I’ve seen some magical and interesting sights this year. The Amish WalMart of Lancaster County, the 911 memorial service in Princeton town square, the fall colors of McKenzie Pass in Oregon’s Cascade Range, the pastel shacks of Juarez, the Malibu coastline, the foundation room at LA’s House of Blues, Baltimore harbor at dusk, and this week I’ve got another incredible moment to add to the list. I wandered out into the desert outside of Tucson and came across the ‘boneyard’. That’s the local name for an immense portion of the desert set aside as a place where old airplanes go to die. The thousands of rusted aircraft stretch as far as the eye can see and I have to say, it’s an eerie sight. With the dust and desert all around and the jagged mountains in the background, it’s enough to make you start talking to yourself. “What in the world???” I say, as I park the car and get out. I walk to the high chain link fence and scan the horizon. The silence and stillness of the desert makes you feel as though even God has forgotten about this place. Certainly man has discarded some amazing creations here. Every kind of plane you can imagine looms over the flat ground as cactus and tumbleweed seem to be the only life around to watch over the ghostly craft that once glided proudly high above this dusty desert floor. It’s a strange situation I guess. They’re too valuable to destroy and too worn to fly again. Why does this strike me as sad and moving? Perhaps because each of these represents a colossal undertaking by many people who devoted amazing amounts of time and effort bringing just one of them off of the assembly line only to be sold to a buyer for millions of dollars. Some of man’s finest achievements in science and technology now sitting forgotten and silent. I wonder how many other achievements of man will end up this way? Perhaps it’s not only the bad things that end up in the sea of forgetfulness. We humans tend to throw pretty much everything there, except for the things that other’s have done to wrong us. We’re pretty much the opposite of God in that respect. He forgets the bad and remembers the good. We forget most everything except for the bad. We’ve got a lot to learn.

Scent is an amazing memory trigger. I got off the plane in Seattle/Tacoma and met with the unique odor of the northwest. A couple of deep breaths later and the pictures in my mind started rolling. My mom grew up around here where my grandfather was a bivocational pastor/oyster schucker and my great grandfather ran a large greenhouse in Tacoma, Pearsall Florists. They lived in a house at the bottom of McKinley Hill and the greenhouse stretched up the hill from there. A dirt road ran from cousin Ken's house at the top of the hill, past the Holiness campground, and down to the greenhouse. I would wake up early, fish around for some change, and head out the door barefoot through the field, stepping on slugs all the way (they have a corner market on the slug population here) to the railroad tracks. I would return a short time later with a pocket full of flattened pennies. I still can taste grandma's traditional breakfast of cornflakes and heavy cream with a side of thick bacon. Blackberry preserves and deserts were a constant since the house was surrounded and nearly overtaken with blackberry bushes. Dad would go out with a huge bowl and come back with scratched up arms, a massive smile, and a haul of the biggest blackberries you've ever seen. Evenings would be spent watching Flipper while grandpa sat in his easy chair. Today, the greenhouse is gone, grandpa's house leveled to make way for a subdivision, and the field of slugs has been replaced by a road. I stood there yesterday and realized that it would forever be impossible to go back there again. But I had to smile when I noticed that back in the corner of this new neighborhood, there were some thick wild blackberry bushes that would never die. It's amazing how things come and go and are remembered by some and forgotten by most. This post may be fascinating to me and two other people, but it's what's on my mind today, and at this point in my life, memories like this mean a lot.

I’m heading out of the blessed journey through this epistemilogical creature known as vocational ministry. Plainly put, I resigned as pastor of Calvary Worship Center. I came to CWC in 1993, fresh out of college with a pregnant wife and the promise of a volunteer position as a children’s minister in a church with few children. I was hoping to get into youth (teen) ministry but here, I was going to have to deal with people a bit smaller to start with. We were ready to give birth to some dreams (as well as a child) and we were excited beyond words. The fact that we were going to be able to devote our lives to nurture a Christlike nature in those kids as well as ourselves was a gift from God. We moved into the converted garage of some wonderful people in the hill country and I got a job at Mr. Gatti’s making 4.75 an hour. The church had an ambitious 30 something pastor, Randy Feldschau, who preached to 40 like he was preaching to 4,000. He was an amazing communicator. Rounding out the staff was, minister of evangelism, Tom Winslow. A tall ‘seasoned’ man with snow white hair and the friendliest eyes God ever made. Our first youth service happened more than 6 months after we first arrived. Six of the kids in children’s church were going into middle school in the fall of 94 which meant that we now had our youth group. Audrey, Melissa, Justin, Amy, Ashley, and DJ made up the very first youth service. Courtney, Josh, Joe, and many other characters would come along over the years. There were dozens of young people who came and went and I can say with confidence that every one of them made a lasting impression on me to the extent that I could write an entertaining blog entry about each one. I was honored to be a part of their lives and count that season as a personal high point. In July of 1998, Pastor Feldschau resigned. I assumed the role in November of that year. Since then, we have seen this church through weddings and funerals, an all consuming construction project, economic famine and feast, staff additions and subtractions, and various ministerial projects. People have asked me some pointed and sentimental questions in the past few days, forcing me to recall things I have long forgotten. All those dreams that we had of an idealistic sacrificial existence that would display God’s love to the hurting, demonstrate His power to the broken, and teach His ways to the learning, have all but disappeared. Perhaps one day God will see fit to raise them up again. For now, I’m content to have been a part of something bigger than myself. This entry does no justice to the past 12 years. There’s just too much to recount. So for now, I’ll just say here’s to the close of this chapter in my life. Goodbye and goodnight.

