In A Way You're All Winners; In Another, More Accurate Way, I LIke Girls Is The Winner

Congratulations to I Like Girls for winning another one of my lame interblog contests. You may not have known there was a Best Comment Contest running- I didn't know until he won- but there was.

Here is his winning comment: "Do you know who the real heroes are? The guys who wake up every morning and go into their normal jobs, and get a distress call from the commissioner, and take off their glasses and change into capes, and fly around fighting crime. Those are the real heroes."

Well done. As before you won a Barnes and Noble gift card. Only this time you won't have to use it to buy my school books. You'll use it to buy some summer reading. Probably Against the Day and Female Chauvinist Pig. Thank you for playing and your generosity. You seem busy so I'll read them for you.

Hey you also win something else- a burned copy of Kid A by Radiohead. I'll give it to you Sunday. We'll also find out why Doolittle isn't changing your life.

The rest of you should keep trying. You never know what contest you might be losing.

I'm So Worried About Whether I Should Have Stopped Then;
I'm So Worried That I'm Driving Everyone Around The Bend

It makes sense that we spend time worrying about the things that worry us. What worries us may or may not be something that is worth worrying about, or even anything that our worrying can do anything about from someone else's perspective, but what we worry about are the things we think are worth worrying about.

Wait.

I guess I am not supposed to be worried about anything if I am a Christian.

Okay. How about "think about with interest or concern regarding the conditions or outcome of a potentially distressing or importune situation for the purpose of developing solutions?" That's what we do; we don't worry.

We spend time thinking about things in that manner, and the things we think about in that manner are the things we think are worth thinking about in that manner. If we are crafting solutions to address the problem of feral cats overrunning the streets, it's probably because we think those feral cats are a problem. So we release packs of dogs to chase away or kill the cats- problem solved.

What we think is a problem and the solutions we suggest say a little something about who we are. I guess this is a backwards way of thinking about what we say is good. Cat-free streets are good.

Our congregation has a mission statement of sorts: "Knowing Jesus Christ and Making Him Known." I think that's a good thing. I guess it means we think that's a good thing. Knowing Jesus good; not knowing Jesus bad. It might not be perfect. Someone might ask what it means to know Jesus- that's a good thing to explore and re-examine often. It is open to interpretation, but a limited interpretation. One thing it doesn't seem to suggest is that the good is building buildings that need to be filled on Sundays. We don't seem to worry- or think about with interest or concern regarding the conditions or outcome of a potentially distressing or importune situation for the purpose of developing solutions about bigger and more full church buildings. But that does seem to be a concern for some- so much so that that becomes a guiding principle.

I think about that with interest or concern regarding the conditions or outcome of that as it's a distressing and importune situation. I think about it for the purpose of developing solutions. I think about that as it relates to me, a me that understands a good to be knowing Jesus Christ, a me that understands a good to be making Jesus Christ known. Those goods require a certain relation of the church to the world.

That doesn't clarify much does it?

M'eh.

Worry Free Playlist
Letter To Memphis- Pixies
The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill- The Beatles
Bombtrack- Rage Against the Machine
Gold To Me- Ben Harper
Clampdown- The Clash
Un Bel Di- Mirella Freni
Happy People- The Weirdos
Forever Young- Bob Dylan
Reptilia- The Strokes

The Treacherous Deal Treacherously; The Treacherous Deal Very Treacherously

About two weeks before we invaded Iraq, MY PRESIDENT held a rare press conference. It was a scripted event wherein he was able to trot out all the reasons we had to fear Saddam Hussein in a Post 9/11 World. The press went along, raising their hands as if they all had an equal chance of being called, lobbing MY PRESIDENT soft-balls about his faith and the inevitability of war, not challenging his linking of Saddam to 9/11, nervously laughing as they participated in this charade but participating nonetheless.

This one event is really indicative of the role the media have largely played for this regime. They've mostly taken dictation. That's an unfortunate stance for the press to take in a democracy. Maybe I should say that's not a stance the press can take in a democracy. But that's what they did. Instead of functioning as an institution of oversight and accountability the media were largely the PR arm of this administration's case for war. Jerks.

Bill Moyers will have a special on PBS tonight about this very thing. You should watch it.

It bothers me that Christians have played a similar role. Not the same role. Christians weren't, or aren't, primarily responsible for spreading propaganda. Instead we blessed it and the actions it supported. Either actively or passively, we approved so much that we should have instead protested. We married ourselves to an agenda and people that domesticated our prophetic witness or hoped that concentrating on personal holiness would somehow spread to the highest offices. I guess we can pretend that this isn't, or wasn't the case. Or we can pretend that this is how things are supposed to be. We can be good at pretending.

My posts have felt pretty gloomy lately. I feel pretty gloomy lately. I feel like we've done something. Something that requires we publicly confess and repent but I don't know where to begin. Or how.

You're a Bum, Rock

I am a horrible golfer. Maybe it's not correct to say I am a golfer. I am horrible at golf. This is not only a statement about my skill, but also my attitude toward the game. The few times I have played, I got bored... by the third hole. It seems a bit repetitive to me.

I understand that other people enjoy golf. I see the sport and skill in it. I can see how people might find ways to challenge themselves and become obsessed with it, develop their talent, hone the physical aspects of their game, whatever else one might do to be better. I am not one of them. I don't play golf. I am also not someone who finds it necessary to belittle the sport because I don't enjoy it. Even if you can smoke and drink alcohol while you do it- it could still be a sport. Maybe especially because you can smoke and drink. I don't know. Like I said, I'm not a golfer.

I do however whack balls with a golf club. I do this for my dogs. But a while ago someone pointed out a good deal that was wrong with my swing. He implied I didn't know how to swing a golf club and hit a ball correctly. What's to know? I wind back and swing. The club head hits the ball. The ball goes in the general direction I want it to. A dog chases after the ball and brings it back. I do this well enough for my dogs.

My mistakes were pointed out, I was told exactly what I would need to do if I wanted to not only swing better, but swing correctly. He talked as if the position of my knees mattered. Like I should look someplace specific. Like he knew what was right.

He did, he was. With his advice I could hit a ball straighter and farther than I could before. I still don't have a desire to play golf. But I could if I wanted to, and I could do it right.

It turns out there's more to it than whacking a ball. Even if I did it with a lot of passion, even if I felt that God was leading me to whack that ball (maybe?) I needed somebody to tell me how I might do it better.

You might say I was coached and that coaching involved telling me what I was doing wrong and how I might do it correctly.

What If...

... we had the imagination to understand success wasn't measured in numbers?

... we stopped pretending "taking a stand for God" meant building million dollar social clubs ?

... we thought the conditions we let other people live in has something to do with the condition of our souls?

I don't like this game.

Tough Love

qweenbeen: Has that lump under your tongue gotten any bigger?
skybalon: No, I think it got smaller
qweenbeen: Ugh- it looks like it got bigger... You're appointment is tomorrow at 4
skybalon: Oh I hope I have cancer, then I'll be a hero
qweenbeen: Don't say that
skybalon: Why, it won't make me have cancer or not
qweenbeen: If you do have cancer you'll feel stupid for saying that
skybalon: No. I'll feel like a hero
qweenbeen: Stop it
skybalon: We'll see what you're saying when you're married to a hero

I'm Ready, Depression; I'm Ready, Depression

About two weeks ago at church, I had a conversation about Islam and the Qur'an. Specifically, a German judge had not permitted an immediate divorce petition (as was permissible in cases of violence) because the couple was Muslim. As far as the judge understood, the Qur'an permitted violence against wives so the wife had no claim to a quick divorce. She had to play the waiting game for a divorce just like everyone else without a special claim. If you don't know, this judge was disciplined and her decision overruled. But these details didn't make it into the popular retelling of this story. Rather, it was told that a German judge said it was permissible for a husband to beat his wife because of the Qur'an. I was asked if I knew whether the Qur'an did actually command this and many of the other horrible things we hear the Qur'an commands. I said I hadn't heard about this German case (I have now) and that I didn't know about this command specifically, but from what I had read there are, in fact, parts of the Qur'an that are very ugly. I was asked why I thought Muslims didn't denounce those horrible things in the Qur'an or the many acts of violence that allegedly find their support in it.

I suggested it was probably similar to the reasons we, as Christians, don't feel compelled to apologize for Branch Davdians, Eric Rudolph, Westboro Baptist Church, or Christian Identity groups. Or it's similar to why we would probably find a way to get out of killing people who don't show up to church on Sunday or kids that hit their parents. We rightly see those things as crazy and not a part of who we say we are.

Speaking of Westboro Baptist

Do you feel the need to apologize for this? Should you?

This has got to be performance art (repeat until you believe it).

Anyway, that explanation made sense. Or at least, in this case, what I said seemed plausible.

I desperately need to hang on to that conversation.

I thought I had some responsibility to know what was going on in the world of culturally conservative Christianity. I figured I was here for a reason. Here in the big picture- in the land of Bush Cheney '04 stickers on SUVs and Dobsonian Family Values. Here being a branch of culturally conservative Christianity and the reason being to make sure our body was not one composed merely of right wings.

It would be good for everyone, each would be tested and changed by the other in community. I change, you change, we all change for ice cream. In these relations we are each saved from the tyranny of shallow identity and opinion. Together we learn to be people that are more capable of worshipping God. We get to see things, and be, differently than we might without each other. Something like that.

Or maybe nothing like that.

That doesn't seem to be the contemporary Evangelical MO does it?

Remember the ugly cowboy Don Imus? If you had ever heard of him before last week you might have known that he always said stupid offensive things. Or you may have known that he was funny- he said what everybody was thinking and sometimes stepped on people's toes because he refused to submit to the lords of political correctness. That's how he made his money. That's why people listened to him; he said things that were stupid or bold. It depends.

Think of the nonsense, both false and offensive, the likes of Rush Limbaugh, Bill O'Reilly, Sean Hannity et al. get away with everyday... or is it the truth that they boldly proclaim? Day after day their words resonate with a particular audience and create this feedback loop where people hear what they want and need to affirm who they are as this particular audience.

It's only when they show their faces outside of these cultures that they seem crazy or offensive. But they are always that crazy. It's a closed system of crazy.

I'm not saying the church is crazy, or that my church is crazy. I'm just wondering if it's more of a closed culture than I would've thought- than I would've hoped.

I've been reminded that I am out of the loop- and that, at this point, I might not want to be what I would have to be to be in it.

You Just Don't Get It, Do You, Scott?
Jimmy Jazz- The Clash
Houses In Motion- Talking Heads
What A Friend We Have In Jesus- Mahalia Jackson
Hash Pipe- Weezer
Thalassocracy- Frank Black
Lookin' For a Leader- Neil Young
Luz Azul- Aterciopelados
Take Five- Tito Puente
Bailey's Walk- The Pixies

Nothing Expresses Gravity and Tragedy Like a Repeated Loop of Emergency Vehicles and Personnel

The commentator/anchor on MSNBC has just thought it an interesting fact that a number of gun attacks on college campuses were perpetrated by foreigners.

That is interesting.

I'm smart, so I know how to connect dots. I should be afraid of foreigners who listen to Marilyn Manson and play Grand Theft Auto.

I Had A Cinnamon Twist-Shaped Hole In My Heart

Ever since Starbucks dumped their Cinnamon Twist I'd been struggling to find the perfect pastry.

That was just over a year ago.

My life is a series of banalities.

For a while I settled on Trader Joe's Lady Fingers. Those were good, they still are, but they lack all the features that a perfect morning pastry should have.

Inside sources tell me the Cinnamon Twist is back on the register at Starbucks, suggesting a possible return of the the Queen of All Pastries some time this or next quarter. Perhaps a year of complaining and angry lettering has weakened the coffee giant. We'll see.

But even if it does return, I may not. I have found a pretty good replacement- coincidentally called a Cinnamon Twist.

I have a reason to get out of bed again.

I walk my dogs through downtown Glendora, use at least one phrase of French, my puppies get to see other dogs, I come home, make a cup of coffee, eat my Cinnamon Twist, read the news, and start homework. That's a good morning.

This cinnamon twist is really just a croissant with cinnamon and sugar so it's light, buttery and sweet. It has a crisp flakey crust but is very moist, though not dense inside. It goes well with the types of coffee I enjoy, and it won't make me fat.

That's what I want in a breakfast. All of that- and stuff I miss- is there. It's more than the pastry and the coffee. It's the dogs, it's the sun still low in the sky. It's the walk and being a regular someplace.

That's why I could never just settle on Lady Fingers. They were good. They are good, but they're not what I am looking for- even if I could not necessarily give an itemized list of what I am looking for. I wasn't just looking for something to eat- something that paired well with coffee. I was looking for a more that I would know when I found it- or I was dissatisfied with the not enough I didn't wholly know was not enough until I found more. They did the job for a while, but for that while I knew I needed something else.

And now here it is. Walking my dogs, cool air, "Bonjour- como t'allez vous. Je voudrais un Cinnamon Twist s'il vous plait", sweet, cinnamon, coffee, and the intangibles.

This should do for a bit.

That'll Do Pig
Add It Up- Violent Femmes
Blackbird- The Beatles
Happy Jack- The Who
Army- Ben Folds
Superstition- Stevie Wonder
Break My Body- The Pixies
Tired of Being Alone- Al Green

Jesus Is Never Mad At Us If We Live With Him In Our Hearts

I suppose someone could make a distinction between a non-practicing believer and a practicing non-believer. If I had to be one, I'd rather be the latter. That says something about me.

It says I'm snooty.

But I think that distinction makes some assumptions that I don't think make sense. I don't think we can separate what we believe from what we do. I think we are always practicing what we believe. Even the practice of saying "this is what we believe" is a practice that is tied to what one believes.

So in a sense, neither of the above categories makes sense. If what I practice shows what I believe, I am always a practicing believer... of something.

But as nonsensical as those categories might be, there is a strong tendency to identify Christianity as a set of beliefs, or as an issue of belief. That is, being a Christian must mean believing certain things. There is especially a bit of confusion that says something like, "I am bad. God is good. My belief in Jesus overcomes that difference." Belief in Jesus (whatever that might mean) is the key.

Belief is the key. But so often it seems whatever else belief could mean, it means something like I believe in Jesus, I don't believe in leprechauns, I believe in a heliocentric solar system, I don't believe in unicorns, I believe in gravity, I don't believe that a sea spirit will burrow into my girl parts and make me pregnant should I swim in the ocean. Jesus (and whatever Jesus might do or have done) is just some other positive fact. It's a thing to know.

Although most people don't go so far as to propose a world that is only 10,000 years old, or say that there was an ark onto which Noah loaded baby dinosaurs, Jesus is often just a thing to know along with another pile of facts that make up the whitenoise of our lives. It's all external background to the way things objectively are. These other things, Adam and Eve petting dinosaurs, emails that tell us NASA couldn't make it to the moon without accounting for a lost day, irreducible complexity, just stack up to make what we say is our belief in Jesus a reasonable thing.

That hardly seems to be belief. You don't believe in gravity. You don't believe the earth is spherical. You don't believe that fire is hot. That's just the way things are. You can say you believe the earth is spherical, but that's weird. You don't believe it- you just say it.

Now someone might say, "Well Jesus is the Son of God- that's just the way things are. Any reasonable person would look around and say "Gravity is real, and, after sitting back and taking a look at the world- they would come to a similar conclusion about Jesus. That is what anyone would believe if they were just backed into a corner and brow beaten with the evidence."

But it's not that way. Even knowing Jesus existed historically is not the same kind of thing as "fire burns." We shouldn't say that's belief. Or if we do, we should be clear that saying we believe in Jesus is not the same kind of thing as saying the earth orbits the sun.

Even if we want to call "the earth orbits the sun" thing a type of belief, it hardly seems the type of belief that means all that much. So why are we... so many evangelicals... committed to the project of making belief in Jesus as matter of fact as "It is raining?" Well it does make things easier doesn't it? Believing in gravity doesn't seem to require too much- it doesn't require anything. It just makes me seem right when I finally come around and say, "Oh hey, I'm a gravity believer."
"Welcome to the club- we're glad you finally came around."
"Yeah I feel pretty silly now- all this time not knowing gravity- but I'm on the right side of the fence now. What should I do now that I'm a gravity believer?
"Well pretty much the same things you did before, only now don't go jumping off any buildings or cliffs."
"I don't think I would've done that before-"
"Yeah but before you would have not done it without knowing gravity was behind everything."

It seems as if we think belief in Jesus can be something like "fire is hot," that the Jesus bit is "just the way things are" and the difference between a Christian and not is what one believes. That is whether one knows the way things are. This isn't to say we don't expect a Christian to do certain things- but those things happen to be the things we'd expect that every decent person does.

...sigh...

Why Oh Why Is My Cat Dead; Couldn't That Chrysler Hit Me Instead?

Look at what a baby I am. All this talk about race and religion, politics, Christianity, wah wah wah. I might as well try to find some old high school poetry for all the maudlin claptrap I've dumped on loyal visitors.

The intertubes are for funny... and porn. But you'll have to take care of the latter on your own time.

Since I've been a bit of a baby lately, here are some links to make up for all manner of self indulgent harping.

--

With the exception of Garfield, Mark Trail, Cathy and Apartment 3-G, there's really no reason to turn to the comics section of a newspaper. I can't remember if I've already linked this... Anyway, one Joe Mathlete, explains Marmaduke for us. Now I get it.

Narrative Theology: God Inc.

Somehow, this is related to my Private Easter.


If you have a half hour to kill, spend it watching The Mighty Boosh. It's a BBC Three show that will make you wonder what we're so afraid of that all we can manage are game shows of one sort or another. I mean, TV doesn't have to be oppressively stupid to be an opiate.

And speaking of lame high school poetry, this- The Mountain Goats are a lame indie band (one guy really) that I used to be into back in the time when I thought anyone that recorded on anything more sophisticated than a four track and didn't release their lo fi static on 7 inch singles was a sell out. (Not that that's all I listened to- I was a big Smiths fag back then. I just had to categorize bands by whether they were sell outs.)

I happened across this video in my interweb youtubes journey and was taken back to a time when I was just as lame as I am today- only a different kind of lame.

The internets are nothing if their not for making you feel shame every now and then too.

So funny, porn, and shame.

These Are The People In Your Neighborhood

A recent local gathering of the Minutemen was joined by a local herd of Klansmen. I'm sure I know plenty of racists, but it's a bit disturbing that they can have a party just 15 minutes east of here (although 15 minutes east can sometimes seem like 1500 miles).

I know that my having an interest in the trains running on time does not make me a Nazi. But if my interest in the trains running on time is so they can carry Jews to the death camps more quickly, no matter my protestations, I'm probably a Nazi. So maybe the Minutemen are more duck-like than they care to be. They should look into that. They should ask themselves why something like which side of an imaginary line you are from matters when it comes to surviving.

Or not. I guess I've seen the kind of answer they give to that, and it's pretty lame.

I don't think many white people realize what it is to be white. I don't mean the kind of white that is this erasure or imposition of identity where one was once Italian or Polish but is now "white." I mean just having skin that is the color of a pale cantaloupe or a trout's belly or aged ivory, any shade in the broad spectrum of color that allows one to be called white- almond, pink, the blanched pallor of death. I don't think many white people realize what it is to have the label "white" wash away any type of identity as well, but even the physical characteristics of skin go unnoticed when there is no reason to notice them. That "no reason to notice them" is a type of stealth.

It's the stealth that allows you, if you are white, to be described as "You know he has curly hair, drives that blue car... What's his name?" You're not, "You know, that Mexican chick." You're not a black male, mid to late 20s, slight build. (As if suspect descriptions on the news are ever meant to do anything more than scare you- black male, black male, black male.) You are that guy, or that lady. That tall man. That girl. Not- that black guy, that Asian girl. White people don't need the label because they are "normal."

Normal misses the novelty of walking into a Waffle House and hearing "What is he?" whispered. Normal doesn't get gawked at in a Cracker Barrel parking lot in Missouri by bright-red freckles, a camouflage muscle shirt, cut-off denim shorts, flip flops, and a yellow trucker hat. But Normal probably thinks twice about the walk and bus ride from Union Station to Dodger Stadium. So... maybe that's worth something...

I know color isn't the only normal maker. My penis might makes things normal for me. But it doesn't make it any less problematic (Take that how you will.) Places of birth, money, imaginary lines that divide nations- It seems that whatever we assume to be normal can often put us on the wrong side of some pretty significant conflicts. I tend to think part of God acting in history- in our lives- is the possibility of overcoming the way things are when we say "That's just the way things are."

What an unfortunate thing then that so much of our church life is the way things are. I don't mean how unfortunate that we've ditched our practices, or seem to think we're farmers. I mean, in this time and place- the world, we should find it problematic if we are comfortable or aren't more often on our heels. We should definitely find it troubling if we actively seek a position that is more palatable- easier to swallow, sweeter, chocolatey.

I think.

Oh and one more thing-
Buon Giorno, Roma. Che peccato, odio quei Red Devils.

Cayuco Has a Baby-Making Flute Solo
Tito Puente- Live at Birdland

Bump

Kurt Vonnegut, the satirical novelist who captured the absurdity of war and questioned the advances of science in darkly humorous works such as ''Slaughterhouse-Five'' and ''Cat's Cradle,'' died Wednesday at age 84, his wife said.

LA Times

Ah, well...

Chocolate Chip Cookies Can Give You Diarrhea

We had a handful of visitors with us for worship yesterday, but only a couple of them were "unaffiliated" strangers. The others were a spouse that normally does not come. A family member home from school. A grandchild, a nephew. The like.

We had a larger group than any other typical Sunday, but, mostly, we were more because people who miss a Sunday here or there did not miss yesterday. It was Easter, I know, but I mention this because we did not have an influx of people who only attend church on Easter or Christmas. At least, we were not inundated with strangers. This might be a cause for concern for some, but I was actually happy with that.

The last three Sundays I dressed more formally than I usually do because I planned on wearing a suit, or at least a sport coat on Easter, and I didn't want anyone to make a big deal about it. So I wore a sport coat, big deal.

I sometimes go get a cup of coffee before worship on Sundays, but this Sunday I was reluctant because of this sport coat. I imagined making enough of an impression on others that someone would think "Oh, he's going to church." Even if only in that quick way we register others: early morning public Bible Studier, Skin industries White supremacist, cheerleader, reluctant mom, dog walkers, etc... I didn't want to be "Easter Church." I suppose if I were more Comfortable I could parlay this acknowledgment into a Can I Interest You in a Brochure About Christianity Moment. But I am not that guy. Remember, I am the guy that is glad we did not have too many strangers horning in on our worship yesterday. Especially yesterday. I wanted it to be private.

I should confess. I have universalist tendencies that I think are perfectly orthodox. Though my comfort with that word probably puts me on the outs with people who imagine they hold the keys to the orthodox cage. But I think these tendencies have to be expressed in a very particular setting- and not just any shmo can come along and know what's what. At least what's what for us. I don't believe Jesus died for believers, that is I don't believe He died for the elect- or I believe something along those lines depending on what we mean by elect. I believe Jesus died, but more importantly His life could not be conquered by death, for everyone. Not that everyone knows what that means- or that we can easily state what that means, but we're learning. And I hope we're learning that it's not bland pellet future food. It is everything we need but not in some tasteless, easy to swallow, self contained, nutritionally complete pill. It stinks like boiled cabbage. It's gamey like goat. It picks up a sweetness or heat from the soil where it's grown. (But it's not the soil where it's grown.) It's Scharfenberger, not Hershey's. It's Queso Fresco, not Velveeta.

I guess I can't catch the vision that I be fuel for a worldwide church multiplication movement that our grandchildren's grandchildren will be compelled to expand though I want to know Jesus Christ and make Him known.


That's A Bit Inside- I know
The Bends- Radiohead

That Was My Skull

I wonder how many moments there are like this in one's life.

Death doesn't stalk. It waits. It reads the paper. Plays video games. Stares out the window. It has time to watch infomercials and listen to Top 40. It sits on your couch in a stained gray t-shirt getting high, leaving its crap everywhere. You will die, but death doesn't chase you; it finally bumps into you indifferently.

Maybe the first and last leaves to fall from a tree matter. Someone might take notice of that. But the rest, the mess in between, is compost.

Death is not ambitious. It doesn't have to be. And so, I bet, there are many moments when the President of Ford Motor Co. keeps us from igniting a tank of compressed hydrogen. When the Stater Bros. cashier calls us back to initial a receipt and puts us 3 seconds behind an accident. When our iPod stops a bullet meant for our chest. When a stack of dirty magazines somehow smothers a house fire. When we smoke and drink heavily for 50 years and still don't have cancer.

Remember When Weezer Was Good?
Make Believe- Weezer

No Hope No Harm, Just Another False Alarm

Last night I dreamt that Dick Cheney and I were on Ministry and Counsel together. We had reviewed our membership lists and decided to visit those whom had not been a part of our congregation for some time and tell them they wouldn't be members.

Our first visit was to an elderly couple in Pasadena. Dick was very close to them and was clearly upset. He always seems angry so I couldn't tell if there was something about the visit that was particularly upsetting to him, or he was just being Dick Cheney.

There was plenty to be upset about. We were driving an old Plymouth Valiant with heavily Armor Alled vinyl seats so it took a great deal of effort to keep from sliding around at every turn. It was hot and though the A/C was working, it would blow intensely cold air on just one spot of your body- my feet were freezing while the rest of me was roasting. Dick was experiencing the same thing- and worse. He was wearing a heavy morning coat that was crumpling with all the sliding around and it was soaking with his sweat at the collar. He doesn't normally seem that awkward, but with his coat, sweat, and the sliding around causing him to huff and grumble, he had all the grace of a cockroach, being swept across a kitchen floor... swearing the whole time.

It also could have been he was angry about having to tell his friends they were no longer members. He might have resented me coming along, but we were supposed to do these meetings in pairs and he wanted me to drive.

Even though it was the hottest part of midday for our drive, when we arrived it was dark. We parked on the street and walked up a long curving driveway lined with tall junipers on one side and a series of empty flagpoles on the other. He asked me what we were going to say and I pulled out some notes from our Ministry and Counsel meeting to refresh his memory. He slapped them out of my hand and told me I had better know what we were going to say by now or I could just stay in the car. I told him if he had a problem he'd better get it off his chest now and not take it into our meeting.

He said the whole thing was a problem, he said if anyone should be kicked out of the church it was me, and people like me who didn't deserve to be in the same church as these folks. He said the meeting itself was a problem and said it was a shame, but a typical shame of my generation, that I would go around telling people who does and doesn't get to be a Christian.

I asked him if he really thought that's what we were doing. I explained to him what I thought membership was and though this couple would no longer be members, they were welcome and encouraged to come worship with us or find a place where they could pursue active and vital membership. He wanted to know why I thought that was something we could ask of people. He asked who I thought I was that I got to tell people better and older than me what it means to be a part of a church. I tried to answer him but the words started condensing and falling out of my mouth like heavy objects. They slowly fell to the ground like a dying helium filled balloon but they were dense. They hit the ground, leaving a crater but were carried off by the wind, chipping the stairs and driveway, and knocking over potted plants until they were out of sight.

An old man answered the door. He was thin and gray. His eyes were cloudy but he could speak and move faster than his appearance suggested. He invited us in. The house had not been redecorated since the early 1970s. It still gave the impression of wealth. But it was a wealth that had stagnated or happily settled on recreating a villain's lair from Thunderball or Live and Let Die.

We went into a living room and the old man's wife quickly entered with milk and Ritz crackers. Dick and I sat on a love seat and our hosts sat across from us in a couple of square, low-backed, yellow velour armchairs. We were separated by a smoked glass coffee table. They were all speaking with each other but I couldn't hear what they said. None of their sounds, gestures, or looks were clear to me. I couldn't tell if they were talking about me, why we were there, the weather, the crackers, or what. Then Dick spilled his milk and he told me to clean it up. When I stood up I saw sugar had been falling out of my pockets and left two piles on the love seat. I asked Dick if he would clean that up while I looked for some towels. "Oh, it's going to be like that?" he said.

I found the kitchen. They had white metal cabinets and bright red countertops. There were towels on the counter by the sink, but all the counters were shoulder height and I couldn't reach anything. I pushed a chair to the counter and its feet dragged on the kitchen floor- screeching and echoing. I grabbed a towel and turned on the kitchen faucet. The pipes started rattling and squealing. Dick came in and tried to tell me something. He was frantically slapping his thighs and his mouth was moving like a cow's chewing cud. His lower jaw just rotated up and down while choked gurgling sounds stuck in his throat. I started to disappear behind a curtain of suffocating steam and then I woke up. How lame is that?

I was woken up by the screaming of a neighbor's cat gettin' it on.

So I took the puppies out to go pee.

I Don't Mean To Be Hip But This Album Rules
The Arcade Fire- Funeral

Public Speaking 101

I know someone who often backs up the emptiness of his words with a quivering voice. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen him publicly speak and he has not started crying or whispering as if all ferklempt. I can't decide which is worse though: pretending to cry to make your point, or pretending to be angry.

A Confession For The Deaf

I get that the cup size naming system at Starbucks seems a bit pretentious, but there is a reason for it. There used to be only two sizes: Short and Tall. Short was smaller and Tall was larger. But we're not Americans if we're not turning blessings into curses, so enough coffee wasn't. We wanted more, we want more, so the Grande was introduced as an even larger size. For a time it was the largest.

Still, some Smiths were having trouble keeping up with those Joneses who were making a great go of cancer and vascular disease via their consumption habits. So in submission to the demands of the market, Starbucks came up with yet an even larger size: the Venti. Now confusion might come about because grande sometimes means large and we often think large is... large, but in the Starbucks world Grande seems to mean medium. Well, okay it might seem like that, but a Grande is large (16 oz. of whatever it is you drink). A Venti is simply larger (20 oz. of whatever it is you drink). A large is large, but a Big Gulp is larger. That's one way to imagine it.

But we can also pretend that we don't know grande means large. In the world of Starbucks, it (especially as Grande) is just a symbol that means "a hot 16 oz. drink." Similarly, Venti is just another that means "a hot 20 oz. drink."

Italians mean twenty when they say "venti." Starbucks means something like a 20 oz hot drink, though it could mean something like "extra large." Italians mean big when they say "grande," and as I said, "Grande" was the first attempt at making a larger size for fat 'mericans. The naming motif was all a part of that emulating Italian coffee culture bit. In any case, you can have 8, 12, 16, or 20 oz. of hot drink at Starbucks.

So there, you can understand what those words mean.

Well...

As a Starbucks employee I didn't care if someone didn't know the history of the size names. Nor did I care if they said "large" when they meant "Venti" or "small" when they meant "Tall." I would care if they said "Tall" but meant "large." I would care because it would cause a problem for me- the problem starting with the statement, "That's not what I ordered..." I wouldn't care so much that I would need to give anyone a comment on names, only enough to remake a drink or retake an order with a crooked smile.

So...

One time, a particular customer asked for a plain Grande coffee. He made a point to tell me that he didn't drink those "froo-froo drinks." A lot of men found it necessary to point that out- that there was something not masculine in espresso mixed with milk and various flavored syrups. Sometimes they would tell me their wives ordered their fancy drinks. Sometimes they stumbled over the name of a drink- demonstrating how unfamiliar they were with ordering it, and also showing me how a real man doesn't need to make himself clear or meet someone halfway.

Ahmadedijad... Ahmendijad... Ahmadijad...

Other real men would emphatically order a regular drip coffee, "Can I just get a regular coffee- d'you still make those?" They would point out how silly the whole coffee culture was and explain to me how none of the other drinks counted as coffee. Whatever the specifics, they had made ordering coffee an expression of manliness.

So because he said Grande I grabbed a 16 oz cup and started serving his coffee. And he repeated, "Can I get a Grande coffee."

I paused, and asked if he wanted another in addition to the one I was already getting. He said he just wanted a Grande coffee.

Okay.

"Oh," I said, "You want the largest size. Sorry about that." I got him his "large" coffee and handed it to him saying, "Maybe it's silly but we call our largest size a Venti- we were just speaking different languages there."

That could've been the end of it. But he wouldn't be manly if it was. He had to say, "I know, that's because it's French." "Actually, I think it's Italian," I said.

"No. It's French." And he walked away.

I was mostly struck by the confident ignorance. There's a lot of that going around and it's largely tolerated, excused, or even honored. At least it seems honored in certain quarters- quarters where "not knowing" is a virtue. Where book-learnin' is snobbery. Where listening to others is weakness. Where not staying the course is cutting and running.

So I tried an experiment with a friend the other day. I decided I would say things that are completely and verifiably wrong to see how people would respond. I said a lot of things that I thought would count. I was called on one and, like a real man, I stood my ground.

"Such and such is in this place."
"Isn't it in 'blank?'"
"No- It's not.'"

...

It wasn't easy. I'm not suggesting that I don't frequently say something incorrect. I do it all the time. That's easy. But I'm sure I often don't know if I'm saying something wrong, and those times when I am told I am wrong, I'm correctable. What was difficult was knowing that I was being a jerk, both through my experiment, and for insisting that I was right. Or rather, for playing the role of the jerk by equating being right with self-assuredness, confusing being right with an inability to be wrong.

My friend didn't press the issue. In part because I was pretty good at making it clear I would not yield. And I'm sure, in part, because he's not a dick. But for that time, I was.

So there you go. I might be a jerk. But I learned something. (Something I probably already knew or could have learned without being a jerk- but what are you gonna do?)

Where can we go when I say something is this and you say it's this? We're not talking about the same thing and it's not just a matter of confusion.

So some guy insists Venti is French.

I insist Tubingen is in Switzerland.

Big deal. We move on.

But someone says "Liberty is 'This'" or "'Such' is the Word of God." Those might be the very things around which we cannot move- the kind of things that put an end to we. We say no such thing, and if we can, we become something else.

So what? We're always becoming something. I became a someone who knows Venti means something. Maybe that's worth something; maybe it isn't. Who's to say we shouldn't be a people who mean, "You handle snakes and I have five spouses and it's all good" when we say, "The Lord may direct each of us in different ways. We also know that individuals cannot and should not manage every decision that a group may face. So, we trust one another to hear and follow God's direction?" Maybe that means something to some "us," but it seems like the kind of statement that seeks to undermine the very idea of any "us" that can say anything. It seems like the kind of statement that says, "I say this and you say this but at least we're both talking about color... though we'd never know." Sure, words can mean anything; but for them to mean something, they can't mean everything. There is some we that says, "this is this." Otherwise we're not saying anything to each other, let alone saying something.

"This is God's Kingdom we're talking about." This is indeed.

-Venti is French
-Venti is Italian
-No. It's French.
-Really? Uno, due, tre, quattro, cinque, sei... venti. That's Italian. Un, deux, trois, quatre, cinq, six... vingts. That's French.
-Venti is French.

What more is there to say? A nylon Bible case, a Bluetooth earpiece, a silk shirt, and spiked hair= impenetrability. We don't mean the same things, and similarly, we don't do the same things. "Venti Is French" doesn't want to know. "Venti Is French" practices not knowing. Not knowing makes his world stronger. But his is a world no more possible for me than one wherein I sacrifice my hypothetical children to the moon or being filled with the spirit means I do holy jumping jacks or the holy seated-cabbage patch (?)

We have to be a we that means something. We have to be a we worth being.

This House Is Ours, This House Is Ours
Mars, The Bringer of War- Gustav Holst
I Held Her in My Arms- Vilent Femmes
Gardening at Night- REM
How Deep is The Ocean- Stan Getz
Shelter From the Storm- Bob Dylan
Do You Realize??- The Flaming Lips
Light and day- The Polyphonic Spree
The Great Wall- Dead Kennedys
Let's Go to Bed- The Cure
Gotta Jibboo- Phish
Virtual Insanity- Jamiroquai
Mr. Syms- Jon Coltrane
Hot Cha- They Might Be Giants
The Holiday Song- The Pixies
On a Holiday- Brian Wilson

The Media Are Not Telling The Whole Story

I love those moments of ironic truth one sometimes finds in the Bible- like after Jesus rescues Lazarus from the grave and was becoming dangerously popular, Caiphas says, "You do not understand that it is expedient for you that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation should not perish," or some such. Another is when Pilate seems to know Jesus has done nothing wrong and tries to clear his conscience of killing him with the whole washing his hands bit, he hands him over to be crucified with the crowd yelling, "His blood be on us and on our children!"

Ha ha- those are good ones, God.

So I wonder what it means that Political Maverick John McCain says the media don't give us the whole story on Iraq. What does he really mean to show during his recent Iraq junket; is this one of those God's ironic truth moments? Does it mean despite his worst efforts, little bits of honesty will keep interrupting his campaign? Does it mean he will be dogged by the truth like some latter day Peter?

If that's the case, maybe he still is a political maverick.

Some people may take issue with me seeing the scriptural and political intersecting like this, but some people have no more sense than a baby.