Hold the presses! This pastor has taken Christ out of Christmas. "And you call yourself a Christian!" That's right, I threw the "Xmas" word out there. I just cut Christ out of the season, reason or not, or did I?
Christmas is a wonderful, magical time. What other time of the year do we go crazy about giving gifts to one another? I mean, really, how refreshing is it to see grown men and women slugging each other at the local big box retail store, trying to find that special gift for their little girls, Sugar and Spice. How awesome is it to see that love extended with the outstretched arm pepper spraying the multitude, while said multitude skate on the store's DVD covered floor to the tune of "He knows when you've been sleeping..." I love Christmas, but I didn't take Christ out of the event.
Working where I work and relating to whom I relate, I hear many "truths" shared from the mouths of well meaning folk who have been instructed in "The Way" and have majored on the minor things of faith. Xmas is one of those things. Somehow we have come to the belief that the "X" in Xmas is the nixing of the Christ child from His very own birthday party. Perhaps some language guidance will help.
As an educated pastor (which, by the way, does not mean I am smart), I have been instructed in several areas of learning. One of these is the Greek language another is English. In the Greek language, the original language of the New Testament, the word for Christ is Χριστός (by the way, this word is not Jesus' last name, it simply means "Anointed One" which is a translation from Hebrew's word for the same, Messiah). This letter, "X," when it came into English, came in as a "Ch." So we transliterated the word from Greek to make the word Christ in English.
Now if that is not enough, we also have a tendency in English, as in every other language, to abbreviate our words in common use. For example I don't send "Electronic mail," rather, I send "Email." I don't watch the "National Football League" on "Television" (especially since my Chargers are lousy), rather I watch the NFL on TV. We tend to abbreviate everything we can. Now with that in hand, Christmas is easily abbreviated (and I would add, in a form theologically correct) to Xmas without the loss of faith, love, hope or the greatest of these, Christ!
Where Christ has truly been taken out of Christmas is in the human heart, at the mall, big box retailer, snooty boutique shoppe (notice the snooty spelling) with an extended arm shooting pepper spray at the jolly purchasers slugging each other while skating on DVDs in the name of Christmas. To this scenario, I say, "Bah humbug!"
May Jesus establish His Kingdom in each of our hearts this Xmas, so we might experience Him where He belongs.
Friday, December 16, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
The Art of Distraction
I am a professional Christian teacher. Some call this endeavor pastoring. My job is to present the truths of a victorious faith to those who are under my care and tutelage, in order for those truths to become a part of my flock's spiritual growth. Teaching is fun and I enjoy the challenge of expression with purpose.
I have seen, however, in the context of my craft, a growing trend of distraction and its burgeoning art forms. I know I am not alone. This trend is not only being revealed in the context of worship services, but also within the context of every aspect of life. This distraction has caused deaths, terminations of jobs, miscommunication at multiple levels and, as lowly as it may seem, loss of understanding concerning the truths of God for His children to live victorious lives. We are the most connected, and yet, disconnected generation that the earth has known.
We can check our stock portfolio in a few seconds through the wizardry of our smart phones, along with reviewing our calendars, emails, facebook, twitter, and, yes, even call a friend (or screen them when they call us). We have become intoxicated with the opportunities to electronically "plugin" to the world around us. Yet in the process of such a high level of connectedness, I have observed the loss of silence, the loss of reflection and even the loss of connectedness with persons in the same room. Somehow we have fallen victim to the tyranny of the ringtone.
Inherently we know this is not right. We know that we should be concentrating on the person before us, what they are saying, why they are saying it and how we might be important to them or the context. Yet when the bells ring or the ever distinctive ringtones start, we ask for privilege, for pardon, for time to let the caller, the texter, the reason for the interruption to take precedent over the living, breathing human with whom we were connecting. We have begun to celebrate our phones over and against the delight of real live human interaction.
It has become so prevalent that conversation with God (prayer) is often temporarily suspended when the smart phone issues its call to the increasingly unbridled desires of our hearts. It is not God who loses out in this drama. If our phones were so smart, how come that can't tell WE ARE TALKING WITH THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE? What is also quite interesting is our ability to disguise our distractions while seeming to do these most important things, like praying.