I have a beef to pick with Wal Mart. In PA, they're giving away free gas. But not to everyone. No, in a move of blatant discrimination, they have chosen to fuel only a certain vehicle. And I caught it on camera. No kidding.
Take a look at this picture. I took this one around Lancaster, PA. I know, it's just a Wal Mart. But look closely to the right of the photo. Yes, that's a horse and buggy. Apparently the Amish dig the Wal Mart so much that they have given them their own covered parking space complete with hay for the horses. Now, I tell you, with the price of gas these days it seems like there could be a merger of ideals here. I propose a post modern Amish style mode of transportation. Why can't we still have the horse pulling a, ahem,,, new style of buggy. AC/sound system/Leather interior... The list goes on. The best thing? The autopilot feature. Can you point your car in the direction of home and turn around for some face to face family interaction? Drunk driving would become a thing of the past. Think of it. . When's the last time your car ate our of your hand, or bit you when your back was turned? Do you pet your car? That's a whole other level of interactive. And the cost??? Grass and water, friends. It's the ultimate environmentally friendly fuel. Gasoline simply burns off. You pay three bucks a gallon for something that goes up in flames. What about the buggy? Does your Mercedes give you free fertilizer out of the tailpipe? I don't think so. I think I'm onto something here.

If you're going to fly into a city at night, there's no more entertaining than Vegas baby. I have a layover here so while waiting for my red eye to board, I decided to do some people watching. Here's what I see. The round terminal is lively with gamblers who are crowding the slots in the center of the floor. Rubberneckers are hanging around and this one youngster (maybe 20) seems to be looking for a pocket to pick. He's definitely got his choice but they're probably pretty empty by now. To the right, a girl, short and thin, maybe 18, yellow tshirt, cut off jean shorts, tennis shoes, no socks, dyed black hair, lower lip pierced, heavy on the eyeliner, is sprawled out on the seats. A large, curly red haired man, mid 40s, 48 hr beard, khaki shirt untucked with sweat stains in the pits, sleeves rolled up, sloppy, holding a half full beer, (not his first of the night), has set down across from her. The pick up lines are flowing now. She's trying to look disinterested. He's not taking no for an answer. She sits up and puts her knees together, pulls her feet up, toes touching the floor, clasped hands in her lap. She looks over her shoulder and yawns. He's finally beginning to get the hint. He gets up and walks away. She watches him go out of the corner of her eye, leans on her hand, and seems to breath a sigh of relief. For every person smiling in here, there looks like two or three who look like "Lost Wages, Nevada" got the best of them. I don't have any desire to gamble. Probably because I don't have any cash tonight. A young man, early 20's, is sitting at a Wheel of Fortune machine. Whatever happened, it must have been good, because it made a lot of noise and now he's pumping both fists in the air and lets out a 'woo hoo' big enough to get the attention of the 300 or so people sitting around here. Now here's the part I don't get. He's still sitting there. I mean, if he just won a small fortune, or at least enough to buy a decent meal, why is he still there? Isn't that the point? To play until you win, and then take your winnings and go have a blast? Oh wait, that's right. The blast is to play some more, which he's obviously doing. So you play to win, and when you win, you can play so you can win so you can play so you can... Sometimes sin looks like a sweaty, overweight, drunken, pervert. Most of the time though it's packaged in a clean looking wrapper with bells and whistles flashing. Fun and addictive. Behind me through the large windows I can see the strip. The pyramid shaped Luxor is a stand out with a massive beam of light shooting straight up and disappearing in to the night sky like a giant flashlight designed to search the universe for any sign of God. Either they're hoping to find Him or keeping an eye out just in case He shows up. Just like the rest of us. There's my reflection on the night. They're boarding my flight. I'm glad to be going home.

I want to be a rally car driver when I grow up. I figured this out yesterday evening when I was precariously navigating my rented Hyundai down McKenzie Pass in Oregon's Cascade Mountain Range. Hugging the edge and leaning with the car around each hairpin turn, I found myself laughing out loud. No 90 second rollercoaster ride could compare to 40 miles of this.
I'm often so disappointed in my travels whenever I encounter something beautiful or wonderful because my family isn't always there to share the experience. This time, however, I was glad I was alone. I could feel Traci's fingernails digging into my arm and hear her voice saying, "For the love of God and the sake of your offspring, slow down!" Ok, maybe not in those words, but you get the idea. (When she reads this, I'll get chewed out fro sure.) The road eventually straightened out and then I got the chance to really look at the fall colors of vivid yellow and red. The forest looked to be on fire with this near fluorescent hue of yellow weaving throughout the green pines. This is a beauty that makes Texas look like Afghanistan. With the window down the smell of fresh cool mountain air filled the car. In this country, those pine scented air fresheners are a pointless accessory. The wooden covered bridges spanning the rushing river added to the ambience of a wilderness where one fully expects an elk to wander onto the highway.
I have a difficult service coming up at church this weekend. This stress buster was a true gift from God, and I am grateful. Being Wednesday night around 7pm, I came upon a little church where the service was just about to begin. I stepped in and listened to the hymns, sat in on a study in the book of Daniel, and met Mr. Snyder. Mr. Snyder was 86 and one of the most fascinating people I've ever seen. He was a sharp, muscular, lumberjack who looked nothing like his age. He had worked the woods felling trees the old fashioned way. He loved the woods and spoke of men clearing out the dead timber in such a way that you wouldn't even know they had been there. He spoke of watching trees as tall as a skyscraper and 14 around come tumbling down with care and precision. He told of his sadness when he watches the lumber trucks come down the highway with 'twigs' instead of the massive timber he used to see. He laughs and his wide smile shines in his eyes as he talks of having to go home to shoo the elk off his back porch. The pastor, a Mr. Boyd, is a hunter and talks of doe season opening up soon. I stand in the circle, a welcomed foreigner, and I'm fascinated. Pastor Boyd prayed with me before I left, and I wandered out into the parking lot surrounded by the darkness of the woods and the cold air, yet feeling very light and warm within.

In my nomadic missionary childhood I visited some cool places. One of my favorites was Old Tucson, a mock old west town outside of Tucson, AZ, used as a movie set. While I was fascinated by many places in the world, I was, at heart, an American boy. What better epitomizes the American boy than the wild west? This place captured it in all of it’s glorious spur clinking, ideological detail. John Wayne walked these streets and to some folks that makes this place about as holy as Jerusalem. You can just hear that dusty drawl utter sentences that would make the outlaw wish he had a change of underwear. Of course now I know that when they yelled, “CUT!” Mr. Wayne grabbed his bottle of fizzy water and headed over to his trailer for a rubdown. Such is Hollywood. But when I was a kid, I didn’t care what famous muckity muck shot a movie here. I loaded my toy peacemaker with deadly plastic bullets, twirled it around a couple of times, and dropped it in my plastic holster. I cinched up the string on my blood red hat, and adjusted my blue bandana. My imagination wandered and before I knew it I was Wild Bill, standing in the middle of a dusty street, eyebrows gathered as my furrowed forehead pointed my imaginary enemy to make intense eye contact with his worst nightmare. Heart beating, sweat beading, I was only too sure that while he was fast, I was faster. There’s only two kinds of cowboy out here in the old west, the quick and the... “Biiiilllllllllyyyyyyy!” Mom’s voice broke my concentration. “We’re going to the pony rides and after that, we’ll get ice cream.” Was she kidding? Cowboys who trade lead with murderous horse thieves don’t go on pony rides. The attendant lifts me onto the back of ‘Lightning’. Mom and Dad watched while I was led around on the yard, at least that’s what they saw. In my mind, I was in full gallop on the back of a stallion, arrows whizzing past my head. The horse winces as an arrow pierces it’s left flank. It’s stuck fast, but ol Lightning isn’t gonna slow up and let his faithful friend lose his scalp, no sireee. I turn and empty my six shooter... “Ride’s over, kid.” says the attendant. What’s with these people? Right when it’s getting good. Adults just don’t understand that when you’re in the zone, you can’t just call the ride to a halt, have a potty break, or go get ice cream cones. Wait. Ice cream cones sound pretty good. “Hey Mom, wait up!”
So here I sit, 24 years later, in the parking lot of Old Tucson. It’s closed now. I got here a little too late. It just doesn’t feel quite right to drive all the way out here, and simply drive away. So I guess I’ll sit here and do some reminiscing for awhile. Wait a minute. An attendant just opened a gate. I have a hankering to be my dad for a sec and go ask him if I can just take a quick look around. After all, what do I have to lose? What would Wild Bill do? I’m getting out of the car...

I flew into Phoenix Sunday evening and headed for Flagstaff. The sun was setting and painted the desert a vivid orange which was set against the purple hue on the clouds and made you feel as though you were driving through a Navajo sand painting. The drums from Rich Mullins song, I See You, pounded through the sound system of the rental car and made an excellent soundtrack. The sun set quickly and I drove the rest of the way to Flagstaff in the dark. I was sure I was missing some amazing scenery and my thoughts were confirmed when I drove back on Monday evening. I was thrilled to get to see Sedona and the beautiful and rugged sights on the way. It made me think of those who travel this life in spiritual darkness. They have no idea what they're missing until the truth is illuminated all around them. Yet the most tragic thing is not those who travel through darkness due to ignorance, but those to whom the Truth has been illuminated who, in definace choose to close their eyes and, doing so, miss the joy in the journey.

If you’re ever stuck in an airport overnight, never ask the question, I wonder how big this place is? You’ll then be compelled to find out and two hours later, when you’re shuffling like an old man, dragging your bag behind you, you’ll ask yourself a logical follow up like, what difference does it make how big this place is? The Philly terminal is no Ohare or DFW but it’s big enough. I finally sat down to start to write this and was entertained by the guy behind me who was asking for, no, demanding two comp tickets in exchange for the pain and suffering dealt to him via United airlines. He’s now asked for a supervisor for the third time in a row. He asks if he can speak to someone in the United States. I don’t think it’s going well for him. I grin. Wow, it’s true. Misery does love company. Who knew? The bar in front of me has a dozen or so tv sets tuned to sports, weather, the Wedding Singer. I’m sitting just close enough to be able to make out the hurricane (Rita) closing in on the TX border. The tv clicks off. I notice now that they’ve all gone off. The bar is closed and as I look around now, I’m the only one here. This is as eerie as the eye of a storm. As time went on I took to doing some constructive things which I won’t write about because they’re boring. The late hour also gave way to a strange sense of delirium as I took to taking some striking self portraits. I pulled a pole out into the middle of the floor (one of those poles that are used to form lines) and used it as a camera stand. I won’t go into the rest of the details but I’m sure the guys in the security camera room were thoroughly entertained. About 3am I took a walk over to the only restaurant open 24 hrs which happened to be a sushi bar. On the way out, I glanced up at the departure board and read that my 6:20am flight was CANCELLED! I about choked on my salmon and seaweed. (There’s the way not to die. “After a full life he departed this earth in the middle of the night at Philly International, succumbing to asphyxiation from raw fish”). I pulled out my boarding pass, found the 1-800 number and called Continental. First try I got disconnected because the power in Houston went out. Stinkin hurricane. I called back and got the brother of the guy I dealt with the night before. (Probably not but you get the idea) I can’t bear to go into the particulars but we went around til 4am, me trying to get home Saturday, and he saying it wasn’t going to happen until Sunday. When I realized it was 4am and the counter was open, I walked down to the desk and stood in the short line. I got up to the front and while I was on the phone with the guy in Houston, asked the lady behind the counter the same question I had been asking for the past hour on the phone. “I need to get to Austin as soon as possible. Could I please get transferred to another carrier since my flight was cancelled?” SHE SAID, “SURE, NO PROBLEM.” I asked the guy on the other end of the line why this lady did in 10 seconds what he had spent the last hour telling me couldn’t be done. I uttered something sarcastic about his mother and hung up. Ok not really. Got on American Airlines to fly home. While on the plane, I was sitting next to a guy named Daniel who, during conversation, revealed that he was raised Buddhist but had married a Christian girl who had been trying to get him to go to church. As we talked, he kept saying, “I just don’t know. I don’t know.” I’m ashamed to say that I was so tired that I just wanted to go to sleep. I remembered that before I had left Austin Traci and I had lunch at Tres Amigos and in the bathroom I picked up a tract left by the sink. I don’t really know why at the time I picked it up. I reached into my bag, pulled it out, and set it on his tray. On the front it said, “You Can Know.” He read it. I tried not to keep looking over. I noticed that when he got to the last page where the prayer was written, he bowed his head. I trust that at that moment, Daniel invited Jesus Christ into his life. I gave him my information and hope to hear from him. Daniel, if you’re reading this, always KNOW that I’m praying for you. I don’t know who put that tract by the sink at Tres Amigos. I used to laugh at such futile efforts to get the Gospel out. This time, I’m grateful for it. Til next time.

I left the Convention Center downtown Philly yesterday around 4:10 after a training session with a very cool crowd. I walked the many blocks between the meeting location and the hotel where I left the car. When parking costs 24 bucks a pop you try to avoid doing it twice. I didn’t mind the walk. The city is a marvel and worth wandering aimlessly in for no matter which way you go you’re bound to run into something cool and historic. The Warwick valet took a good ten minutes getting the car so by the time I dropped off the rental at Thrifty, I barely had an hour to get on my 6:12. On the way to the terminal, the Thrifty van had transmission issues which resulted in further delay. I ran to the self check kiosk, and was promptly informed that I would have to get in line to get my boarding pass. No big deal. Twenty minutes later, I’m at the counter face to face with an employee of Continental airlines who promptly informed me that I was under the 45 minute cut off time and would not be getting a boarding pass. I informed him that I had gotten in line at around the 50 minute mark and currently had 30 minutes to make the flight. Plenty of time, since the screening area had virtually no line and I could see the plane sitting at the gate. I was informed that it would not be possible to print a boarding pass and I would have to be rescheduled for the next flight the following morning at 6:20am. I would not be allowed to get on my flight, that I could see, sitting there, at the gate. A five minute process of walking, screening, walking, sit, buckle, headphones, Ipod, play, and I would have still had 25 minutes to sit on the plane listening to Sinatra sing ‘come fly with me’. But this guy, with all the personality of a lawn chair and customer service skills that would have earned him a shiny swastika medal, was going to make me spend another night in Philly. No problem. “Hook me up with a hotel voucher and I’ll be back here bright and early,” I say. But alas it was not to be. No flight, no hotel, no rental car. Granted, I should have let the seminar out an hour early and gotten there before the magic 45 minute mark. I’ll take responsibility. I ask for a boarding pass for the flight the next morning so I can at least spend the night in a decent chair at my gate. Again, no chance. I’ll have to come back at 4am. At this point I toss my paperwork in the air and get in Mr. Continental’s face like a coach who just got one too many bad calls. His response? “I’ve been here since 6am,” he says. I’m not sympathetic. I say, “I need to get home to my family. What can you do to help me get on that airplane?” He says, “I’m sorry”,turns and walks through a door marked ‘employees only’. I turn and face a crowd who are smiling like they just saw the dolphin show at sea world. Now would not be a good time to mention that I Pastor a church and teach classes on Managing Emotions Under Pressure. I sit down in a place where I can see my plane. Separated by a security booth and an incompetent worker. I get in line again. By now, he’s gone home and been replaced by a very kind lady who gives me a boarding pass for my next flight at 6:20am. I got through security at around 6:45pm and made my way to the gate to spend the next 12 hours. -To Be Continued-

