grace clinic: the emergency room is open

In Matters of Taste - Hugo

2012-01-12T16:34:00.001-05:00

The "Special Features" on a DVD is an amazing thing when you think about it.

When they opted to pull back the curtain on the movie-making process and reveal the details regarding making films on the same DVD as the film itself, I'll bet it was a visceral decision, akin to a magician giving us a look-see behind the stage, or a master chef allowing us to snoop in his recipe file. But as it turned out, letting the secrets be known (at least some of them, anyway) has not diminished our love for movies. In my case, in fact, catching a glimpse into the magic box of filmmaking has amped up my appreciation for the art.

If that's true for you, as well, you should see Hugo. Seems that Martin Scorsese admires film, too, and Hugo is an homage to all that is art in film. The secrets, the skill, the technology, the beauty, the art of the process, from idea to the work to the end product to the audience in the theater--all of it is honored and adored in this film about film makers.

Wrapped in a children's book story of a boy-to-man human whose one goal is to bring the same transition to bear on a wind-up-robot, Scorsese builds his plot on the mystery and joy of invention, labor, and purpose. It's hard to miss the point: can we find the missing piece of life's greatest puzzle? - Where do I fit? How do I find my place? What is my purpose? What happens when I lose it? Can I find it again? The answer to these questions tells the story, and the Story--yours and mine--is the point.

The appeal for me is a film that brings the BIG QUESTIONS to the table of our minds in a simple, profound way.
The appeal for me is the unmentioned but very bold backdrop of theology: You are here on purpose. There is a Maker and he knows what he's doing. Finding the place where you fit is the magic key for making sense of the world, and that key is out there, waiting, even if you've misplaced it.
The appeal for me is the unifying theme, lived out and revealed in each character, even the side-kicks and bumbling clowns serving in support of the story. Even puppies find their place here.
The appeal for me is a movie that kids will enjoy and parents will think about.
The appeal for me is the breath-taking beauty of a single shot or scene--a flower stand, a Paris landscape at night, a journey through every child's dream-land of hidden places--and Hugo offers a gallery of these sequences.

And that is why, by the way, you should see this film in 3D. Technology and art is the central core of Hugo. It only makes sense that Scorsese would use the latest and greatest in service of the plot, and he does so in elegant form. This is not 3D for the sake of oohs and ahhhs, but in conscription to the artistic heart. This 3D does not leave you saying, "OH! WOW! It was like it was heading for my face!" Instead, it aims at the tender parts of our senses that determine what is true and beautiful. When the busy marketplace of a Parisian train station is brought to life in this way, it's like sitting in front of a van Gogh landscape and smelling the place.

Hugo keeps coming into my mind, weeks after I saw it, without disturbing me in the process. That's enough to say it was good.

In Matters of Taste

2012-01-03T20:55:00.000-05:00

God expresses himself and his truth in stories. The Bible, to be sure. But elsewhere, too. Many of these stories bear themes of redemption, grace, love, and home. I like stories like that. I eat them up.

To find them, I like reading books, watching movies, and viewing TV shows. I don't like everything I taste. I might not care for something that you enjoy. I also don't have time to watch and read everything. But like a recipe that's really good, or a restaurant discovery, it's fun to share what you like. When I find a book, movie, or TV program that I like, I want to talk about it.

Which makes people tire of me quickly.

So to spare the chatter, on Tuesdays I will write about what I like here. I'll attempt to give you a taste of the stuff that flavors truth and puts redemption on a plate. I'll also let you know what I think doesn't live up to the picture on the recipe.

And I encourage your responses and critique. As long as we all understand, De gustibus non disputandum est-- In matters of taste there is no debate.

Next week: the movie, Hugo.

Christmas Carols

2011-12-22T19:42:00.000-05:00

Do you hear what I hear?

Humming and singing and whistling while they're in the shower or walking through the house.
The buzz of voices, a jazz composition that allows fantastic flights of improvisation, sounds rising and dipping and merging and floating to the top, but with a meter and beat that is familiar like old socks.
Laughter. More than any ear deserves. Laughter as simple audible grace.
Dice rolling on the hardwood table. Scrabble tiles being stirred in the bag. Shuffling cards. The ear-splitting shaking of Boggle cubes.
The distinct, utterly unique scraping of hands through buckets of Lego bricks, searching for the right one, one in a million.
Silent breathing in a dark room with the Christmas tree lights on.
Feet tumbling down the stairs, identifying by the cadence, landing, and creak of wood the individual who walks with them.

The kids are home. All is well. Merry Christmas.

Grandma Tales

2011-05-03T11:51:00.000-04:00

Grandma's pet phrase, ever since she moved in with us seven years ago, has been "It's no fun getting old, but everybody does it." When she said it seven years ago, it was always the punch line to a funny joke--a way to bridge the gap between an old-age foible and on-going conversation.

In the last few years, it's not been a joke, but a statement of truth. Point of fact. It really isn't fun to get old. Not fun at all.

And then about a year ago, the phrase just lifted to the top of her brain as the thing to say whenever she couldn't think of the right thing to say. Those moments of not knowing what to say came more and more frequently. She would say it dozens of times a day. Over and over, back to back.

She said it once yesterday. It's not the phrase it used to be. As much as I was sick of hearing it, I wish she would use it again.

It's been replaced with two other phrases. The first is, "I just want to go to heaven." Completely understandable. If I were in her position, that's what I would want, too. This one is sometimes altered to "I just want to die" and that is sometimes changed to "I don't want to die" and once it came out, "I don't want to go to heaven." Well, we know that isn't true.

But more often than "I just want to go to heaven," she says, "I don't know what to do!" She says it as if she's just bounced a check, or lost her toddler, or discovered a giant chicken in the room. She is quite worried about what to do. When she says "I don't know what to do!" we query her.

FAQ from the family when Grandma says, "I don't know what to do!":

Do about what?
What would you like to do?
Is there something you think you need to do?
Why are you worried about what to do?
Is there a giant chicken in here?

Grandma is dying. I understand that. We're all OK with it.

I just wish she knew what to do.

Why Did I Drive 1400 Miles To The Epic Fail Pastors Conference?

2011-04-20T14:18:00.002-04:00

First session, Thursday evening. First question: Why are you here?

I told my fellow-fails around the table that I'd spent the last 700 miles asking that question. My answers were sketchy. I tossed a few ideas out on the table. I talked about the tide rolling out. I combed through the eleven-plus hours I had driven, and what I'd thought about.

I didn't know where to start.

Two weeks before the conference I shared my thoughts about the why thing here in writing. With my literary tongue in my cheek, and a wink of my ironic, sarcastic eye, I claimed I wasn't a failure. Yeah, well . . .

FAILURE is a big word. The list is -- long. Too long.

There's more than enough failure in my life. I'm not at a loss to find it, just to enumerate it. If the measurement of success at a conference on failure was how long your list was, it would take some time. More time than we had. More paper than they provided.

I'll admit - at first I was disappointed. Not one of the guys at my table was a pastor. All were in ministry of some kind, but none of them was a practicing clergy-person. Wasn't this supposed to be for pastors? These guys aren't going to get me.

Most of the attenders were younger than me. Many of the participants at the conference could have been my children. Several were just starting out in ministry. How could they even have had enough time to fail yet? They're just baby pastors!

I felt lonely from the start, inadequate, old, a has-been in a room full of will-be's. Low tide. A failure.

Epic Fail Pastors Conference . . . Fail.

It didn't take long -- about ten minutes -- to understand what we were doing. This was . . .

A gathering of people who had been drawn like iron shavings by the magnet of the Spirit from around the world (one guy came in from Australia).
A quiet, sincere group of ministry-types who were broken like me.
A building 100+ years old, once a church, now a bar, now a place where God was up to something.
A dressed-down bunch where I felt like I failed the code of raiment because I brought Dockers.
A level field. Sinners, spiritually impoverished ragamuffins, wonderers and wanderers. Each of them read the name -- Epic Fail -- and knew they had to be here. Who would come to a conference like this? We would. All of us.
A conference unlike any other. In fact, "conference" is probably an inaccurate choice. But if you think people would be wary of this one, who do you think would come to Epic Fail Pastors Group Therapy Retreat?
A place God showed himself worthy. And enough.

I hope there will be another one. Maybe many more across the map. For me. For you. Really - you should go.

And here are five reasons you should drive 1400 miles to the next Epic Fail Pastors Conference:

On the way there, you can make your list.
On the way there, you can listen to loud music.
On the way there, you can sing whatever you want.
On the way there, you can enjoy the delusion that you have it all together.
On the way home, you can grieve.

The Epic Fail Pastors Conference was a success. Whatever that means.

Read more about it from the source: J.R. Briggs.

Grandma Tales

2011-04-03T21:06:00.000-04:00

Our Geriatric Recreational Supervisor (aka Garrison Benson) has been organizing daily Bingo games with Grandma. Sometimes it's just Gary and Grandma, other times someone else sits in. Today Jon played.