It is illegal to drive while texting, so we hold our phones low, below the level of the door window frame. While in school we play angry birds under the desk, out of sight of the teacher who is earnestly guiding the young mind into a higher education. And at church with our Bibles open (perhaps even to the appropriate place in the sermon), we hold it at an angle to cover the action of a multiple level complaint about the sermon and the preacher to whom they are not listening, along with the other participants of their text complaint. The art of these exercises is astonishing.
I am a someone who has been called to communicate wonderful truths, yet I grieve for the art that is killing the potential of the church. I am not a fatalist, however. I still hope for some success in the midst of the distraction. That is still my purpose.
Got to go, my phone is ringing.
I have seen, however, in the context of my craft, a growing trend of distraction and its burgeoning art forms. I know I am not alone. This trend is not only being revealed in the context of worship services, but also within the context of every aspect of life. This distraction has caused deaths, terminations of jobs, miscommunication at multiple levels and, as lowly as it may seem, loss of understanding concerning the truths of God for His children to live victorious lives. We are the most connected, and yet, disconnected generation that the earth has known.
We can check our stock portfolio in a few seconds through the wizardry of our smart phones, along with reviewing our calendars, emails, facebook, twitter, and, yes, even call a friend (or screen them when they call us). We have become intoxicated with the opportunities to electronically "plugin" to the world around us. Yet in the process of such a high level of connectedness, I have observed the loss of silence, the loss of reflection and even the loss of connectedness with persons in the same room. Somehow we have fallen victim to the tyranny of the ringtone.
Inherently we know this is not right. We know that we should be concentrating on the person before us, what they are saying, why they are saying it and how we might be important to them or the context. Yet when the bells ring or the ever distinctive ringtones start, we ask for privilege, for pardon, for time to let the caller, the texter, the reason for the interruption to take precedent over the living, breathing human with whom we were connecting. We have begun to celebrate our phones over and against the delight of real live human interaction.
It has become so prevalent that conversation with God (prayer) is often temporarily suspended when the smart phone issues its call to the increasingly unbridled desires of our hearts. It is not God who loses out in this drama. If our phones were so smart, how come that can't tell WE ARE TALKING WITH THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE? What is also quite interesting is our ability to disguise our distractions while seeming to do these most important things, like praying.
It is illegal to drive while texting, so we hold our phones low, below the level of the door window frame. While in school we play angry birds under the desk, out of sight of the teacher who is earnestly guiding the young mind into a higher education. And at church with our Bibles open (perhaps even to the appropriate place in the sermon), we hold it at an angle to cover the action of a multiple level complaint about the sermon and the preacher to whom they are not listening, along with the other participants of their text complaint. The art of these exercises is astonishing.
I am a someone who has been called to communicate wonderful truths, yet I grieve for the art that is killing the potential of the church. I am not a fatalist, however. I still hope for some success in the midst of the distraction. That is still my purpose.
Got to go, my phone is ringing.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Golf
Golf should be called fetch-it. The Scots invented this first hide and seek game that included a modicum of exercise. One stands in a box (tee box) and whacks a tiny white ball with a stick, then the hitter must go and fetch-it. After discovery of the smitten, one must then smite it again until it is smitten into a hole some yards in the distance. After completing this exercise 17 more times, one is finished with a "round" and can retire for the day (it almost takes that long to play).
I just returned from a vacation wherein I played four rounds of fetch-it over three days (or at least that was my intention). My father joined me in this binge down in Southern Utah at some of the most beautiful fetch-it courses we have in the state. I have heard that to know my father is to know the present writer times 10. I am not sure what that means, but I can assure you it can mean nothing good.
The first day of fetch-it began at 6 am when the progenitor and I got up, showered and made our way to the first fetch-it course to join others from Northern Utah who had made the journey to this Southern Utah fetch-it heaven. All geared up, we proceeded to hit and fetch the tiny white ball for the next 4 or so hours. We played this first fetch-it course down by the polygamist stronghold of Colorado City. It was a very difficult course in which we experienced (at least my progenitor and I) the fetch-it player's nightmare of losing the tiny white ball on the very first whack. I now know why this course was so close to the polygamists' enclave. They are the only ones who could play fetch-it there, because the tiny white ball could only be found by employing the polygamists' particular assets (multiple wives and multitudinous brood sent out in search of the elusive tiny white ball).
Having completed our first adventure in pioneering through the first course (I say pioneering, because it was more about blazing a trail through the desert in search of the tiny white ball), we ate a hurried lunch and found our way to the next fetch-it course to play another "round" of fetch-it. I have failed to mention that Southern Utah was very sunny and our post winter bodies were not prepared for the cooking they were to receive (that includes the progenitor and I who, although hailing from native American stock, got cooked like the Christmas goose).
Needless to say, although I am going to say it, we ended the day with a negative count of tiny white balls and a quite impressive positive count of what fetch-it enthusiasts call "strokes." If I was worried about what the fetch-iters call a handicap, I would be mortified. However, I was just glad to not have experienced a real stroke. We ended our day at Outback Steakhouse and, as a real man, all came out well with a chunk of meat on my platter and the typical banter of men around the table lying about our fetch-iting.
I can't recall much of the subsequent days of fetch-it, except to say the progenitor started the next round, but never finished; and in our final day of fetch-it, all we could muster was a trip to the course to look at it. Perhaps the progenitor and I have reached a boiling point of sorts. My 57 years combined with his 77 added up to the longing of more youthful eyes, in a time far far away, when an intended four rounds of fetch-it in three days would have been a joy. We were, at least, glad to be with one another, enjoying each others' company and getting all our money's worth of fetch-it.
We're planning to do it again next year. And golf really should be called "fetch-it."
I just returned from a vacation wherein I played four rounds of fetch-it over three days (or at least that was my intention). My father joined me in this binge down in Southern Utah at some of the most beautiful fetch-it courses we have in the state. I have heard that to know my father is to know the present writer times 10. I am not sure what that means, but I can assure you it can mean nothing good.
The first day of fetch-it began at 6 am when the progenitor and I got up, showered and made our way to the first fetch-it course to join others from Northern Utah who had made the journey to this Southern Utah fetch-it heaven. All geared up, we proceeded to hit and fetch the tiny white ball for the next 4 or so hours. We played this first fetch-it course down by the polygamist stronghold of Colorado City. It was a very difficult course in which we experienced (at least my progenitor and I) the fetch-it player's nightmare of losing the tiny white ball on the very first whack. I now know why this course was so close to the polygamists' enclave. They are the only ones who could play fetch-it there, because the tiny white ball could only be found by employing the polygamists' particular assets (multiple wives and multitudinous brood sent out in search of the elusive tiny white ball).
Having completed our first adventure in pioneering through the first course (I say pioneering, because it was more about blazing a trail through the desert in search of the tiny white ball), we ate a hurried lunch and found our way to the next fetch-it course to play another "round" of fetch-it. I have failed to mention that Southern Utah was very sunny and our post winter bodies were not prepared for the cooking they were to receive (that includes the progenitor and I who, although hailing from native American stock, got cooked like the Christmas goose).
Needless to say, although I am going to say it, we ended the day with a negative count of tiny white balls and a quite impressive positive count of what fetch-it enthusiasts call "strokes." If I was worried about what the fetch-iters call a handicap, I would be mortified. However, I was just glad to not have experienced a real stroke. We ended our day at Outback Steakhouse and, as a real man, all came out well with a chunk of meat on my platter and the typical banter of men around the table lying about our fetch-iting.
I can't recall much of the subsequent days of fetch-it, except to say the progenitor started the next round, but never finished; and in our final day of fetch-it, all we could muster was a trip to the course to look at it. Perhaps the progenitor and I have reached a boiling point of sorts. My 57 years combined with his 77 added up to the longing of more youthful eyes, in a time far far away, when an intended four rounds of fetch-it in three days would have been a joy. We were, at least, glad to be with one another, enjoying each others' company and getting all our money's worth of fetch-it.
We're planning to do it again next year. And golf really should be called "fetch-it."
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
Vacations
Vacations are like ice cream cones. Oh they look great as you are putting them together, taking that sugar cone in hand and adding one, two, or even three of your favorite scoops of ice cream. Often the planning of the cone is as much fun as the thought of eating it. Then the reality of eating comes to the fore.
The top scoop goes down pretty easy, still staying relatively congealed and cold to the palate. As one works themselves into the core of the cone, the ambiance begins to have its effect on the wonder of all the planning. Everything starts to melt. That which was so glorious seconds before, has now turned into a dripping mess of ever increasing proportions. The flavor of choice becomes a sticky glove covering the hand. The once sweet container of bliss turns into a soft, gooey, object which has lost its ability to retain its contents. It is now not even able to act as a good funnel (one of the many joys of an able cone).
Vacations are just like this. The planning is a lot of fun, pulling out maps and travel guides, thoughtfully scouring the web for neat places to go and things to see. Reading reviews of hotels and restaurants in search of the greatest trip known to man only whets the appetite. Is it four stars or five stars? How many reviews does that hotel have? How close to the beach, to the mall, to the movie theater, to the tourist attraction? Do they allow pets? With everything planned, one sets out and thus begins the meltdown.
I would rather not go over the many facets of "cone destruction" on vacation, but suffice it to say, nothing ever turns out as it was planned. The plane may arrive late, the baggage too! The hotel may say 4 stars, but they meant you can see 4 at night from the postage stamp window in your bathroom that over looks the European ventilation shaft that runs from a center courtyard in the hotel measuring 5 feet by 5 feet (which is the direction of your room with a view facing the other bathroom windows). Not to mention the occasional viewing opportunity into your fellow guests' vacation bathroom that are unplanned and truly unwanted. Did I say I wouldn't go over these things?
Then there is the food ("this hamburger doesn't taste like meat mommy"). When you do get to a restroom, if you do in time, it may not be a pretty scene. It reminds me of a time when the diapers ran out after a difficult, winding road where the back end had caught up with the front end and there was no end to the mess.
All I am trying to say is that vacations might be better experienced in the mind, where moth and dust corrupteth not and the joy of returning to one's own bed can be had every night with one's own sweetly tender pillow (not those rocks they give you in every hotel known to man). That's right, the place where kids behave because they know the belt can come out at any time (because we are not performing for the other tourists). The place where meals are known, food is cheap, people love you and you love them, and where the prayers of the saints are spoken to God after a bath in a tub that fits or a shower that has the shampoo that works on your hair. The place called home, where the yard needs to be mowed, and the trash taken out, and the garage swept, and the grass watered, and the dog feed, and the beds made, and the clothes washed, and the dishes put away, and the floors vacuumed, and the furniture dusted, and the toilets cleaned, and the bills paid and where we get to go to work 5 days a week...
How about them ice cream cones?
The top scoop goes down pretty easy, still staying relatively congealed and cold to the palate. As one works themselves into the core of the cone, the ambiance begins to have its effect on the wonder of all the planning. Everything starts to melt. That which was so glorious seconds before, has now turned into a dripping mess of ever increasing proportions. The flavor of choice becomes a sticky glove covering the hand. The once sweet container of bliss turns into a soft, gooey, object which has lost its ability to retain its contents. It is now not even able to act as a good funnel (one of the many joys of an able cone).
Vacations are just like this. The planning is a lot of fun, pulling out maps and travel guides, thoughtfully scouring the web for neat places to go and things to see. Reading reviews of hotels and restaurants in search of the greatest trip known to man only whets the appetite. Is it four stars or five stars? How many reviews does that hotel have? How close to the beach, to the mall, to the movie theater, to the tourist attraction? Do they allow pets? With everything planned, one sets out and thus begins the meltdown.
I would rather not go over the many facets of "cone destruction" on vacation, but suffice it to say, nothing ever turns out as it was planned. The plane may arrive late, the baggage too! The hotel may say 4 stars, but they meant you can see 4 at night from the postage stamp window in your bathroom that over looks the European ventilation shaft that runs from a center courtyard in the hotel measuring 5 feet by 5 feet (which is the direction of your room with a view facing the other bathroom windows). Not to mention the occasional viewing opportunity into your fellow guests' vacation bathroom that are unplanned and truly unwanted. Did I say I wouldn't go over these things?
Then there is the food ("this hamburger doesn't taste like meat mommy"). When you do get to a restroom, if you do in time, it may not be a pretty scene. It reminds me of a time when the diapers ran out after a difficult, winding road where the back end had caught up with the front end and there was no end to the mess.
All I am trying to say is that vacations might be better experienced in the mind, where moth and dust corrupteth not and the joy of returning to one's own bed can be had every night with one's own sweetly tender pillow (not those rocks they give you in every hotel known to man). That's right, the place where kids behave because they know the belt can come out at any time (because we are not performing for the other tourists). The place where meals are known, food is cheap, people love you and you love them, and where the prayers of the saints are spoken to God after a bath in a tub that fits or a shower that has the shampoo that works on your hair. The place called home, where the yard needs to be mowed, and the trash taken out, and the garage swept, and the grass watered, and the dog feed, and the beds made, and the clothes washed, and the dishes put away, and the floors vacuumed, and the furniture dusted, and the toilets cleaned, and the bills paid and where we get to go to work 5 days a week...
How about them ice cream cones?
Saturday, May 28, 2011
Yards
The grass always grows greener in the other yard. Not mine! I have a yard with the potential to be historic, Homeric, exemplary, yea verily pretty good. But I have a debility. I generally hate yard work.
I drive through my neighborhood watching the poor slaves to the shovels, rakes and manure, fast at work sweating their lives into their yards and I "tsk-ulate." You know what I mean, I "tsk, tsk" in my mind feeling sorry for my fellows (and perhaps look down on the poor indentured slobs). I am free to do that, since I am the unknown traveler through our borough.
However, I do love my wife. That may seem strange to offer at this point in my not so subtle diatribe against yards and their incumbent tasks. She loves yards. I am afraid she not only loves yards, but also loves yard work. I am conflicted...love wife, hate yards; wife loves yards, husband is trapped.
I have decided to love my wife through the yard and all its implied travail. She is worth it, really! It does, however, not change the truth that yard work sucks! I love my wife, and I will love the yard. God made the garden, by the way, so He loves yards also. Man, I really am trapped. Love God, love yards...
So I have furthered my decision to love my wife and God by doing the yard. I will rake, mow, seed, trim, clip, plant, and water. God would have me do these things for loving Him more and proving myself to my earthly beloved. Yards, I sometimes think God did cast the first couple out of the garden...I am only praying that He will do a miracle and give me love for the yard.
I drive through my neighborhood watching the poor slaves to the shovels, rakes and manure, fast at work sweating their lives into their yards and I "tsk-ulate." You know what I mean, I "tsk, tsk" in my mind feeling sorry for my fellows (and perhaps look down on the poor indentured slobs). I am free to do that, since I am the unknown traveler through our borough.
However, I do love my wife. That may seem strange to offer at this point in my not so subtle diatribe against yards and their incumbent tasks. She loves yards. I am afraid she not only loves yards, but also loves yard work. I am conflicted...love wife, hate yards; wife loves yards, husband is trapped.
I have decided to love my wife through the yard and all its implied travail. She is worth it, really! It does, however, not change the truth that yard work sucks! I love my wife, and I will love the yard. God made the garden, by the way, so He loves yards also. Man, I really am trapped. Love God, love yards...
So I have furthered my decision to love my wife and God by doing the yard. I will rake, mow, seed, trim, clip, plant, and water. God would have me do these things for loving Him more and proving myself to my earthly beloved. Yards, I sometimes think God did cast the first couple out of the garden...I am only praying that He will do a miracle and give me love for the yard.
Tuesday, May 24, 2011
Water
Desert living is different living. At least it is different from my growing up years in San Diego and my travels as a missionary in Central America and South America. I now live in a desert, but the problem is it doesn't feel like a desert.
The air in Utah is very dry. In fact, one of the greatest transitions that our family had to make in moving to Utah was the lack of humidity. Really, it snows a ton here, rains copiously (like it has been for the last few months) and yet, this is the dry skin capital of the universe. God graced me with a wonderful skin composition which has never felt dry to me until I arrived at this place. I didn't even know what lotion was until I moved here. Whilst the snow is flying, I am itching myself to death (self-inflicted road rash) and trying to find a manly smelling lotion that actually works (BTW, there are very few skin lotions on the market that don't smell like some girl perfume). How can these things be? Well, we live in a desert.
The other thing that is weird about living here in this seemingly non-desert desert is because it looks so lush and green and mountainous and humid and lush and green (did I say that already?), you don't feel like you need to drink water. Unlike the song from the Sons of the Pioneers, this place dupes you into not drinking water. I have gone all day without drinking a drop of the old H2O. Recently the chorus of that Sons of the Pioneers song has been ringing in my ears, "Keep a-movin' Dan don't ya listen to him Dan," is talking about the devil beguiling us with mirages. Well that's where I've been, not even looking for the most necessary component for our lives on the earth, water. It's been a reverse mirage. Everything looks great, why drink any water? Remember, I live in a desert.
The next thing that is weird is we have a lot of water. Our mountains are right now holding a flood that is going to baptize the valley in which I live with so much snow runoff that it is probably going to beat all the records. Yet, we are preparing to give our water away to more thirsty climes, such as Southern California. Well, we do live in a desert. Maybe we are just trying to keep abreast of our regional environmental geography. You know, we are in a desert, so a desert we must remain. For those who don't know, desert (noun) a region so arid because of little rainfall that it supports only sparse and widely spaced vegetation or no vegetation at all. And that's the problem. We have water, but we are trying our best to give it away. Desert (with the voice of Jack Sparrow).
Finally, the frustration of itching while feeling dizzy from lack of water has got me all goof-a-lated (I know this isn't a word). I have been so spaced out lately that I can only attribute it to the combination of this year's attack of the pollen and my lack of drinking minimal water quantities. Who will save me from this body of death? Well I know Jesus is really going to do that part, but in the mean time, I got to drink water more regularly.
So, I hoist my water bottle into the air and encourage you to drink your water daily, even though you may live in a beautifully vegetated desert like I do. Cheers and bottoms up!
The air in Utah is very dry. In fact, one of the greatest transitions that our family had to make in moving to Utah was the lack of humidity. Really, it snows a ton here, rains copiously (like it has been for the last few months) and yet, this is the dry skin capital of the universe. God graced me with a wonderful skin composition which has never felt dry to me until I arrived at this place. I didn't even know what lotion was until I moved here. Whilst the snow is flying, I am itching myself to death (self-inflicted road rash) and trying to find a manly smelling lotion that actually works (BTW, there are very few skin lotions on the market that don't smell like some girl perfume). How can these things be? Well, we live in a desert.
The other thing that is weird about living here in this seemingly non-desert desert is because it looks so lush and green and mountainous and humid and lush and green (did I say that already?), you don't feel like you need to drink water. Unlike the song from the Sons of the Pioneers, this place dupes you into not drinking water. I have gone all day without drinking a drop of the old H2O. Recently the chorus of that Sons of the Pioneers song has been ringing in my ears, "Keep a-movin' Dan don't ya listen to him Dan," is talking about the devil beguiling us with mirages. Well that's where I've been, not even looking for the most necessary component for our lives on the earth, water. It's been a reverse mirage. Everything looks great, why drink any water? Remember, I live in a desert.
The next thing that is weird is we have a lot of water. Our mountains are right now holding a flood that is going to baptize the valley in which I live with so much snow runoff that it is probably going to beat all the records. Yet, we are preparing to give our water away to more thirsty climes, such as Southern California. Well, we do live in a desert. Maybe we are just trying to keep abreast of our regional environmental geography. You know, we are in a desert, so a desert we must remain. For those who don't know, desert (noun) a region so arid because of little rainfall that it supports only sparse and widely spaced vegetation or no vegetation at all. And that's the problem. We have water, but we are trying our best to give it away. Desert (with the voice of Jack Sparrow).
Finally, the frustration of itching while feeling dizzy from lack of water has got me all goof-a-lated (I know this isn't a word). I have been so spaced out lately that I can only attribute it to the combination of this year's attack of the pollen and my lack of drinking minimal water quantities. Who will save me from this body of death? Well I know Jesus is really going to do that part, but in the mean time, I got to drink water more regularly.
So, I hoist my water bottle into the air and encourage you to drink your water daily, even though you may live in a beautifully vegetated desert like I do. Cheers and bottoms up!
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