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.