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?

This day will be the best day I've ever had. It will be different than any other. It will prove to be full of adventures that are as unique as the moments that, together, make it complete. I'll meet with people and communicate thoughts and ideas. Feel the power of emotion. See through the eyes of another. Welcome the presence of a familiar face with a smile. Shake hands with a stranger. Feel the heat of the Texas sun on my cheek. (Yes, we have our own sun here.) Listen to my daughter tell a story and laugh (a genuine laugh) in response. Watch my son perform a trick I've seen many times before. I'll tell him I'm proud of him and that he's really getting good at that. I'll look for the right moment to reach over and take my wife's hand for just a few seconds. We'll exchange a glance and a grin and go on with the day. I'll probably drink a Dr. Pepper or sweet tea on the back porch as the sun sets. Life is an excellent gift.

I've just returned from two whirlwind days in LA. A land where extreme wealth lives in dischordant harmony with extreme poverty. Where else on earth can you see an Aston Martin, a man eating out of a trashcan, a 350 lb bald guy in need of a back wax wearing a speedo with suspenders, a 140.00 pair of underwear at Versace, a stoned hippie playing a violin without strings, a 29 dollar salad, and Roger Ebert kneeling by a star in front of a Chinese theater, all in one day? A tall man with a flowing white beard wearing Gandalf's hat and cloak stood out front and posed time and time again with Asian tourists who coaxed him to say, "YOU SHALL NOT PASS!" for a few dollars. Beverly Hills was over the top. Hollywood was a dive. Venice Beach? It's the gathering place for more cheap sunglasses and wasted talent than you ever knew existed. There is no middle class. You're either spending 50,000 a month on a condo or living in a gutter, but there's not a blue collar in sight. So what's the point of this travelog? I don't know. I really don't know. I saw houses in Malibu that were in the process of sliding off foundations that were built on a cliffs mostly made of sand. I saw the coolest car in the world, followed closely by a dozen others just like it. I saw valets running like deer in hunting season while a short old man with tall blonde escort gave an aggrivated glance at a watch worth more than my annual income. I saw the same look of frustration on the face of a guy leaning over the garbage who was pouring the backwash out of multiple coke cans into a single styrofoam cup to make a custom beverage. We used to call it a suicide when I was a little kid at the Sizzler.
So why do they both get frustrated? Shouldn't one or the other be content? First glance would say the rich man would be content and the beggar not. But this was not the case. Each man was frustrated with his existence for each one could recognize the limitations of his own sense of control. This, I believe, is the quest of every man. To gain as much control as possible. The problem is that we never have quite enough. One day you can't afford a beverage, the next day the valet won't get your Mercedes fast enough. When will we learn that our hunger for control will never be satisfied?
On the other side of the control coin are the strung out artists or thong wearing perverts who parade their 'individual' attitude before the world as a way to, in effect, celebrate the false freedom that comes from a perceived loss of control. They exercise extreme antics to dare the giver of control (whoever that may be) to come and take it back already. The beauty of Christian liberty is that revelation that we're not in control. Rather Jesus Christ is. Our subsequent actions are simply our response to His unlimited ability to shape things according to His plan and pleasure. We trust that it's for our good, and that being the case, it seems like a no brainer to allow Him to take his rightful place as Lord of our lives. But dogone it if that isn't hard to do. Cmon, you know it's true.
So what do Gandalf, psycho speedo, Roger Ebert, custom beverage bum, Rolex daddy, and all of us have in common? We're all fighting for the same thing. To gain control or to lose control. Oh the things you can learn in LA.