They played a specialized game called "Grandma Bingo." The only real difference in the rules is that Grandma always gets to think she wins, even though everyone else wins, too.

Grandma has had a rough day. But who can't be cheered up a little with a good Bingo game? Thanks, Gary.

Because You'll Want To Know

2011-03-31T22:29:00.000-04:00

In two weeks I will be attending the Epic Fail Pastors Conference.

I know. It sounds bad.

I’m thinking there are other pastors going, too, but I haven’t heard from them. I assume they’re too embarrassed to let the news get out. After all, no one wants to claim to God and everybody that they are failures. Especially not in epic proportions.

But I’m also thinking those other guys are probably trying to write something just like this--some blog or newsletter or email in Constant Contact in which they will try to explain to their congregations and friends and enemies why they’re attending a conference with that name. I’m thinking we all want to make everyone feel quite OK with the fact that we registered months ago, that we’ve been looking forward to it, that we’ve done all the homework that Epic Fail PC has asked us to do, and got it done early. We all want to make sure everyone knows one thing about us . . .

I DON’T CONSIDER MYSELF A FAILURE. REALLY. I WAS JUST CURIOUS ABOUT THIS CONFERENCE. THAT IS ALL.

Forthwith and forsooth, two lists:

Not Reasons Why I’m Attending Epic Fail PC:

It’s not because I’m a whining, hang-dog, persecuted, beat-up pastor.
It’s not because I’m failing. At least I don’t think so.
It’s not because I’ve gone to the dark side.
It’s not because my congregation doesn’t pay me enough. They’re very good to me.
It’s not because I’m having a mid-life crisis. That’s so yesterday.
It’s not because I love staying in a hotel room alone.
It's not because I enjoy leaving my wife to handle things at home.
It’s not because I think the name “Epic Fail Pastors Conference” is about the coolest thing I’ve heard in a very long time. Although it is.

Why I’m Attending the Epic Fail PC:

Because self-reliance kills ministry. And pastors.
Because I know who I am.
Because God has not seemed to call me to mega-church success. (Sorry if you were hoping otherwise).
Because I sometimes frustrate Jesus’ headship with my own willful plans.
Because I’m weary of programs and strategy and gimmicks and methods.
Because pastors get pastors.
Because I’m only strong in Christ when I fully realize and own my weakness.
Because I’ve been to the flash and smoke and strobe and glitz and big-hired-gun conferences. I like them. Just not what I need right now.
Because the day I read about Epic Fail PC, I nearly lost it.
Because Paul wrote these words in a letter to a church: “But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us.”

So, I’m going. I’ll tell you what I think once I’m there, and when it’s over.

"I have not failed. I've just found 10,000 ways that won't work." — Thomas A. Edison

Grandma Tales: Dignity, Independence, Talking Dogs

2011-03-04T11:15:00.001-05:00

Grandma is having a hard day.

Her light was on at 5:30 a.m., and she stuck her head out several times, long before light of morning, to inquire about what time it was, whether it was time for dinner, and who it was that was singing. When she does this (almost every morning), she shouts out to no one in particular. She shouts because she doesn't have her "ears" (hearing aids) in yet. And of course, we have to shout back even louder to answer her. It's quite jolting to wake up to all this noise, even if you're the one making it.

At 9:30 a.m. I heard Grandma talking in her room. I thought maybe it was Jeremy visiting with her, but she was alone. I happened to see the blinking light on the phone system indicating she was calling someone. That's a great thing, except that all of the people she would call live in different time-zones, and all of them would be sleeping. After waking someone, she talked in circles for a minute, then said, "Well, OK then. It's no fun getting old." and hung up.

She came out a few minutes ago, at 10:45, and asked it I'd had lunch. I said it was a little too early for lunch, especially since I knew Grandma had only finished breakfast about an hour and a half ago. She giggled and proceeded to fetch a can of soup to fix. She put it in the pan, added water, and put it on the stove, all the while singing/talking in a kind of ninety-year-old rap, "The angels beckon me from heaven's open door," (here's where she starts kind of rapping), "And I can't feel at home in the world anymore."

She sang for several minutes before realizing that her soup was not getting hot because she had forgotten to turn on the burner. She turned it on and now is enjoying some chicken noodle between stanzas.

Grandma is slipping.

The other night Linda found her brushing her teeth, sans toothbrush or paste--just using her finger. Her brush and paste were within inches of her other hand on the bathroom counter.

Several times now Grandma has heard the new dog, Marzipan, speaking to her. Once, according to Grandma, Marzi said, "9-1-1!" (Grandma does not know what 911 means at all, which makes the whole thing that much more remarkable). When Marzi spoke to her, Grandma answered, "Well, I just can't believe that!" And Marzi answered back, "Believe it!"

The struggle: how much do we do to fix and protect? How much "help" is really robbery? How much does dignity depend on independence? Our decision has always been to err on the side of not helping in favor of the satisfaction of Grandma being able to handle as many aspects of life as possible. But sometimes that tact has been hard to hold. The more we do for her, the less she remembers how to do. She doesn't like it when we do some things for her, but she loves to be waited on, too.

It will not get easier.

Simple Me

2011-03-03T11:40:00.002-05:00

I wrote this response on a Donald Miller blog post. His posts are always good, and provide lots of thought-snacking. This particular one is aimed, although not explicitly, at the furor over Rob Bell's new book, which most people haven't read yet. In spite of that little fact, everyone's chiming in.

My response fits many faith-arguments around today. What do you think?

My mother is 92 years old, and she’s more like a child than ever. Nothing is very complicated anymore. If it is, she doesn’t have time for it.
The older I get the more I chafe at the anthropocentric complexities of the good news. If God, sovereign and incredible, communicates to humanity, broken and finite, it only makes sense that he does so simply.
I don’t think I’m lazy, or anti-intellectual, or simple-minded. But I’m weary of taking something that is to be believed with child-like faith and making it so complex and confusing that it’s not-fit-for-toddlers anymore.
Mom believes Jesus. She anticipates seeing him soon. None of this stuff matters to her at all because she is close to heaven. Is it naive to think she’s exactly where we should be?

Grandma Tales

2011-01-25T11:11:00.000-05:00

Grandma B's Nouveau Cuisine, Recipe One.

Bean with Bacon Oatmeal

So you've sat in your chair in your room for so long looking out the window that you forgot to come out for breakfast and you're too early for lunch? Not a problem! Try this savory brunch treat!

Get out your oatmeal, like you do every day. Get out your oatmeal/soup saucepan. Forget for a moment that you got out your oatmeal and that you haven't had breakfast and start your lunch, like you do every day. Open a can of Bean with Bacon soup and pour half into the pan. When it comes to a boil, remember that you haven't had breakfast. Find the oatmeal on the counter and pour the usual amount into the soup. Bring to a boil.

Pour mixture into a bowl and enjoy! (Grandma ate the whole thing!)

For dessert, try Honey in a Spoon.

Grandma Tales

2010-11-29T11:13:00.001-05:00

Positive Effect of Memory Loss, #1,984: Sunset, For the First Time (Again).

In the car with Linda last night. Outrageously beautiful sunset blazes across the sky. Grandma says, "Oh, for beautiful! It's never done this before! I've never seen the sky like this before!"

Negative Effect of Memory Loss, #5,399: Home, Alone and Post-Non-Event-Stress-Syndrome.

Boys and I at church. Linda's working upstairs. Grandma stirs from her room downstairs. Linda joins her.

Grandma: Where is everybody?
Linda: They're at church working on the play.
Grandma (with that panicky voice): You mean I've been home alone?!
Linda: No, I've been here.
Grandma: So, what you're saying is that I've been here all alone?!

I Love Parent/Teacher Conferences

2010-11-23T10:51:00.001-05:00

WARNING! BRAG ALERT! DO NOT READ ANY FURTHER IF YOU CAN'T TOLERATE A DAD SPEAKING WELL ABOUT HIS KIDS!

I can honestly say, without hesitation, that the bi-annual Parent/Teacher ritual is a blast. Last night we attended another - and probably our second-to-last - conference. We tried something new: We took the whole family.

Everyone came -- Linda and I, April (27), Jeremy (24), Gary (22), Jon (17), and Grandma B (91) in her wheelchair. We waltzed into each of Jono's classrooms and greeted the teachers. We made people groan, thinking the lines were much longer than they were. We got comments from the principal. We made teachers laugh and smile and look at us weird. It was the most fun I've ever had at conferences.

As we paraded down the halls at Freeland High, I thought about the joys of conferencing over the years. Sure, there have been a couple of rough moments, but the vast majority of these visits have been so pleasing, so satisfying, so fun, that I barely remember any little negatives. Our conferences have been blessed because our kids are great.

I take very little credit for that. Whatever brain-development-DNA spun its mysterious fabric in my kids' gray-matter did not come from Dad. Which leaves Linda, who is the smartest person I know. Everything I ever learned about learning I learned from her. Our children have acquired their amazing capacity for knowledge from their Mom.

