July 2006 Archives

Greg Boyd can't stay out of trouble. First, he nearly got himself booted from his denomination, the Baptist General Conference, for advocating Open Theism. That's the issue which caused a ruckus at my denomination's school, Huntington University, when one of its professors became a leading advocate of Open Theism, which questions whether God fully knows the future.

Now Boyd is upsetting evangelicals by criticizing how we entangle Christianity with conservative politics. On this issue, I'm right with him. There is a cost for Boyd: the church he founded in Minneapolis in 1992 lost about 1000 of its 5000 members after he preached a series of sermons on "The Cross and the Sword" and later published a book called The Myth of a Christian Nation: How the Quest for Political Power is Destroying the Church.

The New York Times published a July 30 article about Boyd and this controversy. It's quite interesting. I've been sensing plenty of sentiment for Boyd's views in the evangelical world. I'm certainly in his camp. It pleases me to know that many evangelicals are saying, "Enough! Christianity and Republican politics are not the same thing!" Even though it could cost the Republican party big-time in the 2006 and 2008 elections.

I think one of George Bush's many negative legacies will be the way the previously taken-for-granted evangelical base of the Republican party began crumbling--or even openly revolting--under his administration's cynical manipulation. It's nice to see so many Christian leaders, like Greg Boyd, refusing to be partisan yes-men for the Republican Party. But if you take a stand like that, don't expect to get away unscathed.

One reason I love going to Branson is the patriotism which permeates nearly all of the shows. I absolutely love that. I'm proud to be an American. But it's a matter of context. Branson is a secular venue and the message is more "love of country" than "rubber-stamping of Republican causes." There's a difference.

Every time I pass an H2 Hummer on the road, I chuckle inside. What were they thinking! Somebody needs to buy them a copy of Gas Mileage for Dummies.

But then, people driving Mini-Coopers probably say the same thing when I drive past them in my Dodge Dakota pickup. But that's okay. Who's laughing when they need to haul a load of mulch?

A while back, I read an article about why people buy SUVs. One salesman told of a woman in southern California who said she really needed four-wheel-drive on her SUV, because when she goes to parties at people's houses, she often has to park on the grass. What a riot.

Last night four of us played in the Battle of the Bands at the Seekers Coffeehouse, a Christian-run business which also hosts a new church. They've got a fairly large concert room with wonderful sound equipment, and they do a lot of music things to attract business. For instance, Monday night is Open Mic night. Tim and Terry, Anchor's guitarists, play regularly on Monday night. A worship team from the area hosts each Thursday night; Anchor has done that twice.

This summer, they've been running the extended Battle of the Bands for about eight weeks, with three bands playing every Saturday night. Last night was the final night. On Tuesday, three bands will be notified that they are the finalists, and they'll be invited to return and do their stuff next Saturday, August 5, for the finale.

Doris Au MacDonald (left) and Sharon Dennis performing in Chambersburg, Pa.

I feel some affinity with Doris Au MacDonald, considering our mutual expertise in writing, graphic design, and music, and our shared background as UBs in the far west. Doris has spent her entire adult career in missionary service with Wycliffe, and I think the world of Doris and her husband, Alan. These are quality people, quality Christians.

But during my junior high Bible Quizzing days, Doris was The Enemy. She and her older sister, Margo, the Au sisters, starred for the team from the United Brethren church in Glendale, Calif., in the LA area. This church had a glorious quizzing history, having won a couple of Pacific Conference championships, from what I had heard.

I was among six bratty 7th and 8th graders from Lake Havasu City, Ariz., a new church with a first-year team. And we won the conference championship. Lucky upstart pipsqueaks.

Actually, it was the San Diego team that we despised, a gaggle of emotional, moody, highly-competitive girls who never lost without shedding buckets of tears and accusing the universe of unfairness. There was one guy on the team, always sitting in the number 4 chair, and we liked him. But his teammates--not so much.

There seems to be a new sport in my church's neighborhood: knocking out our windows. A week ago someone threw a brick through a lower-level window into the fellowship hall. Then on Monday a big rock crashed through one of the windows in back. The window next to it is broken, too, but the inner window is intact.

So last night, after our prayer time, we boarded up those two windows tightly (replacing the temporary cardboard). I understand several other windows were broken previously. This is interesting.

A few weeks ago at music practice, a gal who has been attending Anchor ran into the sanctuary and said a couple guys were trying to break into her house. Police came and caught one guy.

All of which affirms that this is right where we need to be. I find it exhilarating.

One thing I don't miss is the pastoral prayer. It was a childhood bane, something I dreaded every Sunday. I'd stand there shifting from one foot to another as the preacher droned on and on, lifting up every health need, from heart operations to ingrown toenails, and every ministry of the church, and "everyone gathered here today," and bestowed numerous flowery compliments on God for his sundry attributes and his patience with us ne'er-do-wells, on and on and on. Fifteen minutes seemed to be the minimum length, else it wasn't worth God's time to listen.

And yes, it was necessary that we parishioners stand while the pastor was talking to God on our behalf. God, evidently, looks askance at parishioners who sit down while someone else is praying, and he withholds his blessing from that church. It was as if it's better to focus on your poor aching feet than on actually praying. Some preachers feel the same way about public Bible reading—that everyone must stand when Scripture is being read, because it really impresses God and proves that we are spiritual warriors. If you read Scripture while sitting, it just means you don't respect the Bible.

Maybe once every other month, six times a year tops, the pastor would allow us to sit during his pastoral prayer. As we proceeded through our usual routine of hymns and throw-away prayers, and the moment of the high-priestly pastoral prayer approached, I would find myself hoping, "Please, oh please let us sit today!" Alas, I was nearly always disappointed. But it's good to have hope.

I grew up in the 1960s and early 1970s, when women wore very high heels to church because, I guess, guys liked them. So lengthy pastoral prayers could be quite an ordeal for women, though perhaps that was part of God's plan—after all, they have pain in childbirth because a woman sinned first, so standing for 15 minutes in high heels is just more of the same just punishment for Eve's transgressions. One of my distinct, recurring childhood memories involves our family's drive home from church, and hearing Mom say something like, "I didn't think he would ever stop praying. My feet were killing me." I suspect the same sentiments were voiced in numerous other cars as long-suffering high-heel wearers headed home to pot roasts.

Anyway, the churches I've attended since 1989 haven't featured the pastoral prayer. I don't know if God is glad about that, but I am.

Ralph Reed, the former head of the Christian Coalition, bless his sincere Christian heart, in 1998 sent Jack Abramoff a letter asking for help in making business contacts. He said he was done with electoral politics and, "I need to start humping in corporate accounts." I am so very very proud of our Christian spokespersons.

Yes, we have some legitimate Christians claiming to speak for the rest of us--people like Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell, James Kennedy, and James Dobson. But they rarely make me proud. These guys are hugely influential gatekeepers to Christian audiences. Therefore, political operatives and lobbyists suck up to them, coddle them, do whatever it takes to gain their ear. And when Pat and Jerry and the Jims speak, I'm afraid they too often parrot the sentiments of somebody lurking in the background. Which may explain why they say so many stupid things.

Here are photos of the world's most dangerous road. It's located in Bolivia, and it's a very lengthy sucker. This linked page contains a bunch of photos. Imagine driving on that thing!

When we lived in Arizona, a friend and I joined my dad and another schoolteacher, Mr. O'Bannon, in a Jeep trip into the Mojave mountains. Old mines were located in the mountains, and very crude roads led to them. At one point, we traveled a narrow section of road with a ravine on the right side of the Jeep. We three passengers hung on the outside of the Jeep, on the left against the rocky hillside, trying to add some weight to hold the Jeep down.

We also ventured into an old mine. We got in a ways, it was very dark, and we came to an ominously dark shaft in the middle of the tunnel--basically, just a hole spanning much of the tunnel's width. We skirted around it carefully, hugging the wall, ever cognizant of the fact that a misstep or an unexpected rattlesnake could send us plummeting downward.

I remember thinking that it was neat that Dad let me, a junior higher, his first-born, join the adults in creeping around that shaft. He didn't say, "Steve, you wait here. Don't go any further." No, he let me come. Maybe that was a bit stupid of him, I don't know. But to me, at that age, it was neat. Like he trusted me to take care of myself. I also remember being scared out of my gourd as I hugged the wall, stepping sideways and wondering just how deep that dark, dark shaft went. Scared, but exhilarated.

I suspect we never told Mom about any of this.

So I get to church this morning, I'm nervous because I have to preach, and one of the first things that happens is that Chris Kuntz makes fun of the fact that I'm not wearing sneakers. Then Dave Ward comes down the center aisle just before music practice and asks if I have my camera, because he wanted to take a picture as proof that I can wear something other than sneakers to church. Okay, Chris and Dave, that's just what my frazzled nerves needed.

You see, I always wear sneakers to church. But today, since I was preaching, I donned some casual non-sneakers, not to mention some of my nicer Dockers pants (which didn't strike Dave as photo-worthy). In retrospect, I feel I sold out to "what will people think" paranoia. Why didn't I wear my sneakers, as usual? Did I think I needed to impress people because I was preaching? Did that role demand that I dress up and be not me, but not-me? A phony?

I should have worn sneakers. Instead, I sold out to false expectations. I'm a fraud. A mere pleaser-of-people.

I preached about the story in Luke 7 of Jesus and the "sinful woman" at the home of Simon the snobbish Pharisee. As part of the message, I told the congregation we needed to go on a field trip, so I had them all come to the front of the church and gather around a makeshift table, and we sort of acted out the story.

Just before that, though, Pastor Tim Hallman took one of his kids out of the sanctuary to the bathroom. When he returned, he was surprised to see everyone up front. He thought, "Wow, did Steve just have an altar call and the whole church is getting saved?" Alas, that was not the case. But I got a good laugh when he told me about it. Even now, I'm typing this with a big smile on my face.

Who is that skinny couple on their honeymoon?

Today is our 17th anniversary. Pam and I celebrated last night by eating at Biaggi's, a wonderful Italian place. On our 11th anniversary, we celebrated in Florence, Italy. Now that was Italian. I'm deeply, deeply in love with Pam. But to be perfectly honest, I don't understand how I got to that point.

People write books on "The Secret of Marriage," with a formula for what it takes to stay together. The "keys" to a happy marriage. Communication, shared interests, trust, "keeping God first," mutual submission--those are some of the keys, and they've been helpful in our marriage. But as I look at our 17 years, I can't reduce it to a formula--"Do this, this, and this, and you'll have a marriage like we have." I'll bet Dobson can't, either. Rather, every marriage is a unique, unpredictable journey, and to a very large extent, you make it up as you go without really knowing what lies around the next bend and how you'll handle it. Despite periods of discontent and carnality and restlessness and sometimes, especially in earlier years, wondering just how much I really liked this woman--and I'll bet most guys go through that--I find myself 17 years deep into this thing, and fully delighted with this person who bears my name.

Yesterday morning I woke up at 4 am and couldn't get back to sleep, so I came out to the computer in the living room and worked a bit on my sermon for Sunday. But that's not what I did first. First, I located the remote. Hey, I'm a guy. I checked the weather channel, then surfed around for a bit. And I stumbled upon a TV preacher named Don Stewart.

He was hawking his Green Prosperity Prayer Cloth, which would bring physical healing and financial prosperity. The TV showed crusades where numerous people were waving the amazing Green Prosperity Prayer Cloth, and they all seemed happy, healthy, and rich. This miracle-working cloth was available for free, just like salvation is free, so it's obviously biblical. I checked out his website.

I'm preaching this Sunday at Anchor. I'm talking about keys and ownership and Jesus at the home of Simon. Just try to put all of that together.

There was a time when I swore off preaching. I had had occasional occasion to preach, but it's not something I felt comfortable doing. I'm a seminar guy. I love teaching settings with small groups. I like to get people interacting and to guide discussion. I feel at home in small groups. That's my genre.

Sometime in the early 1990s, I did a series of seminars during a weekend retreat for a church in Indiana. That was fun. But they also asked me to stick around and preach on Sunday morning. I went long, felt unorganized, didn't think I was connecting, and told Pam afterwards, "Okay, that's the last time I preach." There had also been an unsatisfying experience before that which I no longer recall, no doubt for good reason.

Then in 1998 I got roped into doing a missions-related message at the Colwood UB church in Michigan. It went half-way good. In both services. I wasn't anxious to do it again...but I wasn't totally against it.

Then last summer I volunteered to preach one Sunday at Anchor while our pastor was taking courses at Trinity seminary. I spoke on "Lessons from My Cats," and showed lots of pictures of Jordi and Molly. I kept telling myself, "Think of it as a seminar. It's not, but it's a somewhat small group and therefore similar." And it worked. I enjoyed myself. Which is why I didn't hesitate to volunteer again this summer. In fact, I'm looking forward to it. But ever in the back of my mind is the thought, "Steve, you're a seminar guy. Push your luck, and you'll crash and burn."

So yeah, I'm real positive about Sunday.

I have a message on my cellphone, but don't know how to retrieve it. We programmed in a password, but it won't take the password. So I'm stumped. I'm wondering who called, and if it's important. Maybe somebody died.

I am telephonically challenged. My cellphone has a calendar, but I can never remember how to get to it, so I don't use it. My stress level rises whenever I need to look up a number in the address book, and the thought of programming in a new address freaks me out. My wife just starts hitting buttons automatically, like it's the easiest thing in the world. At times like those, I resent her transcendent competence.

My cellphone will take pictures, handle text messages, do voice dialing, show me a log of all calls placed and missed, and even let me play games. It'll surf the web if I want to pay for the privilege (which I don't). But I've not done any of that stuff. I just want to punch in a number, hit SEND, and have somebody answer. The other thing I've mastered is recharging the battery. I nailed that task long ago. The sense of accomplishment still gives me goosebumps.

I'm not exactly technologically inept. I do a lot of complicated stuff. I can handcode HTML and CSS. I'm proficient with Photoshop, InDesign. Dreamweaver, and many more high-end programs. I'm great with MS Word tabs. I work with Javascript, XHTML, XSLT (the absolute worst). I design Filemaker databases with complex scripting. I know all about the various graphics formats (PNG, JPG, TIF, PSD, GIF, etc.), with attendant info about dpi and resolutions and what works better on the web and in print. I can bend Blogger and Movable Type templates to my will. I oversee a network of computers (including five servers), design and maintain a half-dozen websites and several blogs, get databases to display on the web, and much more. I love FTPing. I talk enough Geek to fool people into thinking I am one. When I surf the web, I often look at a page's source code, just to see how they did something.

But I can't figure out my cellphone. And while we're at it, I don't like FAX machines, either.

I honestly don't know what I think regarding evolution and how God created the earth. I've never voiced that, partly because conservative evangelicals enthralled with this subject are quick to hurl charges of "He doesn't believe the Bible." Such charges make me want to, uh, hurl. However, much to my delight (and possibly to my detriment), this doesn't threaten me anymore, which is why I'm outing myself from the evolutionary cave. So feel free to hurl away.

The honest truth is that none of the creation explanations work for me. In all intellectual honesty, I cannot ignore the fossil and geological and glacier record, continental drift, carbon dating, the new findings in genome research, and so many other things that point to a very old earth. So all of the "young earth" explanations don't click with me, though people do make some incredibly acrobatic jumps through chaotically twirling hoops. This is very entertaining to watch and well worth the cost of admission.

The literal seven-day creation approach doesn't satisfy me. Creation science doesn't cut it, either. Theistic evolution actually strikes some positive cords with me, but it also strikes some resoundingly dissonant cords which I cannot reconcile with scripture. I like a lot of stuff in the Intelligent Design field, though those arguments don't necessarily rely on a particular understanding of Genesis--just the realization that the complexity of the universe and of earth's ecosystem required some god-sized thought. But how and when God did it--beats me.

So, accuse me of being a person who doesn't "believe the Bible." But I don't think any of the explanations advanced so far have got it right. This will probably be one of those things that will have to wait for heaven, just as Job never received an explanation for why he underwent his trials. Or consider Jesus. The Jews knew all the Scripture about the Messiah, but never dreamed the Messiah would look and act anything like Jesus did--and yet, in retrospect, those very same verses fit Jesus, and the Bible's integrity is reaffirmed. You just have to put the puzzle together in a whole different way.

In heaven, when someone asks God how he created the heavens and earth, he'll probably say, "None of you were even close to getting it right." Then he'll explain it, and it'll all make sense and be perfectly consistent with Scripture. That's what I think.

Today a young adult man who lives near the church came to church without shoes. He walked to church barefoot, and went into the sanctuary barefoot (also wearing shorts and a button shirt with the sleeves cut off). This young man first came back in March or thereabouts, and he has returned maybe eight times. He's had some trouble with the law, and I'm sure he has a very difficult life. I want him to feel accepted at Anchor. And I think he does.

He hadn't been there in a few weeks, and I was concerned. When we musicians finished and I walked out the back, I made a point of tapping him on the shoulder and saying, "Great to see you today." He looked over his shoulder and acknowledged me.

The thing that's great is, nobody seemed bothered that he came to church barefoot. I didn't hear anyone even mention it. We had a party at our house tonight, with about 20 people, and it never came up.

We pride ourselves on not making an issue of dress. But this was a new one, and I thought at least someone would say something about it. But nobody did. It's like we just collectively realized, "Okay, haven't seen this one before. But it falls under the same heading as wearing shorts and T-shirts. It's not something to make a fuss over."

And that absolutely delights me. Nobody said a thing about his attire, negative or positive. It just wasn't an issue.

In every church I've attended in my life, it would have been an issue. People would have at least whispered about it (unapprovingly). But it wasn't an issue at Anchor today. And that thrills me. It's fun being part of an atypical church.

This has certainly been a church-focused week, which is not something I ever begrudge. I grew up in a family that was always doing church stuff, even long before Dad entered the ministry (which was my junior year of high school). "Church" is what we did as a family. Sure, we went on great camping vacations, saw most of the 50 states, Dad spent plenty of time in the yard playing catch with me (both football and baseball), and we did lots of other stuff as a family. But the main thing we did was "church." That's a model I greatly, greatly value. And it's something which has certainly carried over into adulthood for me and my two brothers. In fact, the period of my adulthood when I felt the most restless and discontent was when I was part of a large church which didn't particularly need my attention in the way smaller churches have.

Anyway, Wednesday night was prayer night--nine of us sitting at a table in the back of the church sanctuary, praying for each other and the needs of the church. I've really enjoyed this time.

Thursday was music practice, after which I continued practicing until 10:30 with Tim and Terry, our guitarists. On July 29, we have a gig at Seekers Coffeehouse, as part of their summer-long Battle of the Bands. We're gonna win this sucker.

Friday night we went to Mark and Tami Solak's house for a youth/young adult outing. Heavy thunderstorms came through, but things cleared up enough to throw frisbee in the yard for a while. We did a lot of laughing around their kitchen table. And I also had some great individual discussions with a couple of them, including a way-too-young guy and girl who are expecting a child in the next couple of months, and have a multitude of things stacked against them. They've been on my mind, and in my prayers, for quite a while now.

Tomorrow night we're having the worship team over for a cookout, which means we spent today cleaning up the house and yard. It's now 10 pm, and I just finished spraying out and sweeping the back porch and outside patio (thank you, Daylight Savings time!). Now I'm sitting here soaked in sweat, which is an image you're glad I've imparted, and I don't imagine you'll ever use my keyboard.

Got something in the oven, and have just enough time for a quick shower.

I received my annual call from the police benevolent association. This organization has had a terrible track record as a charitable group, with a huge percentage of donations going toward fundraising costs. However, I was impressed that right away, the caller identified the organization, and gave the street address and an 800 number. Then he began his pitch.

I let him go for a little bit, and then butted in with my usual "thanks but no thanks" speech, which includes an affirmation of them as an organization but also gives my reason for not wishing to support them. So when the guy paused to take a breath, I said:

"Thanks for calling. I know you are a worthy cause. My wife and I support a number of worthy causes, but we prioritize them and we decided not to include your organization. So I'm afraid we're not interested."

Usually, this confuses fundraisers, because they're not accustomed to encountering thoughtful givers, preying more on impulse givers. But this guy was ready for me. He said:

"That's great. We find that people like you are among are best and most reliable supporters. I'll tell you what I'll do. I'm going to cut you a deal. For just ten dollars...."

And that's where he totally lost me. "Cut you a deal"--those were his exact words. I immediately interrupted him and said, "We don't 'cut deals' when it comes to charitable giving." And I hung up.

That really irked me. Giving, ministry, service--you shouldn't do these things because you get some benefit out of it. I'm not going to support something just because they made me a great deal--sent me a book, included me in a drawing, or signed me up as a member at a lower-than-normal cost.

Should we "cut deals" when it comes to tithing percentage ("Hey, 10% is a bit steep. How about 4%? Would that work for you?"). Or maybe tell people, "Life is hectic, so we don't expect people to attend church every Sunday. If you can make it two Sundays a month, that's good enough for us."

When Jesus told the rich man that he needed to sell everything he owned and give it to the poor, the man walked away. And Jesus let him walk away. Should Jesus have said, "Okay, maybe that's a bit much. I'll cut you a deal--sell just half of what you own and give it away. No, I can do better than that. Let's make it just a third. Do we have a deal?" But no, Jesus let the guy walk away. Jesus don't cut no deals.

With this caller from the policeman's association, I stomped away.

This morning after getting the stitches removed from my gums, I went to Scott's grocery store to get some donuts and other culinary supplies. I gave the checkout girl a $20 bill, and then watched her pick up a black Sharpie and put a little tick-mark just to the right of Andrew Jackson's head.

"Why did you make that mark?" I asked her.

She said, "Some of the other Scott's stores were having trouble with their twenties, so we're all doing this."

"Oh," I said. As if that answered my question, which it most certainly didn't. But being unduly polite and not wanting to embarrass her, I didn't question further. I just accepted her answer like a lemming, collected my change, and left to enjoy creamy vanilla filling.

But ever since, I've been wondering, "So what kind of a problem can a store have with a $20 bill? And why does defacing the bill with a black mark solve that problem? And why was I too timid to ask this question of vital concern to our national currency?"

On Sunday I finished a little 135-page book called Beasts of No Nation, by a Nigerian named Uzudinma Iweala (I'm only typing that once, because I really need to concentrate on the spelling). The story is a first-person novel told from the viewpoint of a young boy abducted into a guerrilla army and everything that he endures--killing, butchering, sexual abuse (committed by him and upon him by his Commandant), and so much more.

The story takes place in an "unnamed West African country," which could easily be Sierra Leone, which underwent a horrific civil war during the 1990s. My denomination has had mission work in Sierra Leone since the 1850s, so we followed the fighting and attendant atrocities in Sierra Leone closely. But the country could as easily be Liberia, or maybe even Nigeria, where the author is from.

The book is an award-winning, acclaimed first novel, and appeared on various lists of the best books of 2005. It reads quickly, and yet is a bit difficult to read, because of the linguistic style. Here's a sample passsage:

"I am knowing I am no more child so if this war is ending I cannot be going back to doing child thing. No, I will be going back to be teachering or farming, or Doctor or Engineer, and I will be finding my mother and my sister, but not my father because he is dying in this war."

The author wrote this as his senior thesis at Harvard. I read interviews on the web in which he talked about the book, and how his curiosity was first aroused when he read a story about child soldiers in Sierra Leone. He said, "One of the problems that the communities face is that sometimes the kids who are forced to fight are forced to commit atrocities against their own community members, to disconnect them from their communities, and make it impossible for them to go back. So they have nothing to do but fight, because they have nowhere to go. So then the war is ended, and now you have this kid who's gone and killed people in his own community. Is that community just supposed to accept him back, without any problems?"

Gary Dilley, our director of Global Ministries, told me that the city of Bo (in Sierra Leone) has a number of former child soldiers exactly like this--nobody wants them because of the things they've done. The government has given them all bicycles as a tool for employment. But my, how they must be scarred in so many ways.

Just got back from the table tennis club. Didn't play so well tonight, but had a good time. It was tournament night, and I got placed in a tough group for the round robin. Won one out of four in the first round. I felt pretty mellow tonight, not competitive. Don't know why.

I did give Gary a good run in the second round. We play the best of five games, and I took Gary to game 5, right down to the wire. I made him say sh** more than I've ever heard him use that word, and I take some pride in that, even though I lost. His use of obscenity assures me that he was trying very hard.

After that marathon match with Gary, I played a fellow whom I've beaten numerous times. He was gunning for me tonight, really focused, while I just didn't really care. If I had hunkered down with some requisite grim determination, the outcome would have been different. But he beat me, and I just congratulated him and then sat down with an "oh well" sigh. Next week I'll have to give him a good drubbing. I'm sure that's what Jesus would do.

Mike, one of the young whippersnapper who, I hate admitting, has jumped ahead of me in ability, is heading off for China this week. When I learned about that, I figured it was some kind of mission trip, and I was excited about that. Turns out he's actually going to a three-week tennis camp, a very intensive affair during which he'll learn from pros and play constantly. When he comes back, he'll have leapfrogged ahead of a number of players (I'll be left in the dust). Makes for a pretty expensive hobby, though.

I did end the night with a win. It was against Richard, a new fellow who hails from Ghana (and was quite proud, two weeks ago, of his national soccer team, which had beaten the US that week). He's a very enjoyable guy with a ready smile and a forehand which catches me off-guard...but not enough.

Bob and Becky are very faithful at Anchor, and truly nice people. Quiet, unassuming, gracious people, somewhere in their late 50s I'm guessing. I like them a lot. They always sit on the end of a row, and their faithfulness blesses me as I stand up front at the keyboard each Sunday. I don't know how long they've been coming to Anchor--maybe a couple years. They live on the next street over. I greatly value them as part of Anchor, though I don't know them well.

A couple weeks ago it was announced during the service that Becky's brother had died that week. It evidently didn't register with people, because a couple weeks later I learned that Becky received a sympathy card from just one person in the church. And it wasn't us.

I felt terrible about that. So did others. People moved into action--belatedly, but out of real concern for Becky's grief. The loss of a brother is a big deal. Somehow, Becky's loss got lost in our midst, and that just shouldn't happen. Certainly not in a church of our size. We pride ourselves on being a warm, friendly church. What happened with Becky isn't typical of Anchor--at least, I hope it isn't. But it happened, and it shouldn't have.

I thought of my brothers, and what it would mean to lose one of them. We're all close. It would devastate me.

With that in mind, this Sunday before church I sat down with Becky and asked questions about her brother--where he lived, were they close, younger or older, etc. She opened up, and I think she appreciated my interest, which was genuine. And I thoroughly enjoyed talking to her. This is a woman I want to get to know a lot better, because in her gentle quietness, I sensed a real strength and character.

I've got to pay closer attention to what's happening in people's lives. All of us do. It's part of being a community.

Pam and I watched two Reese Witherspoon movies this weekend on DVD. Just worked out that way. On Friday night we saw "Just Like Heaven," a nice romantic comedy in which she was, basically, in the ghost species. Nice flick, happy ending, PG-13, no bad language.

Tonight we watched "A Far Off Place," a 1993 movie set in Africa. She was very young back then, and played a tomboy. Interesting contrast to her "Legally Blonde" movies. A totally clean PG-rated flick. So, a couple of good movies. Hurray for Reese Witherspoon.

Good night.

I really like the book "Velvet Elvis." It's author, Rob Bell, is pastor of the Mars Hill church in Michigan, a different kind of megachurch. We'll be hearing more about him in the years ahead. He's probably the Bill Hybels of the postmodern generation. But my first real exposure was through "Velvet Elvis."

One part, though, made me mad.

In one of his later chapters, Bell described the educational system in Jesus' day. This was fascinating. From roughly age 6 to age 10, kids studied the Torah (the first five books of the Old Testament) at the local synagogue under a rabbi's teaching. By age 10, most students would have those five books memorized. So Jesus went through this process.

The best students went on to the next level, which lasted until around age 14. The other students "dropped out" and learned the family trade. No dishonor in that. By age 14, these better students might have the entire Old Testament memorized. Jesus, I'm confident, did.

After age 14 or 15, only the best of the best remained; the others went back to the family business. These best-and-brightest students would apply to become a disciple of a rabbi, learning to copy that rabbi in every way. The rabbi would grill the kid to see if he was worth the investment. If accepted, the kid would join that rabbi's band of disciples and follow him everywhere.

Then, about the age of 30, you would be considered a rabbi and would begin your own teaching and training of disciples. That, of course, is when Jesus began his public ministry. But Jesus, instead of choosing from the "best of the best," chose lowly fishermen who probably washed out at age 10. In the eyes of other rabbis, he probably chose poorly.

All of this is fascinating background and sheds enormous light on Jesus' childhood and the whole nature and perception of his public ministry.

And that's what makes me mad.

Why hadn't I ever heard this before? I've sat through thousands of sermons and Sunday school classes and seminars, and I've never heard this. This is a fundamental understanding of Jewish culture and rabbinical ministry, and it illuminates so much of what was happening with Jesus and his merry band of followers. Do we just keep regurgitating the same information? Hadn't anyone bothered to explore education in Jesus' time?

I've got a stack of books by Christians about how to lead small groups. They all say basically the same thing—same principles, same advice, same methods (except for Em Griffin, who does plow new ground). One time I was in a public library and discovered some secular books on small group dynamics. I browsed through a couple and discovered all kinds of stuff I'd never seen before. Fascinating insights into group behavior. Do Christian authors just keep recycling and repackaging stuff already written by other Christian authors?

Well, thanks, Rob Bell, for teaching me something truly new. Assuming that your info is accurate.

Well, at least I put in one day of work this week. My jaw remains swollen and ouchy. I took a pain pill just before arriving at work, and for a while felt a bit woozy. That may or may not be a correctly-spelled word.

At 3 pm I met Dad at Lowe's to help him get their new washer and dryer. My Dakota comes in handy. At their place, I upgraded the system software on Dad's iMac and got it connected to their new Brother all-in-one printer and connected to the internet with Dad's Juno account. Dad totally renovated our basement, put in a couple ceiling fans, and wreaked numerous other improvements upon our house. My handyman skills stop at installing system software and drivers.

The local paper in South Bend did a big article on Mom and Dad, focusing the story around the Pelley murders 17 years ago. The paper said Dad was 74 and Mom was 75. Actually Mom is 69 (always 20 years older than me). She thought the mistake was funny. Good for her.

There, aren't you glad you read this?

Although there is no biblical precedent for it, this morning I allowed an oral surgeon to plant a titanium post in my jaw, into which a fake tooth will someday be screwed. He was supposed to do two posts, but some complication related to lack of sufficient bone mass prompted him to put the second one on hold to a later date, which I can look forward to with eager anticipation.

As I type, my jaw is swollen, and I just finished swishing around for 30 seconds a truly horrible fluid which, I suspect, was bottled a few hundred yards downstream from a Russian petrochemical plant.

Tomorrow, the oral surgeon assured me, will not be a banner day in the anals of Dennie pain management. I can hardly wait.

Don Dennie, my dad, talking to parishioners at Olive Branch UB church in Lakeville, Ind.

Photos - Page 1 | Photos - Page 2

Yesterday, July 2, my parents retired...again. It was their last day pastoring the Olive Branch United Brethren church in Lakeville, Ind., just south of South Bend. Pam and I drove up for the service. We had attended their final service at Third Street UB church back in 1998, the last time they retired. This was a tremendous day, and I felt so grateful for the way this congregation showered love and appreciation on my parents.

Mom at the piano (for the last time?). A photo of her Sunday school class sits on the piano.

My parents originally came to Lakeville in 1989, just a few months after the previous pastor and his wife, along with two young daughters, were shotgunned in the church parsonage. Mom and Dad moved back from Arizona to serve this shattered congregation, and over the next five years helped bring a great deal of healing. They then moved on to serve three years at the Third Street UB church in Fort Wayne, Ind.--the predecessor of my current church, Anchor. Next came a brief interim stint in Convoy, Ohio, and then they, uh, retired.

And got bored. Four years ago they returned to Olive Branch in an interim capacity, were asked to throw their hat in the ring during the pastoral search (which they did somewhat reluctantly), and got voted in. But this year, my parents felt it was time to move on. Or, to move back to their home in Fort Wayne, and then figure out what the next chapter of their life will hold.

Went ot see "Superman" this afternoon. I liked it. This new guy, Brandon Routh, makes a good Superman, though maybe I think that only because he looks so incredibly like Christopher Reeve.

Don't care for Kate Bosworth as Lois Lane. Margot Kidder was a better Lois Lane, though Terri Hatcher is the ultimate Lois. Kevin Spacey was a hard-core Lex Luthor, compared to the somewhat comedic Gene Hackman.

The little exchange between Superman and Lois about the world needing a savior was quite interesting. I'm sure, once it's out on DVD, that clip will show up in numerous church services as a sermon illustration.

Pam and I watched "Munich" last weekend. I read the book upon which it was minimally based back in the 1980s, when people still said the story never happened. Reviewers played up the angst which the Israeli assassins felt, but I was actually a bit disappointed with that part; I though the hype exceeded the substance. But the action was good, and I enjoyed the movie. It just wasn't what I expected.

Okay, that's enough pop culture fluff for this week.