They say age is a state of mine, but I will tell you it is also a state of body. There are things that at 18 I could do without thought, that now require preparation and perhaps even a new pair of shoes. Hiking across campus is one of those things.
My mind, which still thinks I am 20-ish, doesn't register the distance between Columbine Hall and Dwire Hall as any big thing. My body, and in particular, my aching feet, say differently. With 10 minutes to get from one part of campus to the other, and parking such an issue that I cannot drive from one building to the other, park, and arrive in time. This is a hike, and an uphill one at that. Moving as quickly as I can, I am easily outpaced by the flip-flop set in their short shorts, and barely make it in time.
What I found upon arriving at my first class on Monday was not what I expected.
I had just finished reading about an elementary school teacher and her excitement about getting the room ready, the chalkboards freshly cleaned, the floors buffed to a high shine and the desks situation just so. I had similar expectations of freshly cleaned rooms, bright white, whiteboards and neatly ordered rows of chairs/desks.
The first room has more desks than can reasonably fit, and the stacked ones take up room that the setup ones need. The one-armed chair/desks are so closely shoved together that it is hard to get beyond the first chair, and I have no explanation for the rows being so crooked. If there were a fire it would be nearly impossible for me, seated in the back to maneuver my way to safety. The whiteboards show the remnants of many other classes, even though this is the first class of the first day of the first semester of a new year. All in all, not what I was expecting, but I'm still probably the happiest and most excited student there.
This semester I am going half-time, so my two classes are Logic and Reason and Public Speaking. What a lot of fun.
Another thing that changed since I was 18 is my eyes! I'm having trouble reading my textbooks and can't get new glasses 'til our insurance kicks in sometime in September or October. Yikes.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Hike to Mysterious
I found this piece while cleaning out my nightstand. I wrote it in November 2002 for a class on nature writing. Hope you enjoy it.
I have often told my family not to bury me when I die, but instead to sprinkle my ashes in the place which calls to me in the stillness and quietness of my spirit. Instead of a manicured lawn covered in precisely placed headstones, I want to be remembered in the place which in its serene wildness speaks of who I am and who I want to be. It is the place I think of when I remember my dad before age and illness stole his strength and vitality. It is, of all places I love, the place I consider my true home, my church, my cathedral, where choirs of trees sing to the music of the water and the birds harmonize an anthem of praise to their creator. The memory of it calms me when I need it most.
Our first attempt to get to Mysterious Lake had us gasping for air above timberline, with no lake in sight—Mysterious in name, mysterious in location. Following that attempt, my Dad made other trips and, with my older brother, had found his way in over a punishing seven-and-a-half mile trail. Too long and strenuous for the entire family, Dad sought an alternate route.
As I sit here in the city, I think back…and in the blink of an eye I am back. Back in 1972, eight years old, ready to embark on a trip that could bring success or failure. I can still be eight years old and back on the trail, any time I close my eyes—drying my boots by the fire, looking out over Mysterious Lake, just the way it was the first time we hiked in. Back, before others discovered our trail, before dirt bikes and ATV tires tore up the trails and churned up the creek beds—when it was as innocent and untamed as I was.
That first successful trip begins after a journey over the Continental Divide, past the large expanse of Taylor Reservoir, past the beaver dams where we’ve camped and fished for years, and up rough logging roads, where our small Toyota stations wagon scrapes and groans over rocks and downed trees. At the end of the logging road, we leave the car behind, tugging on our outerwear and check for the last time to see if we have the essentials for a trip in the backcountry.
After an uphill hike of nearly an hour, we reach an unmarked road. (On our return trip we will trace this road back down and find that we could have entirely eliminated the first hour of the hike.) We follow the road up to the end and stand in our heavy clunky boots, overweight packs on our backs, staring up an impossibly steep hillside. We are following Dad with his axe, ready to blaze the trail, topographical map in hand.
Moments later, I am scrambling up the hill, tiny rocks skittering down, kicked loose by my boots, still damp from crossing the creek. I can smell the pines and hear the heavy breathing of my family, the path too steep and too hard for talking. I can’t quit, I tell myself, though with each step I want to stop and wait for their eventual return.
At the top I half sit, half lean against a boulder, not taking my pack off for fear I won’t be able to lift it back onto my screaming shoulders. There are faint sounds of camp robbers (gray jays) and robins calling each other and rustling sounds of chipmunks in the underbrush.
The sun is warm through the pines as a cool breeze dries the sweat on my face and neck. The rest is all too brief. “Let’s go.” Dad is ready, so we rise to follow him.
There are six of us on the trail, but up here, with the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and the sound of my own labored breathing, I feel alone, but not lonely. My boots are heavy, and their sure footing gives me a feeling of confidence and strength as I follow Dad down the hill.
Thwack. The echo of metal striking wood is followed by the sound of flesh being torn from a tree ahead. As I pass, I admire the fresh blazes, the sap beading and glistening in the fresh wooden wound.
At the bottom of this hill we must cross another stream and then across the mire of the marsh, the muck clinging to my boots when I step off the high ground. I slap at the multitudes of mosquitoes rising from the vegetation to feast on my blood, drawn by my exhaled breath. The grasses are lush, the leaves wide and green, making a lovely swishing sound as I pass.
At the far end we stop before taking on the second steep hill, and I try to knock the mud off my boots, drinking water from my canteen (We didn’t worry about giardia in those days.) It tastes so good, so refreshing when I’m in the high country. No chlorine. No impurities. Liquid silver poured by heaven’s hand.
At the end of the short but rough trail, we come out of the pines into a wide meadow, at the top end of a small lake. We have arrived.
I am as yet unaware of spectacular places like Niagara Falls or the Mediterranean, so the dark waters reflecting the pale blue sky and wispy clouds overhead strike me as the beauty of a daisy—hardy, cheerful and pure. The waters are as clean as the first snow, as cool as the first winter chill, as refreshing as the first drought-ending rain. The lake seems to hide great mysteries in the depths. To the south, above a broadening meadow, treeless peaks fill the vista, snow clinging to the ramparts. We won this view by virtue of our sweat and blisters, by the climb that leaves us sitting, thighs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, shoulders aching from carrying all our gear over one and a half of the most grueling miles I will ever encounter. I feel triumphant, healthy, alive—and tired. My older brother takes his pack off, lays back, closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
I made that same trip many times as I was growing up. I hope to hike that trail ‘til the hair on my head is a white as my father’s and the skin on my face as lined as the map that showed him the way in. I long to follow the still visible blazes into my favorite spot on earth.
No matter how many times I’ve been there, the first time, the effort the newness, and the wonder remain etched in my mind. Each swing of my father’s ax is a tick in the clock marking the days of my childhood, so quickly gone. Each step is imprinted in my muscles and memory by the sheer will to dominate that trail and soaked into my skin by the rewarding delight of swimming in the shivery shallows of Mysterious Lake.
Today, despite the damage left by others, and the occasional discordant roar of a motorbike engine destroying the peace, what’s left is the soaring hawk above, the trout below the dark water, the quick sighting of an elk across the lake. There is a vista without power lines, without roads and without the trappings of a modern civilized life. It is a place where you must be alert to the ever-present danger of nature in all its wildness, and the inattention that can cause catastrophic injuries so far from assistance.
I close my eyes and hear my boots crunching on the trail, smell the sweet pines and decaying undergrowth, feel the sun filtering through the trees, the gentle breeze and the strain on muscle and will. That first trip is the pinnacle, and when I am too old or too feeble to climb that trail again, I will still remember cold water, warm sun, hard boots, and the sweet scent of pines. Life never gets better.
I have often told my family not to bury me when I die, but instead to sprinkle my ashes in the place which calls to me in the stillness and quietness of my spirit. Instead of a manicured lawn covered in precisely placed headstones, I want to be remembered in the place which in its serene wildness speaks of who I am and who I want to be. It is the place I think of when I remember my dad before age and illness stole his strength and vitality. It is, of all places I love, the place I consider my true home, my church, my cathedral, where choirs of trees sing to the music of the water and the birds harmonize an anthem of praise to their creator. The memory of it calms me when I need it most.
Our first attempt to get to Mysterious Lake had us gasping for air above timberline, with no lake in sight—Mysterious in name, mysterious in location. Following that attempt, my Dad made other trips and, with my older brother, had found his way in over a punishing seven-and-a-half mile trail. Too long and strenuous for the entire family, Dad sought an alternate route.
As I sit here in the city, I think back…and in the blink of an eye I am back. Back in 1972, eight years old, ready to embark on a trip that could bring success or failure. I can still be eight years old and back on the trail, any time I close my eyes—drying my boots by the fire, looking out over Mysterious Lake, just the way it was the first time we hiked in. Back, before others discovered our trail, before dirt bikes and ATV tires tore up the trails and churned up the creek beds—when it was as innocent and untamed as I was.
That first successful trip begins after a journey over the Continental Divide, past the large expanse of Taylor Reservoir, past the beaver dams where we’ve camped and fished for years, and up rough logging roads, where our small Toyota stations wagon scrapes and groans over rocks and downed trees. At the end of the logging road, we leave the car behind, tugging on our outerwear and check for the last time to see if we have the essentials for a trip in the backcountry.
After an uphill hike of nearly an hour, we reach an unmarked road. (On our return trip we will trace this road back down and find that we could have entirely eliminated the first hour of the hike.) We follow the road up to the end and stand in our heavy clunky boots, overweight packs on our backs, staring up an impossibly steep hillside. We are following Dad with his axe, ready to blaze the trail, topographical map in hand.
Moments later, I am scrambling up the hill, tiny rocks skittering down, kicked loose by my boots, still damp from crossing the creek. I can smell the pines and hear the heavy breathing of my family, the path too steep and too hard for talking. I can’t quit, I tell myself, though with each step I want to stop and wait for their eventual return.
At the top I half sit, half lean against a boulder, not taking my pack off for fear I won’t be able to lift it back onto my screaming shoulders. There are faint sounds of camp robbers (gray jays) and robins calling each other and rustling sounds of chipmunks in the underbrush.
The sun is warm through the pines as a cool breeze dries the sweat on my face and neck. The rest is all too brief. “Let’s go.” Dad is ready, so we rise to follow him.
There are six of us on the trail, but up here, with the sound of my heart pounding in my ears and the sound of my own labored breathing, I feel alone, but not lonely. My boots are heavy, and their sure footing gives me a feeling of confidence and strength as I follow Dad down the hill.
Thwack. The echo of metal striking wood is followed by the sound of flesh being torn from a tree ahead. As I pass, I admire the fresh blazes, the sap beading and glistening in the fresh wooden wound.
At the bottom of this hill we must cross another stream and then across the mire of the marsh, the muck clinging to my boots when I step off the high ground. I slap at the multitudes of mosquitoes rising from the vegetation to feast on my blood, drawn by my exhaled breath. The grasses are lush, the leaves wide and green, making a lovely swishing sound as I pass.
At the far end we stop before taking on the second steep hill, and I try to knock the mud off my boots, drinking water from my canteen (We didn’t worry about giardia in those days.) It tastes so good, so refreshing when I’m in the high country. No chlorine. No impurities. Liquid silver poured by heaven’s hand.
At the end of the short but rough trail, we come out of the pines into a wide meadow, at the top end of a small lake. We have arrived.
I am as yet unaware of spectacular places like Niagara Falls or the Mediterranean, so the dark waters reflecting the pale blue sky and wispy clouds overhead strike me as the beauty of a daisy—hardy, cheerful and pure. The waters are as clean as the first snow, as cool as the first winter chill, as refreshing as the first drought-ending rain. The lake seems to hide great mysteries in the depths. To the south, above a broadening meadow, treeless peaks fill the vista, snow clinging to the ramparts. We won this view by virtue of our sweat and blisters, by the climb that leaves us sitting, thighs trembling from the unaccustomed exertion, shoulders aching from carrying all our gear over one and a half of the most grueling miles I will ever encounter. I feel triumphant, healthy, alive—and tired. My older brother takes his pack off, lays back, closes his eyes and goes to sleep.
I made that same trip many times as I was growing up. I hope to hike that trail ‘til the hair on my head is a white as my father’s and the skin on my face as lined as the map that showed him the way in. I long to follow the still visible blazes into my favorite spot on earth.
No matter how many times I’ve been there, the first time, the effort the newness, and the wonder remain etched in my mind. Each swing of my father’s ax is a tick in the clock marking the days of my childhood, so quickly gone. Each step is imprinted in my muscles and memory by the sheer will to dominate that trail and soaked into my skin by the rewarding delight of swimming in the shivery shallows of Mysterious Lake.
Today, despite the damage left by others, and the occasional discordant roar of a motorbike engine destroying the peace, what’s left is the soaring hawk above, the trout below the dark water, the quick sighting of an elk across the lake. There is a vista without power lines, without roads and without the trappings of a modern civilized life. It is a place where you must be alert to the ever-present danger of nature in all its wildness, and the inattention that can cause catastrophic injuries so far from assistance.
I close my eyes and hear my boots crunching on the trail, smell the sweet pines and decaying undergrowth, feel the sun filtering through the trees, the gentle breeze and the strain on muscle and will. That first trip is the pinnacle, and when I am too old or too feeble to climb that trail again, I will still remember cold water, warm sun, hard boots, and the sweet scent of pines. Life never gets better.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
The Ordinary and Sublime
Huge things are happening in lives around me. A very little boy has suffered a traumatic brain injury (TBI) and is in Children's Hospital. It's awful. The family goes through such incredible strain. The emotional toll can only be understood by someone else who has gone through something similar. For the rest of us, the best we can do is to love them, pray for them, bring meals, take part in fundraisers, send cards, visit, or other small kindnesses. There are parts of this that we can do nothing about.
Sometimes it seems odd to be going about normal everyday things while some people are in the midst of such life-altering events. Sons go off to war, husbands die, children are hurt, jobs are lost, finances are stretched to the breaking point, and yet we register for school, buy socks, do laundry, fill ice trays... When I stop and think about Jackson and his family, I momentarily feel guilty, as if living my life denies the pain and tragedy this family is going through.
But if everyone were to feel the intensity of this emotional situation, there is no one they could count on for support or strength. There would have been no one to volunteer to help with the fundraiser this past weekend, no one to make meals, no one to be the shoulder to cry on.
So I am grateful that there is some sense of normalcy to my life right now. Going back to school and all the preparation for that takes my mind off of our financial problems and gives me something to look forward to. This is a positive step toward reaching lifelong goals, and eventually will make me able to make a better living, which will, in turn, make our financial life better.
Long-term goals are not promises for the future, but without them we are living a life with no hope. I can live the same lifetime without making any plans, striving for any goals, but that is stagnation. Stagnation is worse than death, it is the growth of putrification. Without forward movement--striving toward something, we become a smelly, molding pool of yuck.
I am moving forward. It kind of goes along with my favorite story about Abraham Lincoln. A contemporary of his said he was the only man he knew who became a better person the older he got. This has been a goal of mine for years. Better today than yesterday, better tomorrow than today. I can do nothing about the past, but I can strive to always grow and be better.
This is easier said than done. It means facing fears, and it means examining yourself to determine if you are getting better. It means facing your flaws, the times when you are unkind, when you are irritible with people who don't deserve it, when you are selfish, unjust, when you judge others unfairly, or when you simply think too highly of yourself. It means seeking to live without excuses (I'm sooooo not there yet.) It means guarding my tongue, harnessing my thoughts, seeking to use my time more wisely. All of these are rather lofty goals, but since they needn't be accomplished all at once, I strive toward them.
Anyway, today was church, worship team, women's ministry meeting, baby shower, and picking up books for classes tomorrow. A very full day. I put in 9 hours by 3:30. I'm beat.
I should probably get my clothes ready for tomorrow. I have to be in class by 8. I can't believe it. I finally get to go to school. I must go now.
Oh, and one last thing....my favorite guy at the local Starbucks, Ryan, is moving to Oregon. I will miss him. He is unfailingly cheerful and friendly. I will have to go in during the next few days to say goodbye. Wednesday is his last day. So if you get to the Starbucks at Flintridge & Acadmy in Colorado Springs, stop in Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, say goodbye to Ryan and tell him I sent you in. Better yet, call me and we'll go together!
Sometimes it seems odd to be going about normal everyday things while some people are in the midst of such life-altering events. Sons go off to war, husbands die, children are hurt, jobs are lost, finances are stretched to the breaking point, and yet we register for school, buy socks, do laundry, fill ice trays... When I stop and think about Jackson and his family, I momentarily feel guilty, as if living my life denies the pain and tragedy this family is going through.
But if everyone were to feel the intensity of this emotional situation, there is no one they could count on for support or strength. There would have been no one to volunteer to help with the fundraiser this past weekend, no one to make meals, no one to be the shoulder to cry on.
So I am grateful that there is some sense of normalcy to my life right now. Going back to school and all the preparation for that takes my mind off of our financial problems and gives me something to look forward to. This is a positive step toward reaching lifelong goals, and eventually will make me able to make a better living, which will, in turn, make our financial life better.
Long-term goals are not promises for the future, but without them we are living a life with no hope. I can live the same lifetime without making any plans, striving for any goals, but that is stagnation. Stagnation is worse than death, it is the growth of putrification. Without forward movement--striving toward something, we become a smelly, molding pool of yuck.
I am moving forward. It kind of goes along with my favorite story about Abraham Lincoln. A contemporary of his said he was the only man he knew who became a better person the older he got. This has been a goal of mine for years. Better today than yesterday, better tomorrow than today. I can do nothing about the past, but I can strive to always grow and be better.
This is easier said than done. It means facing fears, and it means examining yourself to determine if you are getting better. It means facing your flaws, the times when you are unkind, when you are irritible with people who don't deserve it, when you are selfish, unjust, when you judge others unfairly, or when you simply think too highly of yourself. It means seeking to live without excuses (I'm sooooo not there yet.) It means guarding my tongue, harnessing my thoughts, seeking to use my time more wisely. All of these are rather lofty goals, but since they needn't be accomplished all at once, I strive toward them.
Anyway, today was church, worship team, women's ministry meeting, baby shower, and picking up books for classes tomorrow. A very full day. I put in 9 hours by 3:30. I'm beat.
I should probably get my clothes ready for tomorrow. I have to be in class by 8. I can't believe it. I finally get to go to school. I must go now.
Oh, and one last thing....my favorite guy at the local Starbucks, Ryan, is moving to Oregon. I will miss him. He is unfailingly cheerful and friendly. I will have to go in during the next few days to say goodbye. Wednesday is his last day. So if you get to the Starbucks at Flintridge & Acadmy in Colorado Springs, stop in Monday, Tuesday or Wednesday, say goodbye to Ryan and tell him I sent you in. Better yet, call me and we'll go together!
Thursday, August 16, 2007
What I'm reading, watching and listening to...
Books
A Feast For Crows by George R.R. Martin
This is the fourth or fifth time through this book. The entire series (A Song of Fire and Ice) should be read from the beginning. I hate using cliches, but this truly is an epic series. It feels historical, magical, and true. The characters are so well developed and so well written, that you can see them as you read, and their actions seem true to their character even when you don't anticipate what they will do next. Each of the characters are flawed, but Mr. Martin draws their flaws so clearly that you understand where they come from. You love them, you hate them, you root for them, you mourn for their loss, but what you want to know is what happens next. Totally engrossing in the way few books are, each successive volume is both fully satisfying and leaves me longing for the next one. I can hardly wait for the next and final book.
Table for Five by Susan Wiggs
Although Ms. Wiggs has written several books and has made the New York Times bestsellers list, this is one book that I won't be reading a second time. The plot seems familiar, though the characters are reasonably written is is somewhat less than satisfying. It is a good story for a little light reading, aimed at female readers. Not really my cup of tea.
The Heavenly Man by Brother Yun and Paul Hattaway
I picked this up at a second-hand bookstore thinking they were having a half price sale. It was an impulse, since they didn't have books on Amy Carmichael. This is a truly compelling autobiography that left me on the edge of my seat, staying up late reading by the bedside light. Brother Yun became a Christian as a teenager in communist China and for the sake of his faith was imprisoned and tortured for years. His testimony is compelling and inspiring.
Blogs of Note
UseWellTheDays
I started reading this yesterday after noting the address on a Yahoo Groups post. Sustainable living, economizing, medeival times, gardening, cooking, home schooling, etc. This is an interesting woman. Time will tell if this stays on my list.
The Simple Dollar
Constantly updated, practical, interesting writing by a man seeking to live frugally and save and invest wisely. Very personal and very wise. I read this nearly every day.
Living From My Heart
My friend Beth hasn't posted as often as I would like, but she is droll, earnest, interesting and down to earth, as well as being a closet romantic.
Doug Green's Garden Blog
I love this guy's site, his blog, his newsletter. This guy knows gardening. He loves it and this comes across. Always inspiring me to be more adventurous in my garden, his blog and newsletter encourage any gardener, from the novice to the advanced.
Zambia K8
Caitlin is serving with the U.S. Peace Corps in Zambia, and is fascinating in her description of a life so totally different for her. Her exuberant personality comes through on each page.
1000 Days Non-Stop At Sea
The idea of this journey is so foreign to me that I can't help but be fascinated. Will they make it 1000 days without stopping for provisions, repairs, or simply the need to put foot on land?
Full Blue Moon Dementia
What can I say? Incredibly well-written. Is it truth? Is it fiction? I don't know.
Movies
The Simpsons Movie. Lots of laughs, but wait for the DVD, or even wait 'til it comes to television, unless you are a die-hard Simpsons fan.
The Bourne Ultimatum Dizzying camera work, lots of action, great performances. A really fun time. Highly recommended.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Whether you have issues with Harry or not, this is a good movie. Great cinematography, well-written, good acting, thoroughly engrossing. I highly recommend this movie.
No Reservations A feel-good date movie. Catherine Zeta-Jones is beautiful and believable, Aaron Eckhart is charming and engaging, Abigail Breslin is top-notch. Story is typical romantic fare, but done well. This one goes in my must-have chick flick DVD collection.
Television
I caught "The Kid" on the other day and the kid is frustrated that there are 120 channels and nothing on. Much of the time that is true. Still...
Side Order of Life I can't really explain what I like about this show.
State of Mind A bit more messed up and yet more understandable than Frasier's looney pair of sibling psychiatrists, Lily Taylor is terrific in this show. What happens when your life is crazy and you must deal with clients whose difficulties are entirely of their own making? Watch and find out.
Deadliest Catch Men being men. Men who do the toughest, deadliest, coldest, riskiest jobs. Working on the open deck with rogue waves crashing over you. In between you break the ice that coats everything while you wait for the opportunity to work 20, 30 or more hours straight hauling crab pots, hoping they are keepers. Hoping the weather stays in your favor, hoping you get your quota, hoping you make it back to port without much loss. Praying you come back with all your crew. Praying you find the crab. Wild. Probably my favorite show.
Music
Amore Andrea Boccelli
I cannot get myself to take this out of my CD player. I love it!
I'll Find You There The Kry
This one is regularly cycled through my playlist. I really enjoy the music, the lyrics, the feel of this.
Faith Jason Upton
Although I think this album is uneven, there are some real gems on it. I heard the song "Freedom" being played as background music during the offering or between services at church and had to find out who it was and where to get it. Try it and skip what you don't like.
I actually have several Rod Stewart albums in my CD player:
Unplugged and Seated (Live)
It Had To Be You...The Great American Songbook
As Time Goes By...The Great American Songbook: Volume II
Stardust... The Great American Songbook, Vol. III
Thanks For The Memory...The Great American Songbook IV
Some singers have natural gifts and do nothing with them, when listening to them you think, what a beautiful voice, and wonder why it leaves you cold. Mr. Stewart doen't have a great voice, but what he does with it is compelling. When I am loving his music there is a part of me that wonders, how can this be? Still, he gets to me and that part of me tells the voice critic to shut up.
Irish to the Core~ Wolfe Tones I love this unabashedly, unashamedly nationalistic Irish music. No apologies, no political correctness here. It inspires me to want to don the green. You'll love this too.
Windham Hill Signature Series: Piano Sampler This is quite pleasant background music as I write, read or do housework.
My-Redeemer Matthew Ward Although I love Third Day and listen to them often, this album inspires me to worship more than any other I have ever heard. My copy of this CD is so battered that it skips terribly, yet I cannot throw it away until I have replaced it. It is in my heart. Order yourself a copy, and while you're at it, order another one for me too.
A Feast For Crows by George R.R. Martin
This is the fourth or fifth time through this book. The entire series (A Song of Fire and Ice) should be read from the beginning. I hate using cliches, but this truly is an epic series. It feels historical, magical, and true. The characters are so well developed and so well written, that you can see them as you read, and their actions seem true to their character even when you don't anticipate what they will do next. Each of the characters are flawed, but Mr. Martin draws their flaws so clearly that you understand where they come from. You love them, you hate them, you root for them, you mourn for their loss, but what you want to know is what happens next. Totally engrossing in the way few books are, each successive volume is both fully satisfying and leaves me longing for the next one. I can hardly wait for the next and final book.
Table for Five by Susan Wiggs
Although Ms. Wiggs has written several books and has made the New York Times bestsellers list, this is one book that I won't be reading a second time. The plot seems familiar, though the characters are reasonably written is is somewhat less than satisfying. It is a good story for a little light reading, aimed at female readers. Not really my cup of tea.
The Heavenly Man by Brother Yun and Paul Hattaway
I picked this up at a second-hand bookstore thinking they were having a half price sale. It was an impulse, since they didn't have books on Amy Carmichael. This is a truly compelling autobiography that left me on the edge of my seat, staying up late reading by the bedside light. Brother Yun became a Christian as a teenager in communist China and for the sake of his faith was imprisoned and tortured for years. His testimony is compelling and inspiring.
Blogs of Note
UseWellTheDays
I started reading this yesterday after noting the address on a Yahoo Groups post. Sustainable living, economizing, medeival times, gardening, cooking, home schooling, etc. This is an interesting woman. Time will tell if this stays on my list.
The Simple Dollar
Constantly updated, practical, interesting writing by a man seeking to live frugally and save and invest wisely. Very personal and very wise. I read this nearly every day.
Living From My Heart
My friend Beth hasn't posted as often as I would like, but she is droll, earnest, interesting and down to earth, as well as being a closet romantic.
Doug Green's Garden Blog
I love this guy's site, his blog, his newsletter. This guy knows gardening. He loves it and this comes across. Always inspiring me to be more adventurous in my garden, his blog and newsletter encourage any gardener, from the novice to the advanced.
Zambia K8
Caitlin is serving with the U.S. Peace Corps in Zambia, and is fascinating in her description of a life so totally different for her. Her exuberant personality comes through on each page.
1000 Days Non-Stop At Sea
The idea of this journey is so foreign to me that I can't help but be fascinated. Will they make it 1000 days without stopping for provisions, repairs, or simply the need to put foot on land?
Full Blue Moon Dementia
What can I say? Incredibly well-written. Is it truth? Is it fiction? I don't know.
Movies
The Simpsons Movie. Lots of laughs, but wait for the DVD, or even wait 'til it comes to television, unless you are a die-hard Simpsons fan.
The Bourne Ultimatum Dizzying camera work, lots of action, great performances. A really fun time. Highly recommended.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix Whether you have issues with Harry or not, this is a good movie. Great cinematography, well-written, good acting, thoroughly engrossing. I highly recommend this movie.
No Reservations A feel-good date movie. Catherine Zeta-Jones is beautiful and believable, Aaron Eckhart is charming and engaging, Abigail Breslin is top-notch. Story is typical romantic fare, but done well. This one goes in my must-have chick flick DVD collection.
Television
I caught "The Kid" on the other day and the kid is frustrated that there are 120 channels and nothing on. Much of the time that is true. Still...
Side Order of Life I can't really explain what I like about this show.
State of Mind A bit more messed up and yet more understandable than Frasier's looney pair of sibling psychiatrists, Lily Taylor is terrific in this show. What happens when your life is crazy and you must deal with clients whose difficulties are entirely of their own making? Watch and find out.
Deadliest Catch Men being men. Men who do the toughest, deadliest, coldest, riskiest jobs. Working on the open deck with rogue waves crashing over you. In between you break the ice that coats everything while you wait for the opportunity to work 20, 30 or more hours straight hauling crab pots, hoping they are keepers. Hoping the weather stays in your favor, hoping you get your quota, hoping you make it back to port without much loss. Praying you come back with all your crew. Praying you find the crab. Wild. Probably my favorite show.
Music
Amore Andrea Boccelli
I cannot get myself to take this out of my CD player. I love it!
I'll Find You There The Kry
This one is regularly cycled through my playlist. I really enjoy the music, the lyrics, the feel of this.
Faith Jason Upton
Although I think this album is uneven, there are some real gems on it. I heard the song "Freedom" being played as background music during the offering or between services at church and had to find out who it was and where to get it. Try it and skip what you don't like.
I actually have several Rod Stewart albums in my CD player:
Unplugged and Seated (Live)
It Had To Be You...The Great American Songbook
As Time Goes By...The Great American Songbook: Volume II
Stardust... The Great American Songbook, Vol. III
Thanks For The Memory...The Great American Songbook IV
Some singers have natural gifts and do nothing with them, when listening to them you think, what a beautiful voice, and wonder why it leaves you cold. Mr. Stewart doen't have a great voice, but what he does with it is compelling. When I am loving his music there is a part of me that wonders, how can this be? Still, he gets to me and that part of me tells the voice critic to shut up.
Irish to the Core~ Wolfe Tones I love this unabashedly, unashamedly nationalistic Irish music. No apologies, no political correctness here. It inspires me to want to don the green. You'll love this too.
Windham Hill Signature Series: Piano Sampler This is quite pleasant background music as I write, read or do housework.
My-Redeemer Matthew Ward Although I love Third Day and listen to them often, this album inspires me to worship more than any other I have ever heard. My copy of this CD is so battered that it skips terribly, yet I cannot throw it away until I have replaced it. It is in my heart. Order yourself a copy, and while you're at it, order another one for me too.
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
Does God Care What He is Called?
This is the text describing the article as I went to email it to someone:
Dutch bishop: Call God 'Allah' to ease relations A Roman Catholic Bishop inTo quote Bishop Tiny Muskens, ""Allah is a very beautiful word for God. Shouldn't we all say that from now on we will name God Allah? ... What does God care what we call him? It is our problem."
the Netherlands has proposed people of all faiths refer to God as Allah to
foster understanding, stoking an already heated debate on religious
tolerance in a country with one million Muslims. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/20279326/from/ET/
Does God care what we call him? He names himself "I AM". "YHWH" is the usual English translation. He calls himself the self-existent one. He is named "Adonai" (Lord), "Adonai YHWH" (Lord God), "Elohim" (a plural, often seen as evidence of a triune God from the story of creation on), "El" ' A Elyon(Most High God), "El Shaddai" (God Almighty), "El `Olam" (Everlasting God), "El Hai" (Living God), "El Ro'i" (God of Seeing, or the God who sees me), "El Elohe Israel" (God, the God of Israel), "El Gibbor" (God of Strength), "YHWH Jireh" (God who provides), YHWH Rapha (The Lord that Healeth). . God reveals himself through prophesy to Isaiah: "Wonderful", "Counselor" "Everlasting Father", the "Prince Of Peace".
When one makes such an effort to reveal himself through his name, which describes who he is, what he is like...do you think we should idly decide to name him something other?
For instance: my name is Kim. "Kimberly" to government types and doctors who don't bother to read beyond my given name to my preferred name. I am known as "Mom" to my kids, "Aunt Kim" to my nieces and nephews, "Mrs. Bentz" to some very well-brought-up children of my acquaintance, "honey" to my husband, "Kristen's mom", "Craig's mom" or "Alex's mom" depending on who you might be talking to, "Kim Carlson" to those who knew me before I got married, or even "Norm Carlson's daughter" or "Kris's sister". I have been called "the writer", "the singer", "the herb lady" and even "the hat lady". These names and descriptions all fit me. The are who I am or describe who I am. You cannot just walk up to me and begin to call me "Sally Kirkland" because you wish me to be that. I will not respond. I will be offended that you do not use the name with which I introduce myself.
When you ask me to do things for you, I won't do them, or if I choose to do so, it will not be with the warmth and intimacy that I wish to share with you.
Why would someone who calls them self a follower of God (such as the bishop) insult his creator by offering him up the name someone else calls their own god? Given his flawed logic, should we then begin to call YHWH "Thor"? or "Baal"? "Zeus"? Shall we call upon him by the names of Hindu gods? Ptuiy! May it never be!
It is discourteous, impolite, even rude to call one by the name of another. When it comes to God, the creator of the universe, our master, maker, savior and Lord, it is treating the Holy One as common. It is without decency or respect for the divinity and majesty of God. What disdain this man shows for his creator.
Why not ask the Muslim world to call upon YHWH? Because they understand that names mean things.
I occasionally get someone's name wrong in my head when I meet them. For a time I had registered in my head that my friend Becky's name was Peggy. One day I called her by the wrong name when introducing her to my husband. I was mortified when she quietly corrected me. Why? Well, you know why. My gaffe revealed that I hadn't made the effort to ensure that I NEVER called her by the wrong name. I have since, by repeated utterings of her correct name whenever I see or think about her, completely erased the Peggy connection in my head.
Such should be the nature of man when he finds that he has not used the correct name for God. Out of respect, he should retrain his brain, his thoughts, his emotions, his very being, to know God as he wishes himself to be known. He has given us many names by which we can call him, even, for those who are his, "Abba" or "Daddy" as it translates into English. Why would you call the Holy God, your Abba, by any other name but his own?
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Some look for Sasquatch. I look for bull moose.
When I was in Alaska, I went out on snowshoes following moose track. I never caught sight of a bull moose, but when we would drive somewhere (the post office, even) there would be fresh tracks when we came back. Drove me nuts! Even when the car broke down on the way to the airport...we were in the office waiting for a ride and the man who ran the tow company asked if there was anything else. I just jokingly (I had nearly given up) said, "I'd like to see a bull moose if you've got one hanging around." "There was one here about a half an hour ago, but he's gone now."
All the way through Yellowstone I had my eyes peeled. Lots of cow moose and calves, but not a single bull to be seen.
A few years ago there was a young bull moose who had wandered down Fountain Creek and was seen wandering around in the area of Monument Valley Park. Never saw him. He apparently decided to head back up through the Air Force Academy and off into the hills, but he never made himself available when I was down looking for him. He made quite a stir in these parts, let me tell you, even had a naming competition of some sort. I think they came up with Bullwinkle or something equally original. Doesn't matter. It was a nine-day wonder and now I can't even locate info on it on the web.
I still want to see one. Need to head up to Estes Park. I read on the park website where there tend to be sightings, and a friend of mine just spent the weekend backpacking in another part of the park and has tons of pictures of bull moose.
Please don't write me about how stupid it is to go looking for moose. I know the dangers and am fully prepared to stay as far away as necessary for safety. I've seen a grizzly in the wild and didn't get close enough for danger--I'm not a complete idiot. I don't want to pet them or get close-up...I just want to see them in their natural habitat. Not a nature show, not at the zoo.
It's a reasonably harmless longing. It doesn't keep me from seeing what's right in front of me while I am out, but it does provide that little extra spark. Maybe, this time I'll see one. Maybe as I go over this ridge or turn the next corner, there will be one off in the distance.
I have to admit there was a thrill each time I saw fresh moose tracks in the Alaska snow. Knowing they were out there, less than a block from the house added to the excitement of the chase. Elusive, but clearly there. The evidence was all around me. It could only be a matter of time before I saw one.
It's only a matter of time.
All the way through Yellowstone I had my eyes peeled. Lots of cow moose and calves, but not a single bull to be seen.
A few years ago there was a young bull moose who had wandered down Fountain Creek and was seen wandering around in the area of Monument Valley Park. Never saw him. He apparently decided to head back up through the Air Force Academy and off into the hills, but he never made himself available when I was down looking for him. He made quite a stir in these parts, let me tell you, even had a naming competition of some sort. I think they came up with Bullwinkle or something equally original. Doesn't matter. It was a nine-day wonder and now I can't even locate info on it on the web.
I still want to see one. Need to head up to Estes Park. I read on the park website where there tend to be sightings, and a friend of mine just spent the weekend backpacking in another part of the park and has tons of pictures of bull moose.
Please don't write me about how stupid it is to go looking for moose. I know the dangers and am fully prepared to stay as far away as necessary for safety. I've seen a grizzly in the wild and didn't get close enough for danger--I'm not a complete idiot. I don't want to pet them or get close-up...I just want to see them in their natural habitat. Not a nature show, not at the zoo.
It's a reasonably harmless longing. It doesn't keep me from seeing what's right in front of me while I am out, but it does provide that little extra spark. Maybe, this time I'll see one. Maybe as I go over this ridge or turn the next corner, there will be one off in the distance.
I have to admit there was a thrill each time I saw fresh moose tracks in the Alaska snow. Knowing they were out there, less than a block from the house added to the excitement of the chase. Elusive, but clearly there. The evidence was all around me. It could only be a matter of time before I saw one.
It's only a matter of time.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Wines
Okay, this is a strange subject for me to write about, and even makes me a bit nervous. There is so much criticism on the subject of alcohol among Christians. Never mind that Jesus turned water into wine as his first public act of ministry and miracle. Never mind that Jesus began at a party of all things. Never mind that the Bible only says not to be drunk. We have a strange attitude toward alcohol and other things in the church.
I was a tea-totaller until I was 30 if you don't count the two drinks I tried in high school, communion wine (blech!) and a taste of an almond wine a guest brought to thanksgiving dinner while still living at home. At thirty I realized that my kids were picking up the same attitudes that frustrated me in the rest of the church. One of my kids made a comment about someone having had a (gasp) beer! They were horrified and judgemental and I realized then that I had not communicated what the Bible says and what I really believe.
That being said, it was a little hard for me to have a glass, as I could feel hundreds of disapproving eyes on me. Still do sometimes. Also, there is a strong history of alcoholism in my family. So I sat the kids down and explained the dangers given our family history, but because I was pretty sure I did not share the family alcoholism, given my reaction to alcohol as a kid, I began having a glass of wine on occasion. It had become clear to me that my kids were not going to believe what I said, and that I needed to model responsible drinking.
There are things about a glass of wine that really appeal to me. Wine glasses are lovely in shape and form. wine bottles are beautiful and the color of wine so beautiful. The process of wine making is filled with beautiful images. Vines heavy with grapes, the picking, crates filled with lush clusters, the crushing, the fermenting, the rows of oak casks, bottling, tastings. The whole thing invokes images of long tables set in sun-dappled gardens, crisp white linens gently flapping in the breeze, while a dozen or more friends and family laugh and talk and eat fresh produce, fine cheeses, and pass glorious platters of pasta and bottles of the latest vintage. In these visions I always hear Italian spoken.
So, to the point of my post...my particular favorite wines.
Generally speaking, I prefer reds and have a partiality to slightly, or even more than slightly, sweet reds. I also have a kind of rule about wines--I usually only buy wines in the $10 range, either recommended by someone I trust or fairly highly rated in wine snob circles. Two of my top wines don't fit that, but instead are wines that were given to me by someone else, and are a bit out of my budget for all but the most special occasions.
1. I wish I could remember the name of this one. It is a lovely merlot in a very simple bottle with the simplest and classiest label. I remember a simple gilt outline "T" as the main visual of a very subtle label. Dark bottle. A co-worker and his wife made me a gift of this one. I meant to keep the bottle til I wrote the info in a wine-tasting book, but the bottle disappeared. I would know it if I saw it, but I know it is more than my $10 range.
2. Beaulieu Vineyard Reserve Pinot Noir. Without a doubt the best wine I have ever tasted, but at $40 a bottle, a bit out of my price range.
3. The wine I buy and try to keep in my wine rack at all times: Roadkill Red by Colorado Cellars. At $12/bottle, it is more than what I pay to try new stuff, but I already know I will love this one. It is a semi-sweet light red wine that goes with a lot of stuff, or stands on it's own. I missed the Wine Festival in Manitou Springs this year, so I am down to my last bottle. My local liquor store can't get this one (you can buy it online, but they self-distribute, so he can't get it for his store) so I plan to go to the wine festival on the western slope in September. I fully intend to make Colorado Cellars one of my stops and to pick up several bottles of this one.
I don't drink often, and I hate to open a bottle and drink alone (Steve is diabetic and can't drink), so it only takes a few bottles to be my yearly allotment. One of my plans for the kitchen remodel is to install a small wine refrigerator so that I can have a selection of varieties of wine for cooking and drinking. The sweeter wines aren't so good for sauces and stews, so you need a selection of Burgundy, Cabs, and I will occasionally open a generic red or chianti and use it for both.
For sparkling wines, I like Moscato d'Asti. It is much sweeter than champagne, which I find distasteful.
My daughter laughed when she saw me drinking White Zinfindel. Working at a five-star restaurant, she became conversant with good wines, so when we ate there, I let her pick for me. I don't know the name of the white she chose for me, but it was lovely, I will admit.
That being said, I will admit that some of the things people talk about when they describe wines are a mystery to me. I must have a poor palate, as I don't taste "plums, with a hint of cherry and a nice oaken finish" Huh? I do sometimes smell the oak of the wine cask, but when they start talking about smelling and tasting the entire produce section, well, I don't know what on earth they're talking about. I often wonder about the wine that Jesus made. Was it dry? Was it sweet? What were the topnotes? What was the bouquet? Do NOT tell me it tasted like Mogen David or Manischeiwitz, it was supposed to be the best wine.
A nice glass of wine in a long-stemmed goblet. Lovely. Good for the stomach and ONE glass will help you get a good night's rest.
Given my family history, I must leave you with this caution: Always drink in moderation. Never drink at all if you cannot stop with one, or if it starts longings that make life difficult for you. This post is not intended to give you permission to drink if it is against your conscience or medical history. I do wonder when the modern church developed it's horror of wine. Perhaps it is the same thing we try to do with a lot of things. Since a lot is bad for you, have none. No moderation required. Well, it's a nice idea, and I understand the fear, after all, how do you know when to scold your neighbor. Is it after the second glass? See, that's the problem, somewhere between the 2nd glass and 6th is the cutoff, but since we are all built differently (different weight, metabolism and different eating and drinking habits) you can't just look at your neighbor and know it is one sip too many. Nor can you always know with yourself.
It seems to me that it is much easier to judge matters of conduct than of the heart and motive. If one person has a hard time with TV, then no one should watch it. We all instinctively seem to know that there are shows that definitely have crossed the line, but since we cannot see the line, we must be led by the Spirit. Well, for me, having certain propensities in the area of sins and desires, the Home Shopping Network may be an absolute no-no, while for you, it doesn't cause you to stumble in any way. But it is easy to find the areas we personally struggle with and then attempt to make everyone else show the same restraints as we must have in that area.
No offense intended to any Christian ministry, but I interviewed with a ministry several times, and was absolutely puzzled by their code of behavior and dress code. They were so much stricter than Scripture that I wondered what it was all about. Why, I wondered would sling-back shoes be forbidden? I was told that it was to avoid criticism from within the church. Wow. Silly, ridiculous rules to mollify people who find some issue with footwear? So instead of sharing God's grace and freedom and scriptural truth with the complaintant minority, freedom is taken from hundreds. This is so like the church. Gertrude doesn't like the paint color. It's not enough that it's beige, but it's not the right shade of beige. It doesn't have the essence of beige-ness necessary for painting the sanctuary. Also, the pastor insists on calling the sanctuary an auditorium, but that isn't a holy word... Then there is John. John grew up reading the Authorized King James Version, just like his father and his grandfather. That new preacher uses the New King James, the NIV, the NASB and sometimes Phillips. He sometimes says that the King James doesn't always express the intent of the Greek or the Hebrew as well. It's heresy, I tell you, and John is raising a stink in the church. So the deacon's board gets together to find a shade of beige paint that will mollify Gertrude, because even though 90% of the congregation wanted tan walls, they won't complain at all the meetings that the color doesn't bring about the right spirit of worship and devotion. The elder board counsels the pastor that John has donated tens of thousands of dollars to the building fund and asks him to teach from the KJV. After all, we shouldn't offend John.
I wonder if it isn't sin for us to be adding rules and regulations to Scripture. After all, if the goal is personal holiness and a heart for Christ, why do we suggest that God was almost right when he inspired Scripture? When we say that holiness is more complete with closed toe, closed heel pumps, that pantyhose are a requirement for righteousness, and that pants invite permissiveness, we are adding to Scripture. So, most of us don't do that, but the church and para-church ministries often say this without words. We don't even roll our eyes at these kind of restrictions. We accept as given that we must cater to the most irritable and vocal of our brothers and sisters.
I was a tea-totaller until I was 30 if you don't count the two drinks I tried in high school, communion wine (blech!) and a taste of an almond wine a guest brought to thanksgiving dinner while still living at home. At thirty I realized that my kids were picking up the same attitudes that frustrated me in the rest of the church. One of my kids made a comment about someone having had a (gasp) beer! They were horrified and judgemental and I realized then that I had not communicated what the Bible says and what I really believe.
That being said, it was a little hard for me to have a glass, as I could feel hundreds of disapproving eyes on me. Still do sometimes. Also, there is a strong history of alcoholism in my family. So I sat the kids down and explained the dangers given our family history, but because I was pretty sure I did not share the family alcoholism, given my reaction to alcohol as a kid, I began having a glass of wine on occasion. It had become clear to me that my kids were not going to believe what I said, and that I needed to model responsible drinking.
There are things about a glass of wine that really appeal to me. Wine glasses are lovely in shape and form. wine bottles are beautiful and the color of wine so beautiful. The process of wine making is filled with beautiful images. Vines heavy with grapes, the picking, crates filled with lush clusters, the crushing, the fermenting, the rows of oak casks, bottling, tastings. The whole thing invokes images of long tables set in sun-dappled gardens, crisp white linens gently flapping in the breeze, while a dozen or more friends and family laugh and talk and eat fresh produce, fine cheeses, and pass glorious platters of pasta and bottles of the latest vintage. In these visions I always hear Italian spoken.
So, to the point of my post...my particular favorite wines.
Generally speaking, I prefer reds and have a partiality to slightly, or even more than slightly, sweet reds. I also have a kind of rule about wines--I usually only buy wines in the $10 range, either recommended by someone I trust or fairly highly rated in wine snob circles. Two of my top wines don't fit that, but instead are wines that were given to me by someone else, and are a bit out of my budget for all but the most special occasions.
1. I wish I could remember the name of this one. It is a lovely merlot in a very simple bottle with the simplest and classiest label. I remember a simple gilt outline "T" as the main visual of a very subtle label. Dark bottle. A co-worker and his wife made me a gift of this one. I meant to keep the bottle til I wrote the info in a wine-tasting book, but the bottle disappeared. I would know it if I saw it, but I know it is more than my $10 range.
2. Beaulieu Vineyard Reserve Pinot Noir. Without a doubt the best wine I have ever tasted, but at $40 a bottle, a bit out of my price range.
3. The wine I buy and try to keep in my wine rack at all times: Roadkill Red by Colorado Cellars. At $12/bottle, it is more than what I pay to try new stuff, but I already know I will love this one. It is a semi-sweet light red wine that goes with a lot of stuff, or stands on it's own. I missed the Wine Festival in Manitou Springs this year, so I am down to my last bottle. My local liquor store can't get this one (you can buy it online, but they self-distribute, so he can't get it for his store) so I plan to go to the wine festival on the western slope in September. I fully intend to make Colorado Cellars one of my stops and to pick up several bottles of this one.
I don't drink often, and I hate to open a bottle and drink alone (Steve is diabetic and can't drink), so it only takes a few bottles to be my yearly allotment. One of my plans for the kitchen remodel is to install a small wine refrigerator so that I can have a selection of varieties of wine for cooking and drinking. The sweeter wines aren't so good for sauces and stews, so you need a selection of Burgundy, Cabs, and I will occasionally open a generic red or chianti and use it for both.
For sparkling wines, I like Moscato d'Asti. It is much sweeter than champagne, which I find distasteful.
My daughter laughed when she saw me drinking White Zinfindel. Working at a five-star restaurant, she became conversant with good wines, so when we ate there, I let her pick for me. I don't know the name of the white she chose for me, but it was lovely, I will admit.
That being said, I will admit that some of the things people talk about when they describe wines are a mystery to me. I must have a poor palate, as I don't taste "plums, with a hint of cherry and a nice oaken finish" Huh? I do sometimes smell the oak of the wine cask, but when they start talking about smelling and tasting the entire produce section, well, I don't know what on earth they're talking about. I often wonder about the wine that Jesus made. Was it dry? Was it sweet? What were the topnotes? What was the bouquet? Do NOT tell me it tasted like Mogen David or Manischeiwitz, it was supposed to be the best wine.
A nice glass of wine in a long-stemmed goblet. Lovely. Good for the stomach and ONE glass will help you get a good night's rest.
Given my family history, I must leave you with this caution: Always drink in moderation. Never drink at all if you cannot stop with one, or if it starts longings that make life difficult for you. This post is not intended to give you permission to drink if it is against your conscience or medical history. I do wonder when the modern church developed it's horror of wine. Perhaps it is the same thing we try to do with a lot of things. Since a lot is bad for you, have none. No moderation required. Well, it's a nice idea, and I understand the fear, after all, how do you know when to scold your neighbor. Is it after the second glass? See, that's the problem, somewhere between the 2nd glass and 6th is the cutoff, but since we are all built differently (different weight, metabolism and different eating and drinking habits) you can't just look at your neighbor and know it is one sip too many. Nor can you always know with yourself.
It seems to me that it is much easier to judge matters of conduct than of the heart and motive. If one person has a hard time with TV, then no one should watch it. We all instinctively seem to know that there are shows that definitely have crossed the line, but since we cannot see the line, we must be led by the Spirit. Well, for me, having certain propensities in the area of sins and desires, the Home Shopping Network may be an absolute no-no, while for you, it doesn't cause you to stumble in any way. But it is easy to find the areas we personally struggle with and then attempt to make everyone else show the same restraints as we must have in that area.
No offense intended to any Christian ministry, but I interviewed with a ministry several times, and was absolutely puzzled by their code of behavior and dress code. They were so much stricter than Scripture that I wondered what it was all about. Why, I wondered would sling-back shoes be forbidden? I was told that it was to avoid criticism from within the church. Wow. Silly, ridiculous rules to mollify people who find some issue with footwear? So instead of sharing God's grace and freedom and scriptural truth with the complaintant minority, freedom is taken from hundreds. This is so like the church. Gertrude doesn't like the paint color. It's not enough that it's beige, but it's not the right shade of beige. It doesn't have the essence of beige-ness necessary for painting the sanctuary. Also, the pastor insists on calling the sanctuary an auditorium, but that isn't a holy word... Then there is John. John grew up reading the Authorized King James Version, just like his father and his grandfather. That new preacher uses the New King James, the NIV, the NASB and sometimes Phillips. He sometimes says that the King James doesn't always express the intent of the Greek or the Hebrew as well. It's heresy, I tell you, and John is raising a stink in the church. So the deacon's board gets together to find a shade of beige paint that will mollify Gertrude, because even though 90% of the congregation wanted tan walls, they won't complain at all the meetings that the color doesn't bring about the right spirit of worship and devotion. The elder board counsels the pastor that John has donated tens of thousands of dollars to the building fund and asks him to teach from the KJV. After all, we shouldn't offend John.
I wonder if it isn't sin for us to be adding rules and regulations to Scripture. After all, if the goal is personal holiness and a heart for Christ, why do we suggest that God was almost right when he inspired Scripture? When we say that holiness is more complete with closed toe, closed heel pumps, that pantyhose are a requirement for righteousness, and that pants invite permissiveness, we are adding to Scripture. So, most of us don't do that, but the church and para-church ministries often say this without words. We don't even roll our eyes at these kind of restrictions. We accept as given that we must cater to the most irritable and vocal of our brothers and sisters.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)