Stuck in the city of brotherly love. This isn’t a terminal. It’s the biggest hotel room I’ve ever been in, and it seems to be all mine. Well not exactly. I’m sharing this ‘room’ with a scattered amount of fellow passengers who share a unique bond. We all seem to view Continental Airlines as an entity, the value of which is akin to a steaming heap of camel poo. I’ll begin at the beginning which is a good place to begin. Arrived in Philadelphia last night and made my way to the incredible Warwick hotel in the historic heart of downtown. This is a good time to mention that the drivers cut me off like a bad Oscar speech time and time again. So I walked through the ornate doors past the consignere who tipped his hat, beneath the massive crystal chandelier, checked in at the marble counter, and headed down the marble hallway to get on the gold elevator. Got to room 714, put my bags down, threw the curtains back, and behold, a brick wall. So much for the view. Primetime tv doesn’t excite me much but how often do you get to wander downtown Philly? I headed out on the street which was bustling with activity. The steam escaping the manholes, the smell of four star cuisine and cheese steak together, the century old skyscrapers hugging modern marvels in a way where neither seem out of place. There’s this guy who is playing the banjo, and he’s really good. I’ll remember him more in the morning when, on my way to a meeting, I’ll see him again. Same corner, still playing with all the fury of a mad hornet. I pass a long, narrow alley. A thin black man in the shadows asks for some french fries. I tell him I’ll spot him a buck if he can tell me where to find some good jazz. He steps into the light and, with bright eyes says, “Little place. Fo blocks nof. Follow the music.” I thank him and head north, counting off the four blocks. A gray awning shelters the patrons, nicely dressed, standing outside. I wander through the door and let my eyes adjust to the dimly lit atmosphere. It’s packed, and peaceful. An elderly black man is unpacking a trumpet in the corner. A large grand piano sits just beyond him. The hostess signals to me, “Just one?” I nod. She leads me to a small table near the stage. I’m surprised that there’s one left. With the aging brick wall to my back, I scan my surroundings. An old black man is sitting to my left and as he slowly turns his entire body to face me, I smile. He says, “Evening. My name is Wayne. You new here?” Is he kidding? This is like church with a set of regular attendees. I find out that Wayne lives down the street a block. Grew up here. Now in his 70’s, he begins to tell me how he would come here and listen to Miles Davis, Charlie Parker, and Dizzy. “Dizzy come here, nobody know when. Jus show up. Miles come here, play til 2am. Sit at the bar, alone. Nobody go near Miles. People come, hear him play, they get scared. His genius was,,,,(pause),,,,terrifying!” He goes on. “You go near Miles, he in his zone, he look at you with a look, make you back away.” He laughs. His story obviously has me transfixed. I want him to go on but he turns away. The old man on the stage introduces the next song. “For New Orleans.” His muted trumpet, seamlessly blended with the small trio behind him, plays one of the saddest, most beautiful pieces of classic Jazz I’ve ever heard. I’m hooked. I can’t take my eyes off this guy. By the time I snap to reality and look at my watch, it’s well past midnight. I’d better head back, I think. Stepping outside, the city is still alive. I’m glad as I wander toward the hotel. I’ll never forget my conversation with Wayne, and the terrifying genius of Miles Davis. I fall asleep, the sound of that muted trumpet, still going through my head. ...To Be Continued...

Ever see the movie ANTZ? I'm sitting in the Radisson Hotel across from Valley Forge in PA. A circular building that closely resembles a beehive, in every way imaginable. There are conferences and seminars happening all over this building and I'm just another drone adding to the noise. Business deals are happening all around me and money is changing banks as the game of financial wizardry is played out over and over again. Whatever importance we attach to our current activities, it pales in the light of the historical sacrifices that this ground has witnessed. I'm sitting a block away from one of the most famous campouts in American history. Remember stories of this place from history class? The images are heartrending, dramatic and so powerful: Bloody footprints in the snow left by bootless men. Starving soldiers wrapped in thin blankets huddled around a smoky fire of green wood. These are the indelible images of suffering and endurance associated with Valley Forge in the winter of 1777-78. "An army of skeletons appeared before our eyes naked, starved, sick and discouraged," wrote New York's Gouverneur Morris of the Continental Congress. The Marquis de Lafayette wrote: "The unfortunate soldiers were in want of everything; they had neither coats nor hats, nor shirts, nor shoes. Their feet and their legs froze until they were black, and it was often necessary to amputate them." A bitter George Washington — whose first concern was always his soldiers — would accuse the Congress of "little feeling for the naked and distressed soldiers. I feel superabundantly for them, and from my soul pity those miseries, which it is neither in my power to relieve or prevent."
Yet Washington was a man of faith and prayer. At the close of the Revolutionary War on June 14, 1783 he wrote the following letter.

"I have thus freely declared what I wished to make known, before I surrendered up my public trust to those who committed it to me. The task is now accomplished. I now bid adieu to your Excellency, as the chief magistrate of your State, at the same time I bid a last farewell to the cares of office and all the employments of public life.
It remains, then, to be my final and only request that your Excellency will communicate these sentiments to your legislature at their next meeting, and that they may be considered the legacy of one, who has ardently wished, on all occasions, to be useful to his country, and who, even in the shade of retirement, will not fail to implore the divine benediction on it.

I now make it my earnest prayer that God would have you, and the State over which you preside, in his holy protection; that he would incline the hearts of the citizens to cultivate a spirit of subordination and obedience to government, to entertain a brotherly affection and love for one another, for their fellow-citizens of the United States at large, and particularly for brethren who have served in the field; and finally that he would most graciously be pleased to dispose us all to do justice, to love mercy, and to demean ourselves with that charity, humility, and pacific temper of mind, which were the characteristics of the Divine Author of our blessed religion, and without an humble imitation of whose example in these things, we can never hope to be a happy nation."

People just don't talk that way anymore and it's to our shame. May God grant His blessing and grace to the 'bretheren who have served in the field'.

I usually dream when I'm awake. And the dreams that I dream are always impossible, at least for me to accomplish in my lifetime. As if I need a good three or four lifespans to get it all done. I know that those dreams can become reality but somewhere along the way, I'll have to hand them off to someone who will outlive me. Since whatever we dream has been dreamt before and whatever we think has been thought before, I realize that I have to take a glance to the past. To see whose dream I'm carrying. So here's where our story begins.
I love old towns. Buildings abandoned whose owners passed on and perhaps the two were intertwined somehow. The shells remain but for some reason one day, the doors closed for the last time, leaving everything inside like a time capsule. I found one such building recently in a small Texas town. A house of worship, built in 1902, silent for the past 20 years. On the outside, the white paint is showing its age, but still the excellence of the woodwork and design leave one wondering if such a structure could ever be built today with this degree of craftsmanship. Have metal building companies with quick turn key operations made this particular expression of worship to God a thing of the past? It's obvious that such a building was a labor of love and must have taken quite some time to complete.
Opening the door I was greeted by a thrilling sight. The sanctuary was seemingly untouched and whatever mischief could have befallen such a magnificent place had been held at bay. The curved pews, obviously constructed for this very room, the stained glass in every window, the white pressed tin ceiling, the wooden floor that sloped gently toward the altar, the pulpit with legers containing the record of every birth, death, business transaction, and wedding held in the building in the past century. One entry mentioned a member renting a plot of farmland and a house to another for the sum of three dollars per month. To one side, an ancient chest reveals a box of glass communion cups, washed and neatly stored. Beside them, bottles of grape juice, the price tag of 39 cents each still on the lid. In a side room stands a strange and unique table, built in a U shape, obviously made for a children's class. I imagine the children who once sat there listening to stories of burning bushes and giant Phillistines are all grown or gone. It feels like I'm intruding. I stand for a moment behind the old pulpit, a century old upright piano behind me. I reach down to a shelf below and pick up a ledger, it's protective plastic cover sticky and yellowed yet it's done it's job. I open it and read. "On October 2, 1979, a special homecoming service was held here. Pastor Stanley Latham presided and Patty Taylor provided the music. One living charter member attended. That night, those present had a vision. That the truth of the Lord Jesus Christ would always be proclaimed in this community and that generations to come would come to worship here." The PA system was turned off, the microphone laid down beside the pulpit, and the little house of worship went silent to this day.
How is it that a vision dies? In the Bible visions were given to those who would never see them come to pass with their own eyes. Hebrews 11 is such an example. So I don't believe it's so much that a vision dies. More like it sleeps. It seems as though God gives a generation a kind of treasure, which is then discovered by another generation to come and in this way honor is given to the past while hope opens the doorway to the future. So then whatever dreams God has given you can be bigger than you are and live longer than you will. Dream big dreams, dreams that are big enough to be picked up by the next generation and carried farther into the future than you will ever go.

I love photoshop work especially when it says something. A friend sent me this one and had no idea who to credit it to. I don't know either, but it's brilliant.

Standing in the Newark, Liberty airport last evening, scanning the New York City skyline, I thought of what it must have looked like four years ago this weekend. Surely there were travellers standing in this spot watching smoke pour out of the towers like two giant smokestacks in the middle of the most congested city in America. A Continental employee said that the airport came to a standstill as everyone just 'watched in stunned silence'. No questions. No crying (at least at first). Just a sinking sensation that comes to you when your day or world has just had a violent interruption. Everyone feels that at some time. A person who you love deeply is taken from you. You get a call in a crowd and though your world has slammed into a wall, everyone around moves about, their world intact. But in this airport, four years ago, everyone's world came crashing down with the towers. Anxiety is that emotion that says, "Everything is great, for now." As if we find our security in our routine and when that routine is interfered with, our security is gone.
We find strength and hope in the promises of Jesus and in the compassion of others. I found both on Thursday night as I attended a memorial service in the town square of Princeton, NJ. A crowd of people walking in from all corners, decended upon the square at dusk. The lights of the shops and the street lamps, the slow moving couples hand in hand, families riding vintage bicycles, an older man slowly walking his dog, all combine to make one feel as though he were in a Terry Redlin painting. I take a spot on an old wooden park bench. Candles are passed out and lit. A stillness fills the square and the sound of crickets come out of the bushes as the air is cool and the wind is still. An older black man with silvery gray hair and a wrinkled yet warm face takes a microphone. His deep baritone winds up like an ancient organ coming to life at the hands of a master. He sings. "I'd rather have Jesus than silver or gold; I'd rather be His than have riches untold: I'd rather have Jesus than houses or lands. I'd rather be led by His nail-pierced hand. I'd rather have Jesus than men's applause; I'd rather be faithful to His dear cause; I'd rather have Jesus than worldwide fame. I'd rather be true to His holy name.
Than to be the king of a vast domain or be held in sin's dread sway.
I'd rather have Jesus than anything this world affords today."

Amen.

I spent some time yesterday, down at the convention center in Austin, where thousands of former New Orleans residents are comfortably crammed together. Considering the plight of the people gathered, it was a rather peaceful and calm place. A far cry from the 'other' convention center where unthinkable horrors abounded. Not that Austin's gun totin, first amendment quotin, Southern fried Bapticostal population is so pure, mind you. On the contrary, chaplain Shaw mentioned to a gathered group of us that they had to beef up security because a few folks posing as Christian Pastors came to 'pray' with the refugees and initially, the authorities obliged. However when their heads were bowed and their eyes were closed, they were stealing from the people. As if they haven't already lost enough. There were parents there who lost children and children there who lost parents. Down one hall an impromptu AA meeting was taking place as people struggled for some sense of normalcy and connection. The few folks I met, though, had that hopeful, excited, 'what next' look to them. As if to say, things can only get better from here. I have the feeling that the terms that we throw around so freely like 'awful' and 'horrible' in regards to our own petty issues, are forever redefined for this crowd who lost everything to water and then, for lack of water, so many perished. The next time I think of traffic as 'awful' or suffer from a case of 'I Can't Stand It-itis', I'll remember what awful truly is and thank God that I still have the ability to join in the slow moving amoeba of Austin commuters who still have jobs and lives that make a shred of sense and have a sliver of order. The next time I consider the behavior of my children 'horrible' I'll thank God that I still have children whose behavior I have the ability to consider at all. The next time I think that I can't stand it, I'll rise to my feet and prove myself wrong.

How's your walk? Before you answer, consider the following verbs. To BE and to DO. When you think of yourself as a Christian, is it based upon what you do or who you are? Does your action determine your identity? It depends upon the skill and accomplishment that the action produces. If I play golf my whole life and spend my whole life being lousy at it, nobody will ever call me a golfer. If I attempt to take the life of another human being just once and succeed, forever I will be labeled a murderer. We would likely say that, in Christendom, being is far more important than doing. Yet if you follow that trail of thought for a while you realize that one can only discern who one might be from what he does. Paul, in his letter to the Galatians, emphasizes the being. That it is God who does the work and you simply are. James emphasizes the doing by saying that faith without works is dead. Contradictory and confusing? I suggest instead that they are rather complimentary and congruent. God leads us with a kind of dialectic approach where, like walking, we rest on one foot for a second, but in order to make progress, we have to leave that one and rest on the other for a while. If this balance gets out of order and I focus too much on who I am, I hear God say, "What are you doing?" When I begin to focus too much on what I'm doing, I hear Him say, "Who are you, really?" And that, I believe, is why the Christian life is called, a walk. So the next time somebody asks you, "How's your walk?" Instead of a giving a vague question such a vague answer, consider the verbs, check your steps, and remember who you are and what you are to do. When you want to look to the future and are drawn to growth in Christ, remember it is one that leads to the other and miles down the road, you may not remember every step you've taken but the point is never the walk itself, but the destination to which the walk brings you. 1 John 3 says "Beloved, we are God's children now; it does not yet appear what we shall be, but we know that when he appears we shall be like him, for we shall see him as he is. And every one who thus hopes in him purifies himself as he is pure."

When I want to get some encouragement, I go to the fire bowl café. Depending on what you order, it could be called the fire bowel café, but that’s beside the point. Usually there’s this guy who goes around to the tables offering ice cream. No kidding. He’s not from the fire bowl either. No, he’s coming in with all the authority of a federal agent carrying a clipboard. He’s vamping the Asian cuisine coming from Maggie Moos down the way. I’m not sure if they got permission to pull this off but it took me back to the day when I was filling up waffle cones at a TCBY (short stint). The manager said, “Hey go take some samples to the people at the sub shop next door. I responded with a resounding ‘heck no’. I thought of all the reasons why it was a lousy idea. It’s an invasion of their territory. I mean how would we feel if they came in with pastrami on toothpicks? If those folks wanted fat free frozen yogurt they wouldn’t have gone to a place where everything is either on wheat or white. On top of all this, it’s embarrassing. Just let me stick with what I signed on for. Standing behind this counter and waiting for people to come to me. Doing my time and collecting my paycheck along the way.
But not this kid. He came by, not once, but twice during my lo mien dinner. First offering chocolate/peanut butter, and second offering cinnamon/vanilla. Not being one to turn down a freebie from Maggie, I obliged to both. It’s amazing how well chocolate/peanut butter goes with Lo mien. I was so impressed with the guts and the product, I ducked into Maggie’s and cooled the fire bowel with some of what the kid was dishing up. I would have probably never done it otherwise. The point is, Jesus said go ye, and we said ‘heck no’ cause if they wanted what we got they would be here getting it. I mean it’s an invasion of territory. How would we feel if the other business came in here offering temptation on a toothpick? On top of that, it’s embarrassing. Let me just stick with what I signed on for. To get to heaven and be a decent person with some cool blessings from God along the way. Let me tell you that if you have the guts to live your faith before a lost world, they may respond to your message of hope the same way I responded to Maggie's moo. They may respond because they’re impressed with the guts that you have in representing Jesus Christ, and in this world, a solid foundation is worth more than gold. Second they may respond because, if presented well, they’ll taste and see that the Lord is good. Since it’s the kindness of God that leads us to repentance, why don’t you give that a chance to work with those you meet today?
By the way, thanks for lunch Dale.

Thoughts on music... The worship leader is that part of the priesthood of believers responsible for guarding the sanctuary with regard to music. All Christians have an obligation to bring glory to the Lord in the music they employ when worshiping Him. However, those Christians who are called to be musicians have an even greater responsibility in guarding the music of the sanctuary. This would include any musician who exercises leadership in choosing or leading music, in worship composers, music directors, choir directors, arts pastors, musicians, etc.
The music director is responsible for overseeing the music education of the congregation. The levitical musicians at the temple were divided into twenty-four courses (worship teams) according to 1 Chronicles 25. These courses were established in order that all the musicians would not be at the temple at any one time. Thus they were on duty in the temple two weeks of the year. What were they doing the rest of the year? Most likely the same things that all musicians do when they are not performing—they are practicing their craft and teaching or passing it on to others. Nowadays we would think it a waste of money to compensate a worship team for 'practicing' all but 2 weeks out of the year, which is probably why most of the music in churches with this mentality is hardly excellent and therefore less than glorifying to God. God seemed to take this role seriously and when the people followed suit it paid off. The Israelites were famous for their music skills all over the world (see Psalm 137). Music skills are not something that develop on their own. They must be taught. So the Levite musician would be at the temple two weeks while the rest of the time he was developing his own skill while teaching others how to sing and play instruments as well. Even in the synagogues, the "reading" of the Scriptures was not actually a reading but a chanting of the Word. The glory of God shines through us in this especially when it is performed "skillfully". Does God care about skillful excellence, volume, and modern worship? In Psalm 33:3 all three of these issues are covered. We are to 1. Sing a new song. 2. Play it skillfully. 3. Let it rock! Ok that last one was a stretch but the word for 'loud' in the original means 'loud'. I'm not condoning bleeding eardrums or physical damage but the idea that worship must be soft and soothing to be holy is unscriptural. God encourages us to shout, dance, and let the sound of our worship be as big as our heart of love for God. The worship director, the levitical musician, would be expected to teach the skills needed to accomplish this with excellence.
Music is a glory cloud we put around the words that God gives to us for our edification and around the words we offer back to Him as a spiritual sacrifice in our gatherings of worship. It's part of the job of the worship leader, not just to lead the congregation in a corporate setting, but to see that everyone enters worship with the necessary skills and understanding required for the collective musical worship that is brought before the Lord. (Portions from Credenda Agenda - Schuler/Wilson 2005)
Credenda Agenda is a reformed publication headed up by one the great Christian writers/theologians of our time, Douglas Wilson. My uncle, Dr. Paul Brown, has written for them on the topic of Creation Science over the years. I have been blessed and challenged by the articles in CA and I encourage you to subscribe to the magazine at http://www.credenda.org/

Life is a blind man riding on a rollercoaster and this week I'm wishing the loops would stop. This coming from a guy who likes, no, loves spectacular, spontaneous change. To say that life can be unpredictable is like saying that a nuclear bomb makes a loud noise. Something happened to a friend of mine this week that I still can't comprehend. I'll sure have some thoughts to share about all of this later but for now I would like to draw your attention to the need for each of us to maintain a healthy community. The Bible calls this church. We all function within the context of a community, which in turn functions within a larger society, nation, and world. Our family's well-being is bound up with the community's well-being, and likewise its well-being is inseparable from the peace and prosperity of the society, the nation, and ultimately, the world. Not that negative outward circumstances dictate inward destruction. Rather we are strengthened by the power of Jesus Christ when adversity exposes our weaknesses so spiritual victory is possible even in physical destruction. Practically put, martyrs could praise God for his goodness while standing in the flames or facing the lions teeth. Biblical precepts undergird community by teaching the virtues of cooperation, brotherhood, and justice. These create the spirit of unity by which community can thrive and prosper. I know this is boring to read but bear with me. What happens when community breaks down? The breakdown of community is isolation disguised as quiet privacy. You discover this to be true when one among you takes an action you would have never thought possible. I don't advocate an intervention and invasion of privacy. On the contrary I do advocate a healthy measure of transparency that makes us not only vulnerable to some hurt, but also some healing. Who knows you? There are about 5 people in my life who know as much of me as there is to know. The rest think they know. I met a famous person once who I had observed in movies as many different characters. In speaking with them I became aware of a disturbing reality. I didn't know this person. I knew about them but didn't know them. How much can we know about each other? Only as much as you allw to be known. So tonight I leave you with this question. Who knows you?