The tragedy of travelling is that I'm the only one who can see through my eyes. Today I took a drive up the alpine loop east of Orem, Utah through Provo canyon and up to Sundance. Weaving through a forest of birch trees, the three hundredth hairpin turn pulls the curtain of white bark and yellow leaves back to reveal a line of snow covered peaks that jut out of the ground, stabbing the sky. The clouds bend and flex to move through the canyons and around the peaks. The air is a crisp 51 degrees, perfect for rolling the window down to listen to the sound of the mountain stream which makes a great addition to Coldplay's 'speed of sound' which happens to be on the radio. Alone, I park the car and shut off the engine. Standing outside you swear you can hear the mountain. I pray. I don't bow my head. It seems more appropriate to lift my eyes. There is no appropriate human response to such a sight. Wow just doesn't cut it. What appropriate human response is there to the wonder of the majesty of God? "In Him we live..." Your life is worship. "...and move..." Your actions are worship. "...and have our being." Your very existence is worship. Once you get this revelation, you too will lament the tragedy of the fact that nobody else can see through your eyes. Grace and Peace today.

I spent the evening visiting my good friend, Nate Robinson, in amazing downtown Chicago. Home of da bulls, da bears, and ever merciful coach Ditka. Nate had parked and stood out on the corner guiding me in one block at a time. I finally turned on Ontario St and saw Nate two blocks away. Dressed for business, owning the corner, in a crowd, and smiling that million dollar grin that makes you smile back whether you want to or not. Know how long it's been since I've seen Nate? Too long.
If you ever drive downtown Chicago, you'll swear that someone is shooting a movie and just yelled action right before you drove directly into the scene. Only nobody says "Cut" and you continue to drive down Michigan Ave gawking at the sights and listening to the thickness of the sound trapped and bouncing off the buildings with noplace to go but into your ears. It's an onslaught of sights, sound, smells. A literal sensory tsunami. Around the corner from the Apple store with it's brushed aluminum and glowing plexiglass stairs, in stark contrast to the industrial clean room that is Mac Mecca, is a pizza joint known as Pizzaria Due. No less cool, this place embodies old Chicago. It is the Apple store of the 30's and the deep dish is the ingesible ipod. Simply put, there is no equal. It's the best pizza in town. Agnes, the waitress, told me so. I believe her though. She looks like she's carried a few pies in her day and, though past her prime, is still passionate about pizza. Nate and I ordered the deep dish with the works and she sucked wind through pursed lips, like people do when they see a Rembrandt for the first time. Why do I believe her? Because after all those years of watching people ingest slice after slice, she still finds passion in the appetitie of others. I find passion in the appetite of Nate for the things of God. It certainly helps my perspective. You want to get excited about what matters most again? Get around those who are and let them give your jaded perspective a shot of clarity and health. If Agnes can stay passionate about pizza, I can stay passionate about Jesus Christ. Amen

I'm in cheese land today aka Wisconsin. Actually it's one of my favorite states and not because I really like those processed cheese slices, cheese whiz, mozzarella sticks, or Velveeta on macaroni either. It's for the green. Not green as in old cheese, money, or envy. Green as in when you fly into Wisconsin the ground looks like a quilt of deep green. Speaking of cheese though... I remember when I was in Oregon some time ago and saw a sign on the side of the Tillamook cheese factory that read, "Come watch our cheese age". Sounded about as exciting as a game of twister in a nursing home. Nevertheless I learned that Tillamook cheese has to age for 60 days to get the definitive cheddar taste that everyone knows so well. I wondered if you can speed up the process a little and found that, while you can add artificial flavoring to deceive the general populous, true cheddar only comes with time. The key though is not only in the ingredients but also in the environment. If cheese is aged in a proper environment it will only improve with time. If, however, it's left to the elements, it molds and rots.
We're all aging. What we are becoming depends not only on that which is within us, but the environment we are in. I wonder what I am becoming? I feel a bit moldy sometimes. Occasionally sharp cheddar. Sometimes processed American. Either way, I can control my ingredients. I can be set apart from things that would defile me and I can ask God to fill me with His Spirit. I can also control my environment. I can choose to go where and be around whom I choose and while I hope to affect my environment wherever I am, I have found that it also has an effect on me too. I'll leave with two questions to ponder. Has your environment had an effect on who you have become? If so, how? And finally, do you like how you're aging? If not, it may be time to change up some ingredients and/or change the environment.

Sitting here in Austin, TX on a sweltering day in May, it's hard to believe that a couple of evenings ago I was wandering, sweater clad, around the harbor in Annapolis, MD. Dozens of spotless white Naval uniforms wander the streets filled with aspiring young officers whose ink on their high school diploma isn't even dry yet. Here is a young man showing his parents around and trying to convince his mother that he's never been in that bar. Dad's walking a couple of steps behind and looks like he singlehandedly deprived a local merchant of his entire stock of Navy gear. There's a group of five sharing a bench, some exaggerated tales, and cheap cigars. Over to the right is a black lady, mid 40's, alone with her headphones, facing the water, dancing a waltz with an imaginary partner. (Looks like he's leading) I wonder for a moment at what point in my life did I trade my imagination in for inhibition. She apparently passed on that offer. The narrow streets invite me to wander down an alley toward the harmonious hum escaping from the doorway of the "Treaty of Paris" pub. Inside I find a packed house, steins and mugs held high, and a chorus of "What do ya do with a drunken sailor" is in full swing. (Put a lobster in his britches, way hay up he rises, earl-ey in the mornin..) Everyone knows the words. I get no farther than the doorway. They don't seem to notice one more body so I stay for the rest of the song. It's hard not to stand there, leaning against the century old doorframe, grinning like a landlubber. The night is now growing cold, so I head back to the car. On the way I pass a man loading a couple of grocery bags into a boat the size of a bathtub. The dark water looks unforgiving and with some sense of concern I say, "Need some help?" He says no. He's just heading home. Where's home, I ask. He point to the center of the harbor where a good number of sailboats are anchored randomly and roughly 20 yards from each other in any direction. Each one has a small boat attached to it. I realize that this is a small city on the sea. I watch him putter out into the harbor and navigate his way through the maze of masts. He disappears in the dark and only then do I realize that I'm humming outloud. The young sailor with his lass on the bench behind me is too enamored with his prize to notice that I found my imagination again.

Took a long flight to Norfolk on Sunday to speak at a conference. Josh L picked me up at the hotel and we hit the VA Beach area for some excellent seafood and conversation. I took a midnight tour of Regent University and while we're wandering around gawking at the buildings (that would be me) I notice what appears to be a small dog not far away. Turns out to be a fox, and not just one. Well lit fountains and foxes. Nice.
Headed to Richmond Monday evening and, on the way, stopped and wandered around Williamsburg with the digital camera. Again, gawking. When a new house is only 120 years old, you know you're in some fine country. With Sears Vinyl siding NOWHERE in sight, I was soaking in the history of Yorktown, Jamestown, and ALLLL that 'so and so died here' and 'so and so died there'. At the Richmond conference I was pleased to hang out with some wonderful people like the two federal agents and the guy from the legal dept of Phillip Morris (there's the job not to have right now).
Heading north, I arrived just south of DC in time to catch a quick meal and the last episode of the Amazing Race, which I haven't seen at all until now. I was choked up. Great moment when they're trying to beg for money from passers by to pay the cab driver when the finish line and a million bucks is a hundred feet away.
Today in Washington, DC was highlighted by an airplane that flew into the no fly zone and threw the city into a fit. I just happen to get in on all the action. OH YES. Homeland security evacuations? I'm there! I got to the Capitol Hotel and took off on foot to see some sights. Kenneth Cole shoes don't make for comfy walkers folks. After the 5th mile or so I began to wish I had taken the car. Sitting on the lawn between the Washington Monument and 1600 Pennsylvania Ave, I took in an outdoor show put on by the military called the Twilight Tattoo. It was wonderful and moving. Cannons going off, the band playing, and rifles being thrown into the air with surgical precision. What's not to love? After all of the memorials what stands out? While Lincoln at night was breathtaking, the hidden treasure for me was stumbling across the Korean Memorial after the sun went down. Statues of a squadron lurking through the brush are in front of an amazing wall carved with hundreds of faces in great detail. The jawdropping thing about this is the way they light it at night. A couple of small pen size spotlights on the ground in front of each statue light them with just enough emphasis that it makes you wonder if they're real. When you come in from behind all you see are the tiny lights on the ground and not the statues that they're shining on so you walk right by them without regarding their presence and head toward the wall to check it out. It isn't until you turn around that the statue squad of nearly two dozen appears out of nowhere. It's so spooky that it catches you and for a moment you're in Korea. You feel like an enemy who is about to be overrun and you just might lose that dim sum you had for dinner. Man it was cool.
So much more to write but that'll do for now...

Sitting on an airplane, sipping ginger ale, listening to trip hop, I reflect... A week in Colorado is a beautiful thing. If you ever lose your sense of wonder, Colorado is the place to find it. Every time I go somewhere I search for the hidden treasure that makes the location unique. This time out I found the town of Manitou Springs nestled in a narrow canyon between the garden of the gods and Pikes peak. This is the last great outpost for the remnants of those who were both at Woodstock or conceived at Woodstock. I've never met such a group of liberals. Really wonderful people who (like the parents on Dharma and Greg) who ran so far left that they've come full circle and are, in many ways, more conservative than those on the far right. Hemp wearing children and blunt talking (and toking) grandparents bookend neo hippie 40-50 somethings who run the many coffeehouses, art stores, and knick knack shops that have kept the gold rush town alive. Just to the east of the cog railway to the top of Pikes peak is the only true Melodrama Dinner theater that I've seen outside of Europe. Were it not for the senior citizen busses taking up all of the parking spaces and good seats, I might have stayed. The asthetic highlight to the whole trip was taking a run through the garden of the gods. A stellar trail winds through massive red rocks that jut out of the earth hundreds of feet into the air, hence the name. Some appear to balance as precariously as an egg on a toothpick. Ok there is a point to all of this.
I walked into the lobby of the Park Plaza Hotel on the morning of my seminar and said to the man behind the counter, "Is there ever a day when you don't just stare at the mountain?". Pikes peak was cleverly framed for his viewing by the front windows of the lobby and is just majestic in it's perfection. He replied with a shocking, "Honestly I never notice it." The tragedy of the statement apparently caught him off guard and he conciously looked past me and out the windows at the mountain. A smile slowly crept across his face as he awoke to wonder all over again. He stared for a long time before he spoke again and said, "I've never driven to the top. I think I will when I get off work today." "Good show" I said and turned toward the seminar room.
There's such a sermon here. I'll give you the elements; the majesty of God, our apathy infected eyes, a reawakening to wonder, a desire to draw closer and go higher. You get the picture...

In case you don't know, my job includes a great deal of travel that takes me all over the US. I'll probably do this sort of thing until such time as my family and I call a halt to the whole deal for the sake of everyone's sanity. Actually I believe this is positive for my sanity. Until I was 18 and married I spent a great deal of time in an object that moved either with wheels or wings. I'm surprised that I've planted roots in one place and one church for so long. I may be selfish here but I never feel better than when I'm moving. I've come to terms with this sickness and have found the cure to be a long drive in the country on a day that's cool enough to crack your windows a couple of inches. There's nothing like coming home after a long trip too. Slow dancing by candelight to something by Dianna Krall with your bride who is wearing the perfume you've come to know... Being attacked by two children and a dog who don't care that they're wrinkling your Kenneth Cole suit, stepping all over your Kenneth Cole shoes, or slobbering all over your Kenneth Cole tie. It's wonderful to come home. That's truly the best part of leaving. I think the problem with alot of strained marriages is that nobody ever has the coming home moments because in order to have them you have to also have the going away moments. Even the Scriptures speak about those who are in covenant having a consentual parting for 'a time'. 1 Corinthians 7:5 Defraud ye not one the other, except it be with consent for a time, that ye may give yourselves to fasting and prayer; and come together again..." Now granted, the context here is sexual but the application goes beyond that. There is a euphoric joy in those black and white photos of soldiers coming home and wives being caught up in their arms. Old cameras and adept photographers captures those moments for all eternity and as I look at those I realize that some of those couples spent (as in spending money) two years of life apart for one moment of that kind of joy. There's a richness in togetherness and sometimes apartness is the only way to rediscover it.