We have smart kids who are good kids. The combination makes for quick, light-hearted, and breezy conferences. We have heard these words over and over through the years:

"Well, [BK - Benson Kid] is doing great. [He/She] is a pleasure to have in class." Glances at grade book without really needing to . . . "Looks like a solid 'A.' I wish every kid in class could be like [BK]. Do you have any questions or concerns about [BK]?"

Well, hardly ever. And thus ended another conference. Delightful.

Every once in a while, in a grand attempt to make sure we didn't get such big heads that we'd end up stuck in the door on the way out of the room, clogging up the entrance, a teacher would say, "The only thing I would like to see from [BK] is a little more talking and participating in class."

Actually, one year in elementary school (Linda would know the year), one of the teachers (Linda would remember her name), said about one of the kids (Linda would remember which one), something like this (Linda could give you the exact quote - I said she was the smart one!):

"Frankly, I wish [BK] would get into some trouble once in a while. It would be good for him/her to break out just a little bit."

Never thought we'd hear that from a teacher. I know my parents could only dream of a teacher saying such things about little Ronnie.

And that is why I'm thankful for my kids. Like all children, they have their "ish." But God gave Linda and me the gift of good kids. And when they all come home, and we gather around for a meal, and the banter and opinions and laughter starts flying, I marvel at the grace of God sitting at my table.

Lazarus, Revisited

2010-11-16T11:34:00.002-05:00

At the conclusion of The Lazarus Experiment, I said there would be more coming from me. It’s taken a while, but here it is.

All along the forty days, one thing kept impressing itself in my head. It’s not strange that it did, because this one theme has dogged my life. It’s always been lingering around the edges, always haunting the inner life. In fact, I have proof of the longevity of this particular mind-shadow.

I’ve posted this picture around before. It’s me at seven years old, sitting atop my brand new birthday bike. But, while she was organizing our photos this summer, Linda took out the picture and looked at the back of it. In my mother’s handwriting:

Ronnie – Looking a little chubby.

Nope. Never looked at the back. Never caught that before. Explains a lot.

So lay me out on the proverbial psych couch and let us regress!

Not really. I’m not one for digging at excuses like scabs, seeing if I can make them bleed enough to build my self-pity and garner sympathy for my oozing wounds. I’m not going to blame anyone, or cast my problems out onto the relational landscape to see where they stick. It just is what it is.

A struggle with—weight, diet, exercise, health, overeating, imbalance, emotional eating, obesity—there are so many names for the thing. For as long as I can remember, this cloud has hovered over my head.

The Lazarus Experiment forced us to ask how we live life—second life. We posed the question: What kind of things would Lazarus have done differently once Jesus called him out of the tomb and the mummy wraps were pulled away? What Would Lazarus Do?

From day one of the experiment I knew this: Lazarus would not live with this cloud. He would not live a life that was not healthy. We don’t know what killed him off, but if it was anything that was within his own personal control, you’ve got to believe that on the next go-round, on the other side of the grave, on the resurrection rebound, he would not have continued on the same weary-worn path.

If Lazarus died because of lung cancer after a lifetime of smoking, for instance, I just can’t see him asking for a cig once the grave clothes were unwound. If he kicked off because of a venereal disease, I’m thinking he would change his wanton ways after he heard Jesus say, “Come forth!” Getting another swing at life would change your perspective, I think, and motivate life change.

Add to that the realization that Jesus did this, for you, alone, to his glory, and the will to change becomes even stronger. The idea of Lazarus falling at the feet of Jesus, worshiping him for proclaiming victory over death—YOUR DEATH—seems like the motivational equivalent of a power boost button in a car racing video game. Move over, Mario! Luigi’s coming on strong!

It just kept hitting me, over and over, that Lazarus would not have stayed obese if he’d died of a heart attack or diabetes.

Now—I also believe this: Lazarus would have lived life to the full. He would have loved and learned and labored and leisured like he never had before. He would not give up bagels. He would eat cake and ice cream. In fact, I’ve got to believe that one of the first things he did was sit down to a steak, medium rare, and onion rings.

OK. Maybe not onion rings. Maybe asparagus instead. And that’s just my point. Lazarus would have a new awareness of how to enjoy the miraculous gift of life in every way. Including health.

So, for many reasons, now is the time.

I’ve done it before. Twenty years ago, when Linda and I and three of our four kids pulled into Royal Oak, Michigan, I had just completed six months of NutriSystem and lost nearly 100 pounds. In those two decades since, I have found all of them, and enough new ones to bring me to a new personal record.

I was 35 years old then. Now I’m 55. It’s going to be different.

Lazarus would do it with grace. He would do it with the awareness of his value to Jesus. He would do it with a joy that comes from facing into the mouth of death and hearing your name called by the giver of life. It would be—fun.

I am fully aware that all of you will have advice for me. I appreciate your help. I know that you want me to succeed. I know the secret of weight loss: take in less than you burn off. Easy as pie. OK—easy as a cucumber. But the truth is I’m not after losing, I’m after living. Health gained, not pounds lost.

I also know that now you’re all in on this. So if you see me at a potluck with a mound of calories enough for a week, you can say something. Or if you invite me to lunch, steer me away from the buffet. You can steal the cream cheese off my tray, or slap the donut out of my hands. I know you’re watching me.

But now let me turn the tables on you: If you want to live your life like you mean it, like you are purchased out of the grave by grace, what would you never do again? How can I help you? How can I hold you to it?

Grandma Tales

2010-11-06T21:48:00.000-04:00

The Clinic is not supposed to be about my mom, but about grace-stuff. But Mom--Grandma--lives with us, and like any two-year-old or ninety-two-year-old, she often is the center of the house. Lately, Grandma's dementia has been deteriorating, and the results are funny, sad, and weird. Some of it makes us wonder . . .

In the last week, Mom has heard singing. It's a man's voice. He's singing gospel songs. The other night she came out of her room after being in bed for a couple hours.

"Do you hear that?" she called out from the hall.

"HEAR WHAT, GRANDMA?" I shouted because she takes her ears (hearing aids) out when she goes to bed.

"Do you hear him singing?"

"WHO?"

"That man!"

She had me go into her room, and pointed to one of the windows. She told me he was singing "Oh, That Will Be Glory For Me."

This morning he was singing again; this time, "Silent Night." Grandma sang along with him while we ate breakfast.

Tonight, after being in bed for twenty minutes, Grandma came out. "Do you hear that?"

"DO YOU HEAR THE SINGING AGAIN, GRANDMA?"

"Yes! I can't go to sleep! Can you hear it?"

"NO GRANDMA, I DON'T HEAR ANYTHING!"

"Well, come in here!"

We walked to her room. "Do you hear him singing?" And she sang along.

"And he walks with me and he talks with me, And he tells me I am his own . . ."

I continued to try to explain that the music was coming from her head. I told her to just go to sleep. Since she couldn't hear me, I shouted and repeated. Even when she heard me she didn't understand at all. She went back to bed and I closed the door.

Ten minutes later, she was out again, complaining about the singing. We went through the whole thing again, and I went back to her room.

"Can't you hear that?!" she asked, and waved toward the window. She was quite aggravated.

"MOM, I CAN'T HEAR THE MUSIC. NOBODY ELSE HEARS THE MUSIC. IT'S JUST IN YOUR HEAD."

I was standing three feet away from her, and still I had to repeat myself. She couldn't hear me for anything. But she heard the song, and she sang, "And the joy we share as we tarry there, none other has ever known."

"Well, what should I do?! That's going to go on all night!"

"JUST ENJOY IT, GRANDMA. ENJOY THE MUSIC AND YOU'LL FALL ASLEEP AND THEN IT WILL STOP." She rolled her eyes, got a peeved look on her face, and shrugged her shoulders.

"OK! Good night!"

She hasn't been out again, but the night is young.

And about the singing - Don't even ask.

Grandma Tales

2010-11-05T17:03:00.000-04:00

FAQs

After flipping every light switch in her room, in the room next door, and the next one: "How do I turn off this TV?"

After waking up at 10:00 a.m.: "Is it time to get up?"

After mixing two cans of Campbell's soup, one Bean With Bacon and one Chicken Noodle, without water: "Is there some salt I can put in here?"

"Is this Sunday?"
"Is this Saturday?"
"Is this Friday?" (You get the picture).

"Is tomorrow hair day?"

"So, I'm going to have to be all alone all day long, the whole day?" (Grandma's hardly ever alone).

Peeking out of her room at 5:00 a.m. (and 5:23, and 5:58), "Are we going to church today?"

This is getting rough.

Grandma Tales

2010-10-11T10:53:00.000-04:00

We arrived home from eight days in S. Ca. where we mourned the loss of Linda's brother, Tim. We pulled into the driveway at 3:15 a.m., and caught two hours sleep before going off to work.

We had been concerned about Grandma's reaction to our being away. She had wanted to go with us, which is just not possible anymore. And she's always extremely anxious about being at home when we're away, even though Jeremy and Jon were both with her.

That evening we were talking at dinner, sharing all the stories and details of our trip. In the middle of the discussion, Grandma exclaimed, "You were gone?!"

"Yep."

"When did you leave?"

"Over a week ago."

"When did you get back?"

"This morning, very early."

"How long were you gone?"

"Over a week."

"Where did you go?"

"We went out to California."

"Well, how did you get there?"

"We took an airplane."

"Who took care of us?!"

"Jeremy and Jon stayed here with you."

"Well, what did you go out there for?!"

"Linda's brother died, so we went out for the funeral."

"He died?!"

"Yes."

"How many people were there?"

"About 250 people came to the funeral."

"Did anyone ask about me?!"

After some more questions, we ate our dessert, and continued to share some stories. After about three minutes, Grandma exclaimed, "You were gone?!"

(For the rest, please refer to above dialog).

Hot News From Cincinnati

2010-06-15T09:12:00.003-04:00

Big Jesus was struck by lightening and burned to the ground. Can we say, "BIG IRONY?"

Check out the news and watch the video here.

I wrote about Big Jesus in Grace Clinic a few years ago.

Sadly, the pastor of Solid Rock Church says they will rebuild Big Jesus. Maybe they'll use something less fire-enhancing than Styrofoam and perhaps add a few lightning rods.

In the meantime, be extra careful driving Interstate 75 in Southern Ohio. It seems to me Big Jesus is not doing a very good job of protecting the area.

Pet Peeve #2589: Singing Hallelujah, Big Stupid Song Endings, and American Idol

2010-05-19T11:54:00.000-04:00

Let's talk about Hallelujah.

Canadian Leonard Cohen, a prolific writer of prose and poetry before venturing into music, wrote a beautiful song that has now been sung, recorded, and popularized in multiples. It was even featured in the movie, Shrek. It is a sad song, highlighting the irony of love and loss, the rise and fall of attraction, infatuation, and relationship.

Besides the obvious spirituality of the title, (which I think draws the Christian community to the song - at least until they read the lyrics), the song features a clear and unfettered reference to the love story between David and Bathsheba. It may even be a song about that relationship.

The song is also sensual, unabashedly so, as the writer reminisces about intimacy with a slow mourning - not full out weeping and wailing, or even a tear rolling down the cheek, but just a stare off into the distance of memory. It is a private song. It is not to be sung while looking strangers in the eye. It should be sung looking down at the piano or guitar (as when Rufus Wainwright does it, or the late Jeff Buckley performs it), or with hands on your knees sitting in a straight-back chair in the middle of an empty room. (Here's another version of Cohen singing Hallelujah in front of thousands in London - close to Lee's rendition. Is there a difference?)

Here are the beautiful, haunting words:

"Hallelujah"

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Baby I have been here before
I know this room, I've walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew you.
I've seen your flag on the marble arch
Love is not a victory march
It's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

There was a time you let me know
What's really going on below
But now you never show it to me, do you?
And remember when I moved in you
The holy dove was moving too
And every breath we drew was Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

Last night on American Idol, Lee DeWyse sang this song to the acclaim of all the judges and the raves of the fans. Good for Lee. He's got a good voice. He could win, and he would deserve it. Hallelujah.

Lee's arrangement started out quiet, and then got bigger. There is room for some of that in the song. It calls for some dynamic, because of the underlying anger and angst of the lyric. OK.

But then the choir came in behind Lee. Alright. That's nice, as long as they back right out the same door they came in from. They stayed, however, and were followed by the horn section--a big brass band. The song built from there, with DeWyse matching the Hollywoodisms of the arrangement. Lee has a gravely, natural voice, but he turned that off to become Robert Goulet for the big, impressive finale, which crescendoed and catapulted the song right out of the stratosphere. It was spectacular.

Was Leonard Cohen listening? If so, just how big were the chunks that he tossed at that moment? Did he lose just his lunch, or did he lose the inner lining of his stomach? How much damage did he do to his TV, his living room, his home--and will the insurance cover it? Is there even a policy that covers loss due to stinky, unnecessary, stupid song arrangement?

I usually agree with Simon Cowell on Idol. Sure, he's brutal. But he's honest. And the performers at that level have to know how to take it. But Simon shares a certain problem with many other performers and listeners. Call it Big Finish Syndrome. Big Finish Syndrome is the delusion that any song is better if it ends with a huge crescendo, cymbals crashing, horns blazing, strings full-out. (Cowell last night suggested that Casey James' song, Daughters, should have had a bigger finish! BFS, for sure!)

Beethoven, Handel, and some other classical composers suffer from BFS. They just can't end a piece without this flashy ending. Sometimes they end the song, but the flash wasn't big enough, so they do another one, which also isn't big enough, so they add two or three more. This gets the audience all riled up, thinking that the first ending was the real one, so they jump to their feet and applaud louder and louder at each subsequent faux-conclusion.

This is what happened to Hallelujah last night. Be honest. Go back and read the lyrics again. Do you see a Big Finish ending there?

The same Big Finish Syndrome is perpetuated in the Christian Music industry. I think it's getting better, but there is still this requirement to end big, end happy, end with a screeching, building, awesome Hallelujah. But that's not the way it goes. That's not how reality is all the time. That doesn't reflect the lyric of life.

I love Cohen's song. It is provocative (it is NOT Christian). It is beautiful, not because it white-washes pain, but because it portrays it accurately. It is lovely because it leaves you with a taste in your mouth that is not honey, but more grapefruit - rind, and seeds, tart and sweet. And the gnawing in your heart is familiar, recognizable, reminiscent. But it is not hallelujah, in the way we think of the word. The whole point of the song is the irony expressed in the repetition, juxtaposed with the pain of relationship lost.

There is a place for Big Finish songs. But not every song, just like not every day, calls for a big finish ending. Many days, just a quiet, soft song will do just fine.

Grandma Tales

2010-04-28T19:44:00.000-04:00

This comes from some dear friends at church:

We've sat in front of your mom the past several Sundays and DJ [their one year old foster son] pretty much smiles, laughs, and generally flirts with her most of the service. She seems to love it. So, when we arrived this past Sunday and walked into the row in front of her, I turned to her and said, "Well Rebecca, your boyfriend is here," (meaning DJ of course). With a straight face, she looked around, seemingly oblivous to DJ, and said, "How did he find me here?" Gotta love this lady.

We're still trying to figure out who Grandma's boyfriend is, and why she's been keeping him a secret. How she's been keeping him a secret is just too much to think about. We've checked under the bed -- nothing there.

Grandma Tales

2010-04-17T13:36:00.000-04:00

We got drums.

While it is technically correct that the drums belong to Jono, and that Jon paid for most of them, and that he is the only one who uses them, and that drums would not be in our basement except for Jon's lifelong desire to beat on something legal, still -- we got them.

All of us. All of us, and the neighbors. All of us, and the community. All of us, and all those who drive by on River Road. We all have drums now. All God's children got drums. Drums are loud.

Grandma got drums. Although I'm not sure if she really gets that she got them. The drums sit under her room. Because of her hearing aids, the full aural equation of sound does not reach her eardrums, but something does. She doesn't know that it's drums. But she knows it's loud. She knows it's Jon. She knows she doesn't particularly like it. Especially when Dr. Phil or Bill O'Reilly or Wheel of Fortune are on the TV. And it especially annoys her when Jon competes with the Golden Girls.

So a couple of days ago, Grandma brought out her TV remote. She often forgets now what the thing does, and she mixes it up with the other remotes within her reach -- a remote for her lift chair, a remote for her electric heating blanket on the lift chair. You can imagine trying to find O'Reilly and having your chair lift you up and out instead. Or thinking that you just cranked up the heat, only to have Dr. Phil shouting at the top of his lungs. It's confusing. So she brought out the TV remote for a consultation.

"What's this thing do?"

"It's the remote for your TV, Mom."

"How can I get it to stop?"

"You mean turn off the TV?"

"No. I mean Jono. What do I press to get it to stop?"

"You mean the drums?"

"That noise! How can I turn it off?!" She looked at the remote, pressing buttons and listening to see if anything happened. Some people might do this to be funny. Grandma was being funny, but not on purpose. She thought there must be a button that worked on Jon and his drums.

The great thing about hearing aids is that you can take them out. We found the button. For Grandma. I don't have hearing aids. Yet.

(Luckily, the kid is doing great with the sticks. There's been more dancing in this house since we got drums. Dancing is good.)

More Grandma Tales

2010-04-13T13:57:00.000-04:00

I thought you'd enjoy this:

We're coming up on the annual Freeland Walleye Festival. Freeland is where I live. Walleye is what's in the river. The Festival celebrates it all.

So, in the spirit of civic involvement, and because I love to fish, and because walleye is good eating even if it's loaded to the gills with dioxins, I entered the Freeland Walleye Festival Fishing Tournament last year. And I fished on Sunday. After church. For an hour. Maybe. It was raining.

Fishing on a Sunday is verboten to my mother.

Anyway, I found this note today. On a Sunday, maybe that Sunday, my mom had this note delivered to me at my fishing spot in our backyard on the Tittabawassee River:

Dear Ron,

Your mother does NOT like you fishing on Sunday.

And I'm sure your congregation won't like it when they hear you do SUNDAY fishing!

P.S. I love you anyway, and please come in and get some supper.

Love,

Your Mother.

'Nuff said.

Awakening

2010-04-08T09:11:00.005-04:00

I woke up at 2:30 a.m. Monday night. I don't know for sure, but I could swear I was singing this song out loud (no confirmation from Linda). If it wasn't on my lips, it was in my brain, and when I startled awake, the lyrics were right there. This has always been my favorite hymn, and expresses much of my own longing and my own thinking about being a pastor and a Jesus-follower. In fact, the words are so close to me I hesitate to share them with you. But I will. Sometimes I sing this in an empty auditorium.

Spirit of God, descend upon my heart.
Wean it from earth; through all its pulses move.
Stoop to my weakness, mighty as Thou art,
And make me love Thee as I ought to love.

I ask no dream, no prophet ecstasies;
No sudden rending of the veil of clay;
No angel visitants, no opening skies.
But take the dimness of my soul away.

Hast Thou not bid me love thee, God and King?
All, all thine own, soul, heart and strength and mind.
I see Thy cross; there teach my heart to cling.
O let me seek Thee, and O let me find.

Teach me to feel that Thou art always nigh;
Teach me the struggles of the soul to bear.
To check the rising doubt, the rebel sigh,
Teach me the patience of unanswered prayer.

Teach me to love Thee as Thine angels love,
One holy passion filling all my frame;
The kindling of the heaven-descended Dove,
my heart an altar, and Thy love the flame.

Making Sense of the Health Care Bill

2010-03-23T08:57:00.000-04:00

Here’s what it sounds like the Health Care Bill will do for me, which is all that matters, right?

I will live forever. Medical attention for all my health needs is my right, guaranteed by the Constitution and my President. Whenever I get sick, I can go to the doctor, and I don’t have to worry about who will pay the bill. The older I get, the sicker I get, doesn’t really matter. As long as I stay out of unstoppable automobiles and avoid very heavy objects dropping on my head, I will always be able to be fixed. I have a healer, and his name is Obama.
In the unlikely event that I die, it will be because my government thinks it is time to go. I’m glad to be relieved of this decision, because it’s getting more complicated. Since the government has guaranteed my health, and since nearly everyone can be kept alive for a long, long time, it makes sense that at some point someone has to decide that my time is up. Time to pull the plug, disconnect the machines, and say goodbye to the best health care in the world.
In the next three or four years, my country will give me everything I need to be well, and it’s all free. So in the next couple of years I’m going to meet my doctor. I imagine that he and I will become pretty good friends, since I plan on visiting him once or twice a month. Since it’s not going to cost me anything, apparently, I may as well get my money’s worth.
After three or four years, expenses for this whole thing begin to hit home. But by that time, it will be my kids, and then their kids, who will be paying for it. I’ll be close to retirement. I really like the way these laws work—you get all the wonderful benefits for several years before the actual costs begin to come due. It makes the whole thing seem almost—affordable.
Since the government will be paying for my health, they have built into the law a lot of provisions for keeping me healthy. For instance, from now on all chain restaurants have to include calorie counts on their menus. And we’ve heard, “As goes New York, so goes the nation,” so soon all salt, fat, sugar, and refined white flour—basically everything that tastes good—will no longer be available, because the government wants us healthy. Even though this sounds like a bad thing, I’m happy about it. I’ve never really been successful at self-control, so letting the government control me might work out.
Taking that idea to its logical conclusion (this is all very logical, right?) it seems to me since the government wants me to be healthy, and since the doctor is free, he could write me a prescription for a health club membership, and it would be covered by the government. I hear they have really nice hot tubs and saunas at health clubs. And smoothies. I love smoothies.

Anyway, that’s what I’m picking up about this whole thing. All I can say is – thanks for the bennies! I love America!

Grandma Tales

2010-02-15T13:42:00.000-05:00

I'm this close to turning this blog into an emotional trading post.

Got to tell this story:

Yesterday, in the midst of a birthday celebration, with wrapping paper flying around the room, my brother Bob called from Montana to talk to Grandma.

"Hello, Bensons."
"Hey bro, what's up?"
"Nothing much. We're celebrating."

Same verbose chit-chat typical of the Benson species.

"So what is The Mom up to?"

When Robert asks this question, always the same, I answer with an outrageous lie. Different lie every time.

"Last time I checked we had her cleaning toilets. Let me go see if she's done."

Grandma B. is 91. She hasn't cleaned a toilet in a decade.

So I hand Grandma the phone. At exactly the same time, she says, "My ear went out."

Her "ears" are hearing aids, since her God-given ones just don't cut it anymore. The new ears take batteries. The batteries last about ten days, then they're out. So grandma takes out one of her ears and hands it to me at the same time I'm handing her the phone. She puts the phone to her ear--the real ear--but the one now sans an aid.

(We've had this struggle before. A while ago one of Grandma's "ears" went belly-up, and she had to go with one hearing aid for weeks. But she could not break the habit of holding the receiver of her phone to the wrong ear. Many people hung up on her because they thought she was being rude. She probably was, but she had a good excuse - she couldn't hear a lick).

"Bob?" she said into the phone, but she heard no response.

I took the phone and put it to the other ear--the good one. Immediately, by force of habit, or magnetism, or stubborn will, she put the phone to the opposite, hearing-disabled ear. And she held the phone upside down, meaning the part-you-talk-in was on her bad ear, and the part-you-hear-from was on her mouth.

I took the phone again, turned it around, and put it to her good ear. "Bob?" she said.

And then like a flash, she put the phone back to the bad ear. "Bob?" She continued to call, turning the phone every which way. "Bob?"

As she fiddled with it, and the rest of the family tried to help her, I scrambled to replace the battery--an itsy bitsy little steel pod that would be hard for anyone to put into place, much less a geriatric. I finally got it into the hearing aid, and gave it back to Grandma. She handed me the phone, having yet to make contact with Bob.

He wasn't on the line. In all the phone handling, we had hung up on him.

So we got the battery changed, the ear (manufactured) back into the ear (flesh), and started to resume family activities as we waited for Bob to call again. Grandma continued to fiddle with her ears (all of them).

She had her hand up to the ear that had been re-powered, and out of the blue she called out, "Bob? Bob, are you there?" She did not have the phone. She was calling into her hand. "Bob?"

One of the side effects of being hard of hearing and a little dazed and confused because of old age is that you don't always get what people are laughing about. Grandma's family was rolling on the floor laughing. She just smiled, lowered her phone -- hand -- to her side, and waited for it to ring.

Getting It Out There

2009-12-08T15:23:00.000-05:00

OK. So you're sitting with a friend.

"Hey, I've got this great idea," he says.

"Wait. I've got an idea, too," says you.

"Shut up," he says. "Listen! Here's my idea: We should . . ."

"No! Let me say what my idea is, because I'm sure I've got the same idea as you!"

And you do. And it is.

Today I read one page of a book. And I wanted to shout, "No! Let me say what my ideas are, because I'm sure I've got the same ideas as you!"

So I will. I haven't read another paragraph. I want to get my ideas out here first. Then we'll see if we're cutting the same wave.

I've had these ideas swimming around in my head for a while. They've actually been percolating, like no-knead bread dough, between my ears for years. I'm not sure about them, and I don't know what to do with them exactly, but here they are, in no particular order.

Doing church cannot be programmed.
When programming is successful the first time, it is because somebody was listening and following the directions of the Head.
Our world, with its vast cultures and needs, cannot be served best by lock-step application of any one master plan.
When successful programming is bottled up like moonshine and sold around to other churches, it loses it's punch and becomes an impotent representation of the original.
The further away the programming gets from the still in which it originated, the less powerful it gets until it is watered down to zero.
You cannot use a template and think that God will produce the same results each time it is used in every place it is used for all time. Each place God shows up needs its own MO, crafted by a clever Holy Spirit, and given power by the Head.
Our job is not to superimpose our plans, dreams, visions, on God. Our job is to listen, brew, and jump.
The work of doing church cannot be localized in one person, or a team of people. Trust needs to be fostered to enable everyone to go where the Spirit is leading.
Buzz words, trendy orchestrations, cute marketing schemes, and academic theological tendenz can't take the place of surrender and waiting.

Now I will read the rest of the book. We'll see if I'm right.

The Prisoner, Night Two, Episodes Three and Four

2009-11-17T10:57:00.001-05:00

OK. We're in the middle of the mess. Confusion abounds. Questions spin. Random thoughts on blog:

I've got to get this off my chest, or it's just going to keep bugging me. I am sick, sick, sick, of the Palm Pre Red Head. My vow: Even if it is given to me, I will never, ever use a Palm Pre. They've taken mind control, manipulation, and brain washing to all new levels. How many times does it take to completely turn me off from your product? Ten? Twenty? ENOUGH!
On with the show - They've got us right where they want us. If the first two installments added confusion on confusion, these middle two multiplied it. Holes in the ground. Colored pills. And what is happening in The Clinic?
Seems like for any media to be au courant these days, it has to include a gay storyline. Necessary? Elemental to the plot?
If you're watching the mini-series, and if you're expecting to get all the loose ends tied up tonight, lower your expectations. They might tie them up, but it will be in a knot so thoroughly tight you'll pick at it for years without pulling the strands apart.
I loved the way they brought in the rotating Twos from the original series, and the explanation about Number One.
The connections between Six's real life and his Village life is getting blurred, which leads me to a possible "dream" solution which would be A COMPLETE BETRAYAL OF THE VIEWER! DON'T DO IT! CLICHE CITY!
But I will keep watching. Like any good novel, it's in the middle that chaos reigns.
Significant pointing to cult processes: Two's "humility" compared to "One," the manipulation of love, (broken heart), the strategic control of memory.
My son, Jeremy, who is watching with me, noticed that in the original the clothes were standardized and no drinking was allowed in the Village, but in the new version, drinking seems part of the charade, and people appear to wear what they want. Not only that, but the whole underground, nightclub scene is an interesting, albeit seedy, addition. Does that whole culture exist at the will of Two? (Or One?). Or is it tolerated for the sake of exploitation?

So far, 4.5 out of 5. Tonight's bowl of serial may tip it over. (Or if it's a dream, WILL NET A ZERO!).

The Prisoner - Post-Premiere Thoughts

2009-11-16T09:10:00.004-05:00

I cut my story teeth on The Prisoner . By the time I watched it I was in high school, and while the political allusions failed to sink in at all, (my son Jeremy caught the implications) the story caught my attention. Here are some reasons why:

Unanswered Questions. Here's some background: I was not a student. I was a socialite. My literary experience was slim, at best. I'd slogged through The Hobbit, just because a friend thought it was hip. Up to that point, my literature was confined to assigned reading from a small-town high school in the conservative west, and further limited by my academic philosophy--squeeking by with a C or D. SRA (this will date you!) was how I liked to read: short short stories, quick and to the point, with an easy little test at the end. And the stories had a beginning, middle, and end, and the end tied up all the loose ones. Not so, The Prisoner. The show did not answer all my questions. In fact, just the opposite; the longer I watched the more questions I had. I would have considered this unsatisfying before, and downright rude to the watcher, but The Prisoner taught me to enjoy--relish--the ambiguity and mystery. I discovered that not knowing was as stimulating as knowing. I have used this in my speaking and writing.
Literary Claustrophobia. Part of the unsettling nuance of The Prisoner was the island. In many ways idyllic, it also served as the malevolent force working not behind the scenes, but inhabiting the scenes!
The Bubbles of Doom. Sheer terror. I had nightmares about the big white bubbles. How very clever of the screenwriters to use something that might fascinate a child as the rabid yard dog guards of the island.
Rotating Number Two. This was a frustrating device, but it worked to stir the intrigue.

And now comes the new Prisoner. Older now, I can see the political/cultural messages. They're more real than ever, what with video cameras on every corner and cell phones that (I wonder) may secretly be "on" all the time. Once when a thief snagged our credit card, we were able within minutes to know where he was and what he was buying. There is a camera mounted on a tower in Saginaw Township that can see up to two miles in any direction, and can zoom in to catch a license plate or a face. The island is here; the prisoner is us.

I can also see spiritual connections. I am a pastor--I think that way. As in The Matrix, reality is not all it's cracked up to be, and there is a better thing off-shore that features freedom. Prisoner details the life of legalism--it is easy, nice, comfortable. As long as you conform.

You want a review of the new Prisoner? I like it. I think the changes offer huge potential. The terror is still there (I didn't have nightmares, but it was in my dreams). What really stuck with me last night, though, was the shaky platform of memory. Number Six is falling into the trap of memory. It's tenuous. It can be manipulated. And I will write more on that theme tomorrow. If I remember.

BTW: If you missed the premiere, don't worry. AMC will repeat it, and if you have On-Demand, you can watch it anytime. Meanwhile, let me know what you think.

I Want My Coke Glass

2009-11-11T20:46:00.001-05:00

The innovative franchisees of McDonalds in the Tri-Cities of Mid-Michigan thought it would be clever marketing if they DID NOT participate in the national Coke Glass give away, wherein an old-fashioned Coca-Cola glass (real glass!) can be had with the purchase of a super-sized Value Meal.

I guess they thought they would make more money if I decided to go to Taco Bell instead.

Do churches ever do the same?

Top Ten or Eleven Things I Liked About Writing at the Ranch

2009-11-09T22:00:00.000-05:00

I just got back from an adventure in the red rocks of New Mexico. CLASSeminars sponsored the CLASS Christian Writers Conference at Ghost Ranch, about an hour northwest of Santa Fe. I was privileged and humbled to be part of the teaching team, and to serve as chaplain (although I was never quite clear on the job description). I love Christian writers conferences, because they're Christian, (although I might like one of the non--- varieties if I ever tried one), because they're about writing, and because they're con-ferences.

This one was the best ever. Why? To squeeze content through the way-over-used top ten list, here it is:

Seeing friends I only see once a year. I need to see them more.
Exposing new writers to the conference scene, and gently helping them adjust their expectations. (Hello, On-Rampers!)
Worshiping (on congas!) with people who love Jesus.
Praying with people who are feeling the emotion of acceptance and rejection, either one of which drives us to God.
Location. Location. Location.
Teaching with my best writer friend, Lee Warren.
New Mexican food! Oh, the posole! Pork stew with green chilis and hominy! Oh man.
Finding a small cadre of mad writers who see things through the same warped lens as me. Big shout out to Sherry and Bill and Aaron and all the rest of y'all!
The wild life. Mule deer haunting the fields at night. La cucaracha - a big, black, satanic cockroach that lurked near the light switch in the bathroom, making every late-night toilet expedition an exercise in paranoia. And Legion--the rodent horde of mice who scurried into my room at night to clean the floors. They not only chewed up the crackers, but they ate soap, drank Nyquil, attempted a take-over of the trash can, and left myriads of small black gifts behind. (Oh wait, this was the top ten reasons why I LIKED this conference!)
Seeing God in the background, working his great stuff. I don't know why, and it may be a liability, but I often don't see the BIG DEAL spiritual things--the on-stage moments--that others do. But I tend to be powerfully aware of God moving and shaking in the wings. I love him for that.
Coming home.

Thank you to all of you who prayed. These conferences are just not about me anymore. Sure, I pitched stuff, but it's all up to God's clever operations. Tomorrow I'll be back at the greatest church, digging in to all the good going on there. Life is full. God is good.

Lord, Save Us - Review Rips

2009-10-06T09:20:00.004-04:00

Although I can't advocate a movie I haven't seen, I've seen enough of this one to be urging you to get to it if you can. (I can't yet - it's only in limited release). Here's a link for the website, where you can look at clips and read reviews. Or watch the trailer below. Here are several rips from various reviews:

“Heartfelt...an effective call for greater understanding.” Los Angeles Times

“Admirably bold…It would take a hard heart indeed not to be moved.” Variety

“The overarching message is desperately needed and winsomely voiced. Most impressive is that this film manages to speak to two separate audiences at the same time.” Christianity Today

“(a) fascinating and powerful documentary…see it sooner rather than later.” Seattle Gay News

“Major points for the great liberal/conservative Family Feud experiment…and what an ending!” Instinct magazine

“…an entertaining, humorous and inspiring documentary.” About.com

“…fair, positive, and non-judgmental…a potent combination of conviction, empathy, and redemption. The laughter makes the lessons linger. Challenging and thought-provoking, Lord, Save Us is a witty whirlwind.” Crosswalk.com

“Provocative, funny, and redemptive. I laughed and I cried. I can’t remember the last time I was so moved by a movie.” Michael Hyatt, Leading With Purpose blog.

New Article!

2009-09-03T08:55:00.003-04:00

Hey all - A new article just appeared in the Sept/Oct edition of Plain Truth Magazine. Tricked Out Confession concerns the legalism that can creep into our repentance protocol. Give it a read and let me know what you think. http://www.ptm.org/ptMag_fS.htm

Also - while you're at the Plain Truth site, sign up for a FREE YEAR of the hard copy version! Give a donation if you can! And pray for the safety of the ministry - they're close to the fires in S.Cal.

Six Reasons to Love Baptisms

2009-07-27T12:02:00.004-04:00

Baptizing people has always been on the top of my list for pastoral duties, but doing it in a public lake is even better. Yesterday Grace Christian Fellowship braved rough weather to celebrate a dunking at Haithco Park in Saginaw, and it was great. Here are six reasons baptisms flip my switch:

The excitement of going public. Even grouping up as a church on a public beach causes a scene, and there is a certain thrill in the outing of our faith.
The awkwardness of the moment. Let's face it, the whole experience borders on the odd: a man grabs a person by the neck and arms and offers some ritual words and plunges them backward into the water and pulls them out again and everybody cheers. It's weird, and it's weirder out in the middle of the world. And that makes it specialer. (If I can use "weirder," I can use "specialer").
The display of new faith. Most of the time a baptism happens because somebody has recently given themselves whole hog to Jesus. It is exhilarating.
Joy, joy, and joy.
The visible expression of real grace. Communion is a quiet, usually somber time to reflect on the cost of grace, but baptism punches all the celebration buttons; invite the family, your neighbors, bring out the food, splash in the water, make some noise, and PARTY! It is an earthly reflection of the heavenly party that happens when God redeems one of his own. (See Luke 15)
It's flat-out contagious. Baptism sparkles up the reality of grace in real time, and the bubbles spread around like champaign to tickle spiritual noses all over the place.

2009-07-01T19:31:00.001-04:00

Home: A Novel by Marilynne Robinson

My review

rating: 5 of 5 stars
The whole idea that theology -- the study of God -- can be systematized seems more ludicrous to me all the time. Yes, I believe that God can be understood rationally. I believe that every part of himself that he chooses to reveal to us is provided in good faith, and is comprehendible to anyone who will allow belief. I believe that we can analyze it, study it, write about it, etc. What fails for me is the leap between this kind of academic study into the real lives of people who, honestly, have no ken to dabble in the drudgery of high-flung theological abstracts; they just want to know if Aunt Liz is headed for heaven or hell.

So - thank God for Marilynn Robinson and her ilk. Daring to take deep theological truths, and the debate thereon, and fit them into a powerful character study is courage, plain and simple.

In "Home," Robinson enjoins the topic of predestination. (YES! That's what I said!). She crafts her story with subtle, fleshy characters who defy the reader to love them. Glory, the primary POV in the book, questions God's planning for her life, especially bemoaning her fatalistic return to the rural Iowa town of Gilead. The appearance of her brother, Jack, complicates life for her, but in the same season provides joy and purpose to answer her loneliness.

Driving and stirring the story, the Rev. John Boughton serves as provocateur and theological thorn in the sandal. From his bed, his chair, and his patriarchal perch, Papa Boughton uses a prodding needle of love and guilt and applies it to the touch-points of the families' history.

Every family has a prodigal. Like Aunt Liz. What we want to know about her is not going to be answered in a textbook. It will be answered in the tug and pull of life. And, like "Home," firm and hard answers are not always provided. But the learning is in the living.

Robinson's writing is powerful and gentle. You don't need to have read "Gilead" prior to reading "Home," but it wouldn't be a bad idea.

View all my reviews.

Chip MacGregor's Bad Poetry Contest Lava Lamp Major Award Pics

2009-06-03T21:17:00.004-04:00

Here are pics of me and the lamp. It's real, folks.

Out of the box, it looked like maybe Chip had sent a bottle of -- Neuvo-Guinness?

"Some assembly required," and then - mesmerization! Thanks, Chip!

Whoa

2009-06-02T20:38:00.004-04:00

Had a car towed this morning to George's, and the tow truck driver told me stories.

He works for the Thomas Township Volunteer Fire Department. He told me he was one of the first on the scene at my house when a car went airborne and - he said - hit the roof of our house. He said it was a 16 year old, with two passengers, in a car he had just been given for his birthday. The two passengers survived with relatively minor injuries, but the driver died. As the truck operator put it, "He died on top of your house."

OK.

When Jon first started making friends at school one of his classmates said "Oh. You live in that house where somebody took out the garage." We had noticed some new framing around the newer-looking door - 2X4s looked fresh.

I queried the tow truck driver about the facts: Did the gas main on the corner of the garage get hit? Where did the car land? How was the garage damaged? How did the car drive into the garage and not hit the huge pine tree in front? Who was the kid?

He said the gas was not damaged because the car flew higher than the main. He said the car finally landed between the light post and the front door. He said the entire front of the garage was history, (and I assumed the roof was, too). He said the out-of-control car traveled between the neighbor's house and the tree. He said the kid attended Heritage High.

Whoa.

I told Linda, and then the rest of the "at-home" family at dinner, and we speculated on how it could possibly have happened. How did the car get airborne? How did it manage to wind between the tree and the neighbor's wall? How did it flip from the roof onto the front yard? We scanned the front yard, the spaces and the clearings, potential launches and evidence of damage.

Jeremy got online and discovered some answers. The car was brand new. The young man was beloved. The pictures show the roof of the garage unharmed - the car had not flown that high. But it did fly. The driver was traveling at 110 mph, lost control, skidded accross two lawns before lobbing from the small hill on the side of the house and catching air into the garage door, then bouncing off the front bricks and landing upside down on the lawn. The driver died instantly. One passenger was airlifted for severe facial injuries. The other passenger was able to walk away.

Don't drive fast.

Read a memorial here. Watch a memorial video here.

Robins

2009-05-23T20:30:00.003-04:00

The robin chicks took turns leaving the nest today. I'm not sure it was intentional.

The third one to hop into the world took a dive from the nest, located on our side porch, and into the neighbor's peonies. The peonies probably saved its neck--it was headed straight into the brick wall. If it flew any better it would have had the loft to clear the peonies but not the neighbor's house. It'd have smacked it head on.

The robin mom and dad were apoplectic. They screamed and squawked. They attacked anything that looked remotely like a predator. They hovered for hours, obviously not trusting the capacity of their young to handle themselves in the world outside the nest. And they were right to be that way--anything could happen. Cats, dogs (it's a good thing Buster is blind and deaf--he posed no threat), bigger birds, brick walls--lethal threats lurked behind every corner and flew in the sky.

As the birds hopped around the yard, they grew further apart, driving the parents into a frenzy. The adult birds tried to corral the chicks, but they couldn't be everywhere at once, and when they paid attention to one, the other two would be moving independently, often away.

One robin--the last holdout--stretched its legs at the edge of the nest facing the peonies and wall. The chick is still there, pondering the risk. I wonder, when it launches into thin air, if the red-breasted dad will hold his breath; if the mom will cry. According to the people who study these things, only 25% of young robins survive the first year.

No wonder the parents are freaked. I know the feeling. It's a big scary world out there, and I am more than willing to build a bigger nest and continue the supply of worms.

For the Lazy - The Bad Poem

2009-05-13T08:21:00.002-04:00

OK. For those of you too lazy to move your finger and settle your cursor over the link and push down, here's the poem. It's really bad, so please don't send me your complaints about stomach pain, nausea, cramps, or that woozy feeling. I warned you; now you're on your own. I will publish my acceptance speech tomorrow.

The Fish I Didn’t Catch

Walleye eludes me.

Slimy catfish, full of industrial toxins, jump at my lures.

Sucker carp, all bulging doleful eyes and slate brick scales, raise their fins to beg,

“Catch me! Catch me!”

A bluegill also volunteers itself. Surrenders to my will.

But my heart is not satisfied.

Walleye eludes me.

Why, oh why did I pay ten dollars

to register for the Freeland Walleye Festival Fishing Tournament?

Why, oh why did it rain all day that Friday?

Why, oh why did my nightcrawlers overheat in the car window,

congealing into a mass of gray flesh,

taunting me with their lifeless forms,

laughing from their Purgatory of worms?

Walleye eludes me.

My wife says, “Curse the walleye and die!”

But I’ve spent too much already.

The license

The rod and reel

The tackle and the box to hold it

The really, really big boat

I must fight on. I must endure. I must be victorious. I must.

Others pass by on the right and on the left.

They hoist their larder high, rubbing it in my face.

“They’re biting tonight!” they shout.

“You can catch ‘em in your hands!” they scream.

“My two-year-old caught a ten pounder!” one large round specimen brags.

I fantasize about big hooks and big poles.

Big stinky fishermen being landed with big nets,

De-scaled, gutted, coated with corn meal and fried delicately.

Walleye eludes me.

I'm a Really Bad Poet!

2009-05-12T09:17:00.002-04:00

I won Chip MacGregor's Annual Bad Poetry Contest!

Chip, a respected literary agent, hosts the competition every year on his birthday. On a lark I wrote what was on my heart - a poem about fishing. And it was bad enough to win.

As I was reading Chip's blog today, reading through the competitor's horrible work, I came to fifth place, Don Juan of Motor City, and I thought to myself -- no way I can be worse than this! But I was!

Here's where the contest starts. (Entries are in the Comments. Be sure and click on the little tiny arrow at the bottom to see all the pages of Comments.)

Here's where it continues.

Here's the announcement of the winners, including my acceptance speech.

I'm supposed to get a lava lamp as a prize. Woot!

If you'd like to read good poetry instead, check out my son Jeremy's viral blog - The Aloha Project - easily one of the classiest blogs out there. If you like good poetry and artistic expression on post cards, send the link to all your friends. If you write good poetry and like to make post cards, send in an entry.

Idol Results

2009-05-07T08:12:00.002-04:00

And so it is. This is the best final three ever. Each of them could win. Here's how:

- Danny: He's got to pull out all he's got and leave it on the stage. Make us laugh and cry.

- Adam: He's got to go "non-Adam"--he's gotten predictable in his unpredictability. He needs to do a folk ballad and make it stick.

- Chris: Must take it up the next notch--he's moved a few rungs on that ladder each week, so if he just keeps moving up, he'll make it.

American Idol

2009-05-06T08:49:00.002-04:00

Idol Last Night: I don't often disagree with the judges, especially Simon. But last night I think they got it completely wrong. First, everyone assumed it was Adam's night. I think his performance was everything everyone expected it would be. It sounded just like Led Zeppelin. So? We all knew he could do this. There's nothing special about it. Nothing really new in his rendition. No surprises. No shocking change-up. Just what we knew he could do. So why all the raging about how perfect it was?

Ditto with Alison, although she was still shy of great because she's not comfortable with the whole thing.

For Chris and Danny - the condescension of the judges was pathetic! "We know that this kind of music is not your thing . . ." Please! These guys are great, and they rocked. They both picked perfect songs for them, and they brought origniality and novelty to their performances that the other two didn't. Alison sounded like Janis, Adam sounded like LZ. Who did Chirs sound like? The Beatles? NO! He sounded like Chris! Did Danny mimic Aerosmith? NO! He made that last scream all his own, like it should be, and Simon blasted him for it.

I've never considered the judges on AI guilty of an attempt to sway the audience voting. Until last night. I think Chris or Danny should win it all.

So now you know it - I'm an American Idol nut. So? You wanna make something of it? Good clean TV. Hard to find.

What We Should Do

2009-04-30T09:17:00.000-04:00

Every once in a while I encounter something I think THE CHURCH should be doing. Most of the time, it's not THE CHURCH doing it. When I first watched "Extreme Makeover, Home Edition" I immediately said, as I was crying, "This is what THE CHURCH should be doing!" When heard about Ashton Kutcher, Twitter, and the UN Foundation's Nothing but Net Campagin raising funds for the purchase and distribution of mosquito nets to refugees in Africa, I said, "Why isn't THE CHURCH doing this?"

Today I saw this video. And I asked the question again. What do you think?

Grace

2009-04-16T08:56:00.002-04:00

I'm getting on this bandwagon. Hope, grace, encouragement. I needed to watch this today. Maybe you do to.

Catch this YouTube. If you're not weeping in 30 seconds you've got a heart of stone.

The Aloha Project

2009-04-01T08:48:00.002-04:00

Today begins National Poetry Month. My son is a poet. He's celebrating with a special blog - The Aloha Project - with daily visual art and poetry. He encourages you to send him a greeting for the Grand HooHaw event.

Going to be good.

Hallmark -- take note.

Super Bowl Morality

2009-02-05T09:03:00.003-05:00

When a church shows the SB on a big screen and makes a party out of it, what do you do with the skanky commercials?

It bugs me that the SB power-markets to kids (showing the new Monsters preview in 3D) while at the same time using in-your-face sexuality to sell web space, something kids won't be buying. So what's a church to do?

- Turn off the feed during each commercial break. The problem here is that the commercials are at least half of the appeal. For non-football people, the game is just plain boring most of the time. The commercials are hilarious and fun and certainly a core part of the whole SB package.

- Turn off the feed when something bad pops up." This is fine as long as we're all agreed about the definition of "bad." Is bad a racy image, a suggestive phrase, a beer or liquor promotion, a pitch for a credit card you can't afford? There are some who consider an ad for a hamburger immoral, since you have to kill an animal to eat it, and if you do eat it you'll die from high colesterol. And this solution only works if the person on the switch is quick of finger and paying attention.

- Divide and conquer. You could have a room marked "XXX Adults Only!" and show the uncensored version in there, while the rest watch the SB sans any commercials. Better make it a big room.

- Leave it to the wise, understanding, and tasteful people at the networks. After all, they know what's best for all of us. It's a matter of trust.

- Lobby the industry to put two versions of the SB on the air, using their cable franchises. This is not a bad idea. They could actually sell twice the commercial slots, and one version could be "family friendly." Why haven't they thought of this?

- Don't have a Super Bowl party at church. This is an answer that works, actually. People can host SB parties and decide for themselves what they want to do about the commercials.

What do you think?

Safe After All

2009-01-17T21:28:00.002-05:00

Entering the 10 Freeway off the 75 in Bay City today, Linda spun the Big White 180 on the snowy roads, and the car behind struck her on the front driver's side. She banged her head, her neck hurts, and her shoulder aches. But she is OK.

Naturally, we just dropped the collision on Big White about a month ago to save $$. The front grill is destroyed, the driver's side body above the front wheel is bent up, and the headlight is scratch. I'm hoping to repair the headlight to make it all legal, but that's all.

I'm thanking God for a big heavy car that took the damage instead of my wife.

Sitting Here

2009-01-16T08:28:00.003-05:00

It is -3 degrees. On January 16 the sun rises at just the right spot so that, sitting here at 3550 N. River Road, the first rays of light shine direct on the first new ice of the Tittabawassee. Everything else waits for the brilliance, but straight down the river, tracing its course at least for a quarter mile, the dawn falls only on the frozen water, like it was planned. It's dazzling.

A fox, red and bold, chases the beams. How does he live in this sub-zero environment? It must be the sun.

White Stuff Revisited

2009-01-14T08:46:00.002-05:00

Grace=Jeremy with a shovel.

Living at home when you're out of college may be hard for the kids, but it has advantages for the parents. Not only do driveways get shovelled, but having another person around to laugh with, to swap Grandma stories with, and to coerce (someday?) to watch Camelot all the way through -- it's good. I know it won't last forever.

White Stuff

2009-01-13T09:57:00.002-05:00

Out my window another four inches waits. Down south at our city cottage over a foot of accumulated stuff is expected by Thursday. It all patiently sits, anxious for a shovel.

Grace=snow blower.

Tuesday

2009-01-05T08:54:00.005-05:00

n I miss a day. It's just a blog.

Here's something:

The latest issue of Plain Truth magazine included this delightful letter, written in response to my article published therein: Hooked on Religion --

"Please cancel my subscription to your magazine. I am grieved at how you and your writers poke fun at the churches. Who takes care of the widows and the elderly and the sick? It was my church who helped me, comforted me and prayed with me these twenty-five years since my husband died. I used to like your articles, but this one by Ron Benson [July/August 2008] is so hurtful to faithful churchgoers. I’m 77 years old and the church still stands—it will until Jesus returns!" Missouri

It's uncomfortable when widows don't like me.

I understand Missouri's feelings. When someone points to the very things that seem to hold life together for you (in this case, religious practices of protestant churches), and makes jokes about them, it can seem insensitive and cause some pain. Believe me when I say I've known a lot of Missouris in my life, and I don't relish making them uncomfortable. I care about them.

However, (you had to know that was coming), when religious practices stand in the way of knowing Christ, when the human structures of cultural holiness take the place of relationship, when the outside is considered more important than the inside, it's necessary to point it out. For me, humor is the more gentle approach. I could rant and rave, but I don't think anyone would pay attention.

So here's my word to Missouri: Dear friend, we agree on this--the Church will stand. But it will do so in spite of, not because of, our frail human efforts to erect legalistic scaffolding around it. There is an archetect and builder who has agreed to handle church building, if we'll let him.

And if you'll let me, I'll take your hand and we can look together at the things that we sometimes use to prop up the church, and together we can begin to take them down so that he can have room to do his work.

Monday Musings

2009-01-05T08:12:00.003-05:00

ive to make the entries fun, endearing, well-written, and short.

4. I will allow myself to skip Sundays. (I added this because I skipped yesterday.)

5. I won't take a knife to body parts whe

(to be continued no doubt, but first this:)

I was impressed in October when New Mexico governor Bill Richardson flew coach on my plane -- twice.

I was returning from his state, and he was making his way to mine. I caught sight of him in the terminal in Albuquerque (why is it so hard to type that name?). He was dressed in jeans, had a scraggly beard, had a few friends with him who were also dressed not to impress, and a few other of his "friends" placed themselves strategically around the gate area, armed and ready to defend, I'm guessing.

Since I recognized the governor before my writing friends at the airport saw him, I name-dropped. "Hey -- do you know who that is?" I whispered.

"Not a clue."

"That's Bill Richardson, the Governor of New Mexico!!" Impressive, my connections. I'm thinking he heard me, but he didn't let on. