to have a more sharply defined persona than other athletes do. Decades pass, and
still we feel we know them. Babe Ruth, the profane if lovable libertine; Mickey
Mantle, the gifted man-child; Roger Maris, the decent citizen victimized and
nearly rendered mute by the crippling weight of publicity. But of all the
baseball titans, Mark McGwire in some ways most resembles Joe DiMaggio,
coincidentally stricken by life-threatening illness just as McGwire was setting
the home-run record. Admired by their teammates, considerate of their foes,
blessed with a spare, natural grace, both men represent the merging of two
traits not always found in close athletic proximity: talent and dignity.

Unlike the almost unknowably silent DiMaggio, however, McGwire was an
accessible and affable presence from the very beginning of his remarkable
career. It was in June 1987 that the Los Angeles Times first put the words
McGwire, Ruth and Maris in one headline. McGwire's major league life wasn't yet
60 games old. Soon he rushed past the rookie home-run record, and crowds of
reporters buzzed around him like so many mosquitoes on a July night in St.
Louis. Still, his mien was so benign that one of his nicknames was McGee-Whiz.
In September of that year--he hadn't yet turned 24--he looked to become only the
11th man in baseball history to hit 50 home runs in a season. Going into the
last day, he had 49. He also had a very pregnant wife ready to enter a
California hospital. McGwire skipped the last game. "You always have another
chance to hit 50," he said, and some might have taken that for either arrogance
or stupidity had he not completed the thought with, "but you'll never have a chance to have your first child again."

McGwire would wait nine long years for his 50-home-run season. Divorce,
injuries, eye trouble, crises of confidence and of desire conspired against him.
For the eyes, he changed contact lenses as often as some people change socks.
For the crises, he sought the help of a psychiatrist, which was rare enough for
a professional athlete; rarer still, he spoke about it in public. In time he
regained his confidence, his health and his unprecedented ability to hit home
runs. When he finally had a 50-knock season, in 1996, he apparently decided to
make it a habit. He repeated the feat in 1997, and now, in 1998, he has shredded
it, performing prodigies unheard of in sport or in most other areas of human
endeavor. Thirty-seven years ago, Maris surpassed Ruth's record by 1.6%;
McGwire catapulted the same record forward by a nearly unfathomable 14.75%.
Here is what a 14.75% improvement over some other well-known marks would
yield: Someone would drive in 218 runs. The mile record would be 3:11.29.
Even so hyperthyroid a measure as the Dow Jones industrial average would
leap ahead to the vicinity of 10,100. In a sport whose progress is
characteristically Darwinian in both style and speed, McGwire not only
collapsed the decades, he invented a new algebra.

The girth of Mark McGwire's forearm is greater than that of a large
man's neck; his biceps look as if they've been inflated with a bicycle pump.
Your hand could conceivably disappear in his; if he chose, it could certainly be
crushed. Yet something other than his pure physicality strikes you about McGwire.
Revealed in his deep green eyes is a self-knowledge as imposing as his size and strength: I am who I am, what you see is what you get, and if I'm going to hit 70 home runs, well, that's what I was meant to do. He actually calls it "karma," which is not a usual baseball-player word, and his acceptance of it relaxes him. And focuses him.

Cardinals manager Tony LaRussa says he's never known a ballplayer so able
to keep his eye on the task. "He has this technique that allows him to totally
tune out distractions," says LaRussa, who has been McGwire's manager, in Oakland
and in St. Louis, for all but 18 months of the player's 12-year career. "And he
did this with the whole world watching." Fifteen minutes or so before game time,
"Mark would withdraw from the clubhouse horseplay and stare into his locker.
You'd see him, and you'd know he was spacing out. It was not a good time to talk
to him." McGwire would simply gaze ahead, concentrating on the game to come,
lost in the intensity of his focus. During batting practice, with tens of thousands showing up two hours before game time simply to watch him propel rockets into the upper deck, he kept his calm. Dave McKay, the St. Louis first-base coach, says McGwire would occasionally want to work on hitting line drives, or ground balls into the hole, and the fans who had come out for BP would boo him.

He didn't much like being turned into a carnival sideshow, but he never
let it distract him. When a reporter spotted androstenedione, a legal but controversial steroid, in McGwire's locker, the slugger explained that he used
it to protect himself from the muscle tears that so often plague finely
conditioned athletes, especially those few so well muscled as he, and he left it
at that. Though he was criticized, McGwire marched ahead, not even pausing to
rip off the head of the reporter who'd gone peeking into his locker. What kind
of a modern athlete would fail to do that? As for "andro," whatever else it
does, it can't help a player's timing, his hand-eye coordination, his ability to
discern a slider from a splitter. But even if andro improved his power by an unlikely, oh, 5%, then instead of 70 home runs, McGwire this year would have hit... maybe 67. Take 5% off a 450-ft. missile, and you've got a 427.5-ft. missile--long enough to
clear any fence save center field in Detroit's Tiger Stadium.

In September, when every game offered the chance for a record, each McGwire
at-bat would be accompanied by the gaudy detonation of thousands of flash
cameras. "It was blinding," says McKay. "I asked him if it bothered him, and he said, 'I don't see them.'" He didn't see what was on the periphery of his concentration because, says LaRussa, "he knew where he was going." This made it easy for the manager, whose only contribution to McGwire's record, he confesses was "making sure he knew what time the game started."

Unquestionably, McGwire's feats of 1998 were granted a deeper dimension by the presence of his confederate, the ecstatic Sammy Sosa. Here was a joyous,
ebullient counterpoint to McGwire's more sedate self. From the moment in
midspring that Sosa launched a sudden torrent of home runs like none ever seen
in baseball history--he hit 20 in June alone--the two men were flawlessly
scripted antagonists cast in the same play. This was rapture vs. gravity,
spontaneity vs. self-restraint, Latin brio vs. California cool. Their collision
seemed inevitable; yet what ensued was less a crash than a hug. The two men
cheered each other on, praised each other's skills, slapped hands, dissipated
the heat. They became allies in this drama, united against the two-digit foe
that lay blandly impassive in the record books: 61.

The enemy collapsed sooner than anyone expected. By Sept. 8, the record was McGwire's. Sosa, trying to lift his team into postseason contention, didn't flag. On Sept. 25, with McGwire stalled at 65 home runs, Sosa hit a pitch out of
County Stadium in Milwaukee and pulled ahead. And this was the instant in which McGwire's character was annealed. It would have been lovely for him to acknowledge he'd had his moment--the record breaker--and was now generously stepping back and letting his accomplice have his. But heroics aren't made from, or for, loveliness. Three-quarters of an hour after Sosa's 66th home run, McGwire concentrated harder than he had before, focused more intently, more thoroughly blocked out distraction. The last week of his season was nearly unimaginable, a season of its own. In his next 11 at-bats--his last 11 at-bats of 1998--he hit five more home runs. The tenor, having finally hit high C after years of trying, suddenly
leaped to a G. "Reality," wrote Red Smith in a different baseball context a
half-century ago, "has strangled invention." It was not enough for McGwire to be merely excellent. He had to be--he willed himself to be--a wonderful and beautiful beast who just happened to carry a nation on his back.

You could argue--many do--that this was only baseball, McGwire a highly paid mercenary, the home-run chase a convenient contrivance engineered to boost
television ratings and sell magazines. All correct. But don't you think the McGwire we watched during his moments across the national stage last summer would never surreptitiously tape conversations with a friend? Would never defend his behavior by retreating into the technical meaning of innocuous verbs? Couldn't possibly pursue his own fanatic agenda by rooting about in the private peccadilloes of another? Don't you think it's more likely that Mark McGwire would sit in front of his locker, stare intently ahead, think about what he needed to do, knowing that no one could help him, that the task was his alone?

Yes. And then he would slowly rise, pick up his bat and go to it.

--WITH REPORTING BY DAVID E. THIGPEN/NEW YORK

Suicidal irritations

BAGHDAD, Iraq (CNN) -- A suicide bomber targeting laborers killed 60 people Tuesday in Baghdad and wounded 220 others, Iraqi officials said.

A pickup truck, loaded with about 440 pounds (200 kilograms) of explosives, pulled into central Baghdad's Tayaran Square as hundreds of unemployed Iraqis holding picks and shovels gathered seeking a day's work.

The truck driver signaled to the would-be workers that he had jobs -- prompting people to crowd around the pickup before he detonated his bomb, said an Iraqi Interior Ministry official.

The explosion, which sent a cloud of black smoke into the sky, set several cars ablaze, and gunfire sounded after the blast, Reuters reported.

"A driver with a pickup truck stopped and asked for laborers. When they gathered around the car, it exploded," a witness told Reuters as he helped a stumbling survivor with a blood-stained head bandage.

"They were poor laborers looking for work. The poor are supposed to be protected by the government."

Iraqi police Lt. Bilal Ali Majid told The Associated Press that most of the victims were Shiites from poor areas of Baghdad such as Sadr City.

Bodies were piled up on the roadside and partly covered with paper, the AP reported.

On a nearby sidewalk, two Iraqi men sat crying and sometimes buried their faces in their hands, according to the AP.

"Look at this injured man. He comes from a big family," Ali Hussein, a witness to the attack, told the AP, eyeing a dazed older man with a bloody bandage tied around his head.

Authorities said it was unclear whether the attack was related to the sectarian violence that has strained the fledgling Iraqi government.

Attacks on day laborers have occurred before as Iraqis battle high unemployment in the struggling wartime economy.

Police theorize insurgents carry out such strikes to intimidate people from taking jobs that would help the U.S.-backed government or coalition.

Prime Minister Nuri al-Maliki called Tuesday's bombing, a "horrible massacre," according to Reuters, blaming it on Saddam Hussein sympathizers and al Qaeda in Iraq.

"These terrorist groups are trying to spread chaos by killing and fueling sectarian
strife," said al-Maliki, a Shiite, in a statement, according to Reuters.

Okay, so, I'm a pretty normal American; hardened to the reports of violence on Iraq, but this one chaps my hide. Some deluded idiot lured a large group of labor-seeking innocents to his minibus by promising work. Then he detonated the bomb, killing at least 60. Now, I know "Jesus loves you," and all that, and maybe my heart isn't quite right, but I have no compassion for such a man. In fact, I hope he's burning in Hell as we speak. His victims wanted to work, not proselytize, not marty themselves. They wanted to feed their families. I hope Hell is especially hot today. It should be mentioned that the bomber was Muslim, and that his actions were driven by his faith. Isn't Islam a beautiful religion?

And, yes, attrocities of such magnitude have occurred in the name of Christ, but I would hesitate to ever claim their perpetrators as "Christian." Not a lot of suicide bombers in heaven. And none who claim Muhammad as a prophet.

r U holy?

A nugget from Chip Ingram...

There's a world out there that is dying. Kids are shooting kids, marriages are crumbling, people are shacking up to avoid marriage, people are dying of diseases--all ultimately because they haven't heard compelling reasons or witnessed compelling examples not to! Christians are not providing enough salt of preservation or light of exposure in a winsome, compassionate way...

If all forty million Americans who claim the name of Jesus took God's holiness seriously, the entire country would be transformed in ten years. We know the enemy, and it's mostly us.

Do not be conformed to the former lusts which were yours in ignorance, but like the Holy One who called you, be holy yourselves also in all your behavior; because it is written, "You shall be holy, for I am holy." 1 Peter 1:14-16

Rich Man's Warning

A poet, I am not. Still...

Rich Man's Warning
by Jon Smith (12/27/04)

Just live life for the best
And you'll die like the rest

Though you compare very well
You will still go to Hell

Apart from the Christ
Your life is a waste

The anser is Jesus
He died to save us

Reject all His claims
And you'll wind up in flames

Strive to be best
And you'll burn with the rest

Or rest in His love
And to heaven above
You will go

Incarnatus

I recently came across something I wrote back on January 13, 2005, which, incidently, is my birthday. Not that I am a poet, although I am related to Emily Dickinson, but I occassionally enjoy writing a bit of soul sugar now and then...

INCARNATUS

From dust to dust
How most men live
But then there was that One
Was born, lived, died
Like you and me
But then He wasn't done

First died then rose and judges now
upon God's holy throne
If you call Him Lord and Savior
He'll call you His very own

While men like grass and glory fade
There once was One among us
His name was Christ
And He still lives

Divine
the Incarnatus

Ebenezer

Last night our ministry decided to try something new, well, new to us anyway. We decided to raise an Ebenezer in honor of Thanksgiving, a la 1 Samuel 7:12. So we gave everyone a pen and a piece of paper cut in the shape of a rock, and we asked them to answer the question, "How has God helped you?" While a duet played on stage, everyone wrote their answer and placed it in a basket up front. Then, during the message, we had a couple of people build a 'rock pile' for us with the papers we'd collected. I didn't have time to look at them last night, but reading the answers this morning was a real blessing. From Alyssa's, "I'm thankful for the Bible," to the student who was thankful for God's help coping with the loss of her father, it is impressive to see the many ways God is moving in our community.

Letters to the Editor: Newsweek: A Dissident: The Case Against Faith

So, its a long shot, but I submitted an opinion to Newsweek magazine about an article they published entitled A Dissident: The Case Against Faith and appearing in the November 13, 2006, U.S. Edition. Short and mild, perhaps I'll get lucky... In truth, I'd like to lambast Sam Harris for his hateful hypocrisy, but I've neither the time, not the energy for it. I'm sure he's a sensitive and intelligent human being who deserves a much better reading than offered in such a short article. As it is, he's wrong, and if he's not careful, his willful illogic will have negative and eternal consequences. I've copied the letter below, but Newsweek wants $20 to view the article on-line, and it's not worth the price.

Regarding "The Case Against Faith" (pg. 42 of the November 13
issue):

Sam Harris presents an interesting case against organized religion. Interesting, but not really convincing. When he compares the Christian belief of Jesus return as "a sacred genocide," and refers to Islam and Christianity as "fairy tales," he sounds as dogmatic and close-minded as any religious zealot. Ironically, as an atheist, the core of his own dearly held belief is as circumspect as any held by the world's great religions.

President George W. Bush

Even as I type the President of the United States of America is speaking on the campus of MSSU. His motorcade drove by the BSU a few minutes ago and Mandi and I stood outside with the kids and waved at it as it drove by. In what appeared to be the President's car, a man waved back. Of course, there's no way to be absolutely certain, but I'm pretty confident that the President just waved to my family. I attempted to get a photo with my camera phone, but my phone sucks and I suck at using it. Oh well. It was still cool.

Recent God story

A recent God story: Yesterday I printed out an outline I requested from Rose Bear (the wife of Roger Bear, BSU director at Indiana State University) on civic christianity, which included the quote, "...on caring for the needy. Of all the issues we could get involved in, the Bible has more to say about this one than all the rest put together..." That's honestly all I remembered since Wednesdays are my busiest day. That night however, as I dropped off our kids at AWANA, Mandi and I were approached by a couple of "bums" who needed a ride. Call it providence, but we gave them their lift and $20 for dinner. Their story is irrelevant, its just that I've lived here over a year now and NEVER been approached that way. On the same day I got that outline? Ha! God is funny.

SONICFLOOd Concert

Last Thursday, the 26th of October, SONICFLOOd decided to drop by the BSU. In fact, they opened our service with several worship songs before turning it over to the BSU praise band. It was amazing! I still can't believe we had a band of that stature playing in our building. Cool! After they finished their set (only 3 songs) they stuck around for the service, and hung out afterward. On Friday, I had the opportunity of getting to know the guys a bit since I was the chauffer for them all day before their concert at Forest Park Baptist Church. Given the fact that they meet about a hundred new people every day, and that all of those people want a little piece of them, I was pleasantly surprised by how sincere they were in ministering to everybody they met. Hangin' out at the hotel, eating dinner at Quiznos, chillin' around the church before and after the concert, or on stage during the show, they were always the same guys. I call that integrity. And while I wasn't a huge SONICFLOOd fan before this, knowing their character has given me new respect and admiration for their music.

Letter to the Editor: Joplin Globe: SYATP: Part 2

Yay, the Globe printed the See You At The Pole letter in its entirety under the headline "Welcome Sight."

Letters to the Editor: Joplin Globe: See You At The Pole

The opinion below was e-mailed to the Joplin Globe today. It regards their coverage of yesterdays See You At The Pole rally.

Your story (‘A noticeable presence,’ September 28) on the See You At The Pole rally held at Joplin High School was great, but you missed an even bigger SYATP rally on the Missouri Southern campus. There, more than seventy students representing at least five campus ministries (Baptist Student Union, Roman Catholic, FCA, Campus Crusade for Christ and Koinonia) as well as who knows how many Christian denominations gathered to praise God and pray for their campus and the world. It was an amazing display of unity, and a reminder than in spite of the stereotype that students are self-centered and apathetic, many of them not only believe they can make a difference in the world, but care enough to get busy accomplishing just that. Looking at the group of future community leaders gathered around the flag pole on Wednesday, I have to say, the future just might be in good hands after all. Thank you.

Jon Smith
Director
Baptist Student Union
Here's the story from the Globe:

'A noticeable presence'The Joplin Globe

By Rich Brown

rbrown@joplinglobe.com

Carter Hulsey bowed his head early Wednesday morning, and prayed for his school and his country.

"I honestly don't understand everything that is going on in the nation, so I just pray for the leaders that God will give them guidance and discernment as to what to do," said the Joplin High School senior.

"I pray that the people who God has put into authority are blessed with wisdom."

It was the 15th straight year for "See You at the Pole" at JHS, and youths at many other area schools were gathering for the same reason. The annual student-run event gives youngsters the opportunity to pray for their schools, teachers and staff, classmates and the nation.

"This is just another chance to meet, and praise God and ask for his help in our nation," said senior Galen Rea, a member of the Fellowship of Christian Athletes' nine-member leadership team at JHS. "We pray for the president, national and state representatives, teachers, administrators and students."

The half-hour event, which began with a Christian song and ended with students breaking up into prayer groups, drew an estimated 60 participants, said Torrie Epperson, FCA teacher sponsor at the Joplin school.

Epperson said the school's FCA chapter, which sponsors the prayer gathering, has seen a big increase this year.

"We have been running between 100 and 150 members," she said. "It takes an amount of boldness to take a stand with FCA. They have to be strong."

Kevin Deems, who played a drum in the opening song, said he geared his prayer toward just such boldness.

"I prayed that all the people here have the faith to stand up in school and show what they are all about," said Deems, a member of a local Christian band who has attended the event all four years he has gone to JHS. "I try to make a Christian impact, and always be happy and not do anything wrong."

Although the students met at an early hour before the start of school, their activity still drew attention.

"This is outside so it is a noticeable presence," said Barry Sanborn, president of the Area Wide Youth Ministers' Fellowship and youth minister at First United Methodist Church. "You have people driving by who notice what is happening."

Rea said he hoped people would be encouraged by what they saw.

"I think our praying is stirring a lot of questioning and wondering in people's minds and hearts," said Molly Collins, another FCA leader who has participated in the prayer event since the seventh grade at Memorial Middle School. "It makes them ask, 'What's going on? What makes these people come out in the morning?'"

A related event, the "See You at the Pole Rally," sponsored by the Area Wide Youth Ministers' Fellowship and Christ in Youth, was conducted Wednesday night at Memorial Hall.

Prayer Frog

So, last night before going to sleep, Mandi and I took a moment to pray together, which, BTW, is a habit common to strong Christian relationships. Anyway, before praying we were talking about our relationship and came to the realization that we don’t laugh together nearly as often as we used to. Of course, we could have spent several hours psychoanalyzing this unhappy trend, but it was late and we were tired, so we decided just to pray about it. Our prayer, just before curling up to sleep was that God would help us to laugh more.

I KID YOU NOT, within 5 minutes, as I was in that odd stage between awake and asleep, I felt a wet PLOP! on my face. Now, I don’t know about you, but I personally do not have a fondness for wet PLOP! at any hour, let alone the moment I am nearly asleep. Perhaps your different. If so, your are a freak. Get used to it. Anyway, a moment after feeling the wet PLOP! land on my back I also felt it begin to move. Then, with reflexes and coordination that would make an Olympic athlete jealous I did three things simultaneously. First, I efficiently informed my wife through a gentle scream, that something was amiss. Second, I reached up, grabbed the PLOP! and hurled it across the bed. Third, I began fumbling for the lamp next to the bed. After a moment of fumbling I reached the switch, and in that same moment I felt another PLOP!, this time on my back. I froze. The PLOP! moved. I turned on the switch and urgently asked Mandi what was on me.

MANDI: Huh?

JON: WHAT IS IT???!!!
MANDI: A frog.

JON: WHAT?!

MANDI (giggling): There’s a frog on your back.

JON: WHAT THE…?! GET IT OFF!

MANDI (Handing me the frog, and out right laughing now): Here. Don’t hurt it.

I dropped the frog. Then I chased it halfway across our bedroom. By the time I had it, we were both laughing. I left it outside on the back porch.

How did a tree frog happen to be in our bedroom? I have no idea. Does God answer prayer? You’d better believe it.

Fishing

YesterdayI had the unexpected privilege of fishing Indian Creek with Steve Patterson (SRBA DOM). I was thoroughly outfished, but then again, I brought the wrong tackle, which didn't help. Still, it was a beautiful day, beautiful water, good company and the fish were definitely biting. Between the two us Steve and I landed 72 fish, all warmouth and smallmouth bass. I kept a string of the warmouth we caught, and my last catch (number 21 for me) was a nice 14-inch smallmouth. We used weedless plastics that imitate hellgramites. Most of the fish were tiny (6-inches or less), but hey, they were still fish, and there were enough of them to keep us busy. Indian Creek is a beautiful, pristine, crystal clear stream with tons of fish; aside from what we caught I saw plenty of stone cats and suckers. Anyway, it was a great day of fishing, worthy of rememberance.

I can't vouch for the integrity of the links on this page. They're the best I found without really looking. The one on Indian Creek, in particular, is sketchy. The strech we fished was definitely not navigable other that wading, and that would be true regardless of season or rainfall...

Labor Day at Lake Eufaula

THE SMITHS AT LAKE EUFAULA

We spent the last four days down at Lake Eufaula for the Trask Family weekend. Of course, 'Trask Family' has been redefined now to include all the in-laws, several outlaws and even me. A few memories: Angie Douthit falling in the Lake. Catching loads of crappie, daily. Watching Dick Potts' dock swarm with everyone under 20 trying to catch fish, and usually succeeding. Aunt Bobbie throwing her first attempt at Hillbilly Horseshoes into the aerial on top of Dick and Teats' house. Uncle Rod's bacon (it was good). My first attempt to smoke crappie and catfish (it wasn't good). Sitting around on Sunday as everyone with a talent of any kind performed, like it or not, in the 'church' service. The Old Farts kicking the tar out of the Young Punks at beach volleyball, where old age and treachery beat youth and skill once again.

Angie in the lake.

Alyssa and a happy puppy.

Nate's first catfish!

A few of the younger crowd at the party, from left to right: Kaylee Douthit, Ryan Trask, Matt, Aaron Trask, Shelby, KC Trask, Nikki Trask, Tim, Whitney Douthit, McKenzie Douthit, Channing.

Devo VII: Risk for God

We risk for him to the degree that we know we are loved by him. (Brennan Manning)

For God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son... (Jesus)

Based on the level of commitment I see in most Christians, I'd say we have a hard time believing that God really does love us. I mean, if we really bought that whole 'unconditional love' thing, we'd all be radical for Jesus, but we aren't. Most of us are so insecure in our faith you'd have a hard time guessing we were Christians in the first place, or that we'd had a God experience so magnificent that it changed our lives forever. We look, smell and sound just like the world. And if that's how we're going to play out the rest of our lives, why did Jesus bother coming at all? Every Christian is living every moment in the intimate presence of God. That should make us dangerous to the world; a threat to the darkness. How dangerous are you?

To live dangerously is not to live recklessly, but righteously. And it is because of God's radical grace for us that we can risk living a life of radical obedience to Him. (Steve Camp)

Tats, the new mullet

Tats. I realize that tattoos can be a delicate subject around Christians (they are specifically forbidden under Old Testament law, but so is wearing a cotton/poly t-shirt), and I definitely don’t feel like waxing philosophical on y’all, but since tats are the rage right now, and by that I mean “FAD” (like parachute pants, big hair, and pet rocks) I do have something to say on the matter.

Ever look back back at old pictures of yourself and cringe? If you haven't it, let me assure you that its only because you're too young to have old pictures. The rest of the world though has these photos, photos we thought made us look so cool we saved them, only to realize, years later, that fashion is SOO temporary! Think something's cool now? Wait 10 minutes, it'll change. And that's no big deal when we're talking about the bell-bottom pants of the 70's or the 'big hair' of the 80's, but tats are different. Ink is forever, basically. (Yes, you can have them removed, but its a long painful expensive process, not a quick trip to the trash can or barber shop.)

Anyway, I was discussing tats (the new mullet) with my wife yesterday when I happened to gaze over at a picture we have framed next to our fireplace. And I thought to myself, “Self, that picture is a piece of art, just like a tat is a piece of art, so what’s the difference? Why should anyone not get a piece of body art?” And the whole thing would have ended right there, except that my brain kept working, which occasionally does happen, and I answered myself, “dude, in thirty years that pic be the fire will look exactly the same, but a tat will not. You want to compare apples to apples? Crumple the picture up into a wrinkly wad, then put it back under the glass.”

The simple fact is that living tissue is just not good canvas, period. Its inferior, and therefore degrades the art rendered upon it. Why not get a tat? Skin wrinkles, that’s why. Ever met a WWII navy vet? They all have this blue smudge on their arm that you see when you shake hands with them. It was a cool hip tat once. Now its illegible, ugly and kinda funky lookin’. Knowing that whatever I ink up now will look like that in 30 years is why I don’t have any tattoos.

Theological? Not in the least, but true nonetheless.

Order of Service II

so, I totally lied about keeping track of the services I've taken a role in leading. I've been terrible about it. Still, I try. Here's another.

Warren's Branch Baptist Church (AM)

Hymn: Standing on the Promises
Hymn: Higher Ground
Announcements and Birthdays
Hymn with Greeting: Amazing Grace! How Sweet the Sound
Offertory Hymn: Trust and Obey
Sermon
Invitation: Turn Your Eyes Upon Jesus

Warren's Branch Baptist Church (PM)

Announcements
Specials: Paul Case

1. Make Me A Promise
2. Sky Full of Angels
3. The Old Rugged Cross Made the Difference

Sermon
Invitation

Baptism

Few are the fathers who can claim to have baptized their own children. Tonight I stand among them. All three of my kids have asked Jesus into their hearts, freely, of their own accord. Now Alyssa, who accepted Christ on her own at the age of four (she later informed us of what she had done) has been baptized. It was the opening act of Forest Park Baptist Church's Saturday night 'Crosswalk' service. Awesome, and humbling. God has graced me more than I will ever deserve.

Family History

Yestday I went fishing with my dad (Stan) and father-in-law (Jack) at Lake Eufala, OK. We were after crappie and had a great day. The wind stayed low, the temperature was seasonably cool, the sun was out and the fish were biting. We hauled in somewhere between 60-75 slabs. It was neat to share that day with Stan and Jack since they are so important to me and they live so far apart...

Anyway, while we were out there my dad told a story I can't remember ever hearing about before. Its a sad tale, but true, and worth of keeping alive in our collective familial memory.

Late in his life, George Smith, my grandfather, apparently had Alzheimer's Disease. But it was the 1960's, and no one really knew what that was yet. So, Helen, his wife, became his caretaker. (Nothing unusual so far.) One day, in a state of dementia, George, who was a life-long hunter, got hold of one of his rifles and held Helen hostage in the house they shared on Main Street in Springfield, OR. He apparently couldn't remember who she was... He made threats to her life. The police were called in. Traffic was diverted off Main Street. A standoff ensued. Finally, Steve (Stan's older brother, my uncle), walked right up to George, grabbed the rifle and said something akin to, "Dad gimme that! What are you doing?" End of story, except to say that dad, a Vietnam vet, was thoroughly impressed with Steve's courage. (Steve couldn't go to Vietnam for health reasons.) As I said, sad. George loved Helen, but Alzheimer's, the most despicable disease on planet earth, doesn't care. Ultimately, as George's mind was taken from him, his identity stripped away, it made life for Helen miserable. To love someone and have to bear the burden of watching them lose control of their mind, and ultimately, their body, puts a strain on a relationship that is almost too much to fathom.

Niagara Falls

Mike and Audrey Fultz with the Smith fam.















Mandi @ Niagara Falls (American)















The view from our hotel room. Sweet!















Mandi and Jon at Niagara Falls.















Ready for The Maid of the Mist voyage!















Jon & Mandi at Niagara Falls (Horseshoe).

Yeah, it was a sweet trip. We got to help Audrey and Mike get hitched, (YAY!!!) and even managed to work in a quick trip to see Niagara Falls. By the way, the place is totally overrun by Indians. Seriously, even the restaurant of the Ramada Inn where we stayed smelled like curry, which isn't a bad thing, mind you, its just an interesting development. I didn't expect to see so many Indians there. Basically, we got there late at night, walked to the falls from our hotel, went to bed, did the Maid of the Mist, and headed for home.

University of Oregon filth

In the off chance you hear about the recent filth published by a student paper at the U of O, please accept my humblest apologies. The students responsible are clearly ignorant, rude, even pitiable. They need help. Please don't encourage them by visiting their website or otherwise interacting with them. Silence is what they need. Well, silence and a club over the head with a mace, but Jesus wouldn't like the mace.

Another authentic moment

So, as I struggle throught this issue of worshipping the full range of human emotion, like David of old, I wrote a song, which fact I find amusing since I am about as musically adept as a clam. Still, a song I wrote, and although the music is trapped forever in my feeble mind, the lyrics are here. I call it Joy in the Rain. I wrote it as an attempt to express what so many of us feel in the midst of various trials. Its not pretty, but neither is most of life.

Joy in the Rain

I am weary, Lord.
I am wounded, Lord.
In the fire, Lord, there’s pain.

Oh, I suffer, Lord.
I am tired, Lord.
And my heart just wants to give in.

Through the fire, Lord,
And through rain
I just can’t see any joy…

Through the rain.
Through the rain, Lord,
I can’t see any joy
In the rain.
In the rain, Lord,
I just can’t see any joy
In the rain.

I am weak, Lord.
I am angry, Lord.
I feel so alone.

Oh, I need you, Lord,
But I can’t feel you, Lord,
And I don’t understand why.

Through the fire, Lord,
And in my pain
I just can’t see the joy…

In the rain.
In the rain, Lord
I just can’t see any joy
In the rain.
In the rain, Lord,
I just can’t see any joy
In the rain.

Lord, I know you’re there.
Why won’t you answer me?
I don’t want to be alone anymore.

Lord, I’ve fought this fight.
I fought it in your name
But now I’m tired, Father,
I am bruised.

So heal me now, Lord,
Look on your child,
And take away the pain

With your rain, Lord,
Heal me now
Wash me in your rain.

In your rain, Lord
In your rain,
Heal me with your rain

With your rain, Lord
With your rain,
Lord, heal me with your rain.

With your rain.

An authentic moment

Why is it that the only Psalms we sing are the happy ones? Where is the authenticity in that? David breathed down curses on his enemies, he begged for mercy in difficult circumstances, and he wept in his pain. Regardless of what was going on in his life, David cried out to the Lord. Why don’t we do that? Why can’t we share with Jesus the emotional baggage we all carry around? Its like we’re trying to hide it from him or something. If we all just sing good songs, maybe no one will notice that I’m really bad. HOGWASH! And the really dumb thing is that we do that, then we wonder why we feel alone, why no one notices how broken we really are. We hide ourselves from the truth and call each other hypocrites for not seeing each other as we really are!

As you sow, so shall you reap.

The way of the Lord is not to hide your pain, but to heal it. And a hidden wound is never healed. Besides, do you really think God doesn’t already know? So, the next time you gather for worship notice how we sing about the greatness of God and the love of Jesus, and how blessed we are to know who God and Jesus are. It occurs to me that not everyone really feels that way. It occurs to me that a lot of us may be singing one song with our lips and something entirely different with our hearts. It occurs to me that all we ever do in our music is celebrate the joy we are supposed to be feeling, when in fact what most of us feel is not joy, but rather pain. We feel hurt and broken and alone and scared. What are we scared of? Mostly we’re scared that people will see us for who we really are, or worse, we fear that who we really are now is who we’ll always be. We fear what people might say, or how they’ll treat us if we tell them about our wounds, our pain, our loneliness.

How tragic! Tragic that we feel that way, and even more tragic that we are incapable of sharing it with anyone. And if that is true, then it is not only tragic, but terrible as well. Terrible because that is not the way our faith is supposed to work. That is not worship the way God intended it to be! If that’s the best that Christ has to offer, then you can keep Him. I don’t need a God who won’t let me be real, genuine, authentic. I don’t want that kind of God. Seriously. And while we’re on the topic, I’m not real excited about being part of a church that would bind me that way either. If all we’re ever going to do is tell each other how ‘fine’ we are, then what’s the point of asking in the first place? Why be a hypocrite?

And since we’re being real with one another now, let me add that every time we cringe when someone finally has the courage to give a real answer to the, “How are you?” question, we ought to get zapped with one of those electric dog collars that people put on their pooches to keep them from barking, or maybe a cattle prod. I mean, honestly, how deluded do you need to be to expect someone to answer, “Oh, I’m fine.”? We’re not fine!

If we were fine, we wouldn’t need Jesus so badly. But we routinely reduce the Creator of the universe to an insurance policy. We tuck Him into a neat little box that says “God” on the front of it and we slide it onto the shelf in our hearts between “Fishing” and “Ham Sandwiches.” And the only time we pull Him out is when it’s socially acceptable; on Sundays, or Easter, or when we know someone else is watching. HYPOCRISY!!!

We’re not fine. We’re struggling. We’re hurting. We’re desperate, because we’re lost. Naysayers have said that religion is a crutch. And that may be true. But I don’t need a crutch. My problem isn’t that I’m limping through life, it’s much worse than that. Jesus to me is not as much a crutch as He is an iron lung; without Him I wouldn’t just limp, I’d die. Instead, I run. In spite of my pain, in spite of my hurts, in spite of the wounds accumulated over thirty-five years of broken hopes and dreams and promises and relationships, I RUN. I live. I live well, in fact, but let’s not pretend that I’m fine. I’m not fine, I’m like everyone else. The only difference is Jesus.

Easter 2006

Our home church, Forest Park Baptist Church, does a passion play every year at Easter. Its very good. I mean, seriously, good. And, as I watched Jesus getting nailed to the cross tonight, it occurred to me that I don't really ever care to see that again. It hurts. Emotionally, it is painful and inflammatory. As I watched it I was overwhelmed with the thought, not that He suffered that for me, but that I am not worthy of His sacrifice. So I prayed. I prayed that next time, I get the cross. The idea that I might be the recipient of that amazing grace is just so powerfully overwhelming that I can't imagine standing there and not screaming out, "TAKE ME INSTEAD!" The whole thing seems silly now, but the truth is that I love Jesus, and if it took my death on the cross to keep Him off the cross, I think I'd do it. I know, I know. It doesn't actually work that way, but you get the point. I'm not worthy. None of us are. And yet He came and suffered and died on our behalf. Holy Lord, that's AMAZING! Too amazing to accept, almost. Almost, but not quite. So I'll take the offer of free salvation, and I'll rejoice that I get to live in heaven forever, and I'll give every day of my life in ransom to the Master who bought my freedom. I am a slave to righteousness, slave to Jesus Christ, and praise God for that.

Fast Freedom is perhaps the suckiest ISP in the world. I can't tell you how much time I've wasted trying to use the 'net and getting jacked up by their inferior and infuriatingly sloppy, crappy, pathetic service. About two-thirds of the time I get a 'cannot find server' message. In fact, if you are reading this, its a miracle. I had an entirely different blog all typed up, but you're stuck with this dross instead since Fast Freedom flubbed up again. Sorry. Anyway, the second paragraph here is the tail end of what I had previously planned to post...

Sometimes this year I've felt like a mad scientist flipping a switch over some hacked together cadaver on a stormy night, and now I want to shout, "It's alive!" And truly, the BSU here at Missouri Southern came to life this year. Now as we prepare to take our first faltering steps into a future I hope is as bright as the Son we serve, we have been charged and challenged to apply ourselves to God's work with an abandon that I pray will lead to a greater revelation of God's glory on our campus and in our lives.

The Rules of SPEW

Just returned from our 'Spring Retreat.' Had about 30 students come and listen to John Kelsey from the University of Oklahoma BSU talk about discipleship, leadership and missions. We also played the first ever SPEW Tournament. SPEW (Sumo Pantyhose Egg Wrestling) is a sport I invented myself in a desperate attempt to think of something crazy fun for the students to do this weekend. Although it bears many similarities to previous incarnations of pantyhose sumo action, I believe it is original to the Missouri Southern BSU. By all reports our effort was a monumental success.

The Rules of SPEW:

1. Each combatant must 'pad up' on both back and front, thus making it difficult to break an egg on the torso and creating a true SPEW challenge.
2. Each combatant will place a whole, uncracked and unboiled, egg in the toe of a thigh-high pantyhose.
3. Each combatant will 'armor up' by placing the pantyhose over the whole of their head.
4. The combatants square off in an arena defined by mutual agreement. (Having definite borders, a la sumo, forces combatants to engage in meaningful combat.)
5. The referee will ask both combatants if the are ready to SPEW, and begins the match.
6. During the match the use of the hand to commence the swinging of the egg is acceptable, but use of the arms is otherwise prohibited. Should a combatant use their hands or arms to guide their egg into their opponent, such a move will be ruled a foul and the match will be halted and begun anew.
7. The victor is determined when the first egg breaks. If it is broken on the opponent, this is victory. If it is broken in any other way, (i.e., it cracks on the floor, or the referee, or their own body, et cet.) the combatant is disqualified and the opponent is the victor.
8. Although sparring is encouraged, no official SPEW match shall take place apart from the present of a third party referee.
9. SPEW recognizes no inherent advantage in either sex, therefore there shall be no provision made for male-only or female-only tournaments. Although such tournaments may occur, coed SPEW is acceptable and encouraged.

As for our first tournament, Clayton 'Crusher' Carnahan defeated Jordan Wendland for the championship. There were 16 entries, the first round was a best-of-3 match, and the final was over in seconds when Clayton abolutely CRUSHED his egg on the side of Jordan's head. It may have been the hardest hit of the night. Ironically, Clayton and Jordan are roommates in the MoSo dorms. So, pull on your pantyhose and fight like a man!!!

Missions

I've been on more mission trips than I can easily keep track of, and all were great. Now, however, I am questioning what God may be calling to do to. As a campus minister, I have a pretty high 'Freak Tolerance,' meaning that it takes a lot to freak me out when it comes to mission work. But what I am praying about now is definitely tripping my warning systems. Will I 'freak out' for Jesus? Am I being called to something more than I would otherwise dare myself to do? Time will tell. In the meantime, I can't say more.

The Daily Grind

This just might have been the single most stressful week of my professional life. The Baptist Student Union sent three teams of students (24 people) to various parts of the country on Spring Break mission trips. The teams went to Roxborough, Colorado, Arlinton, Texas, and New Orleans, Louisiana. They will be church planting, working with underprivileged children and assisting FEMA with disaster relief efforts. Getting those trips together was brutal. By my count it was a 63 hour week, not counting the on-call hours I now have as I wait for the teams to return. That might be okay if you're a lawyer trying to make partner, but not for me. I need a vacation!

Seriously though, one of the most difficult tasks I have in life right now is trying to stike that delicate balance between family and work. It is the Gordian Knot of the young family professional, the struggle all 30-somethings with kids have to face daily. On the one hand, I'd like to just stay home every day and raise my kids right. Being a good father is VITAL to me. As one man put it, "The most important thing most Christians will ever do is raise their children properly." I take those words as truth. They may not be written in the Bible, but they are certainly implied in scripture...

On the other hand, as a minister, is there anything more important than changing lives for Jesus Christ? Can I do anything more rewarding, more satisfying, more significant- in this life, or the next- than do everything in my power to change heaven and earth one soul at a time? I love me job, and I love my family, and at this stage of life, I cannot hardly do justice to both. They are both valuable, both worthy of my time, both demanding and fulfilling, yet there is only one of me.

What's a man to do?

Age, I guess.

Devo VI

"I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of Egypt, out of the place of slavery." Exodus 20:2

DEVOTION:
If God spoke to you today would he need to remind you of all the things He's done for you? Statistics show that most Americans can't name more than 2 of the 10 commandments! How many can you name? When was the last time you read them? In this preface to the 10 commandments, God found it necessary to not only state his name, but to give the Israelites a quick 'perspective check,' Before giving them further instruction, He clarified his recent accomplishments for the people of Israel. I find that fascinating. After only a few years God had to remind Israel of the slavery they endured and the source of their freedom. I'd say that's pretty pathetic, but then again, I myself occasionally need reminded of where I'd be without Christ in my life. Although He freed me from slavery to sin and gave me hope for a new and abundant life, I sometimes need a 'perspective check' myself.

Baseball & Barry Bonds 2

And another thing, while you're out there on the steroid witch hunt, you'd better be ready to go all the way. You'd better be ready to investigate every one of the runs Barry scored off the bat of some other potentially juiced athlete, and to investigate those players whose stats were artificially inflated because a juiced Bonds hit them in. After all, their runs shouldn't count as much either. And, oh yeah, you'd better be ready to come up with a really good explanation of how Barry's alleged steroid use contributed to his patience as a hitter, how his ALL-TIME CAREER LEADER IN WALKS status was also chemically enhanced. Yes, I want an explanation as to how steroids helped him NOT swing, and how steroids helped him to take all those bad pitches.

I mean, seriously, you can't leave him out of the HOF based on hearsay, that would be stupid, and HOF voters aren't supposed to be stupid (although, there are times...) And if you're going to challenge the legitimacy of his stats, you'd dang well be ready to deal with the implications of that challenge. So, again, shut up and vote him in. Steroids or not, he's the greatest offensive force in the history of the game. Leaving him out of the Hall without physical evidence would be a travesty, a miscarriage of justice, and just plain un-American.

Baseball & Barry Bonds

Barry Bonds is a first ballot Hall of Famer, period. I want to state that opinion up front in the off chance that Barry happens to read this blog in between jacking balls 475 feet. I got your back, dude. Now how about an autographed bat? Please?

Seriously though, in the midst of all the accusations flying around about The Man, I'd like to hear just one that is worthy of jerking his HOF ticket. I KNOW you're not dumb enough to try the steroid angle. I mean, the guy has never (that's right NEVER) popped a positive in his career. And even if he does pop positive, that doesn't negate any of his seven (that's right SEVEN) MVP years, just his current performance.

Why not? Good question. First, because the ball itself is juiced. Tests have proven that the average baseball used by MLB started getting harder in the late 80's. Thus, more homeruns. And no one gets banned from baseball. Second, the parks are juiced. The current rage for band box stadiums began in the late nineties, and guess what? Small park = More homeruns. And no one gets banned from baseball. Third, the pitches are juiced. If, as the scions of this Salemesque venture are so quick to point out, steroids are uniquitous in baseball, then a significant number of the pitches that hitters see are chemically enhanced. Faster pitches travel farther when hit. Thus, more home-runs. And yet I don't see any rush to analyze the career stats of hitters who jacked one off of juiced pitchers? Hmm... Fifth, expansion of the game. The addition of the Rockies (whose altitude presents another potential asterisk for stat freaks), the Marlins, the Devil Rays, and the Diamondbacks diluted the quality of pitching more than hitting, thus producing what? Duh, more homeruns. Although it was expected that pitching would eventually catch up with hitting, it never really happened. The homerun totals just kept rising and rising and rising.

And to you naysayers who still don't believe in Bonds, let me ask you, if a juiced batter hits one out off a juiced pitcher, are they still playing baseball? Is it still a home run? Should that home run count less? The fact is that players take steroids in order to gain an advantage on their opponents, but their opponents have equal access to steroids. Illegal, yes, but FAIR. And fairness is what the competition committee is really concerned about.

Regardless of the safety factors involved in taking steroids (and we all know that its a Stupid thing to do), what MLB is concerned about, ultimately, is the integrity of the game. Do steroids threaten that integrity? Not really. If the United States government would legalize them, we wouldn't be having this conversation. Steroid use is a legal issue, not a baseball issue. Barry is right. So, shut up and vote him in... He's earned it.

Blood Drive

So yesterday we held a blood drive here at the Baptist Student Center. Working with the American Red Cross, over the course of 7 hours we managed to collect 32 pints of Dracula's favorite drink. We also had at least 7 people attempt to give, but get denied for one reason or another, mostly anemia. Ladies, please, eat your vitamins!

Anyway, I was the first donor of the day, and I have to tell you that no matter how many times I donate I will always detest doing it. From the annoyingly painful finger prick to the iodine bath of your elbow to the sight of your life flowing through a tube across your arm into a little bag, I HATE GIVING BLOOD. The problem is that I'm not sure how to out from under the moral obligation to donate. I mean, each donation has the potential to save three lives. Three. Lives. That's three people that might die without the help of people willing to open a vein for them. If you knew you could save someone's life, but didn't do it, not because you have a disease, or low iron or a fear of needles, but just because you don'e like giving blood, would that make you a pathetic weasel, or worse, a sinner? Having the ability and opportunity to give a renewable resource, something that cost you no more than a prick of the needle and fifteen minutes of your life, to someone who would otherwise die, and failing to give that gift... It smacks of cowardice, and fear and pathetic weaseliness to me. It smells like ducking a moral obligation, which the Bible calls 'SIN'.

I don't know. Clearly, there are holes in the argument, but the fact remains that my gift might save a life or three. And if Jesus was willing to bleed for me on the cross, in a much more painful and humiliaing context, shouldn't I be willing to suffer a pinch for others? He bled for me, how could I dare not bleed for others. My life is not my own.

"You are not your own, for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body." (1 Corinthians 6:19b) Is there anything more glorifying than giving of my life for the sake of others? Hmm... guess I'm stuck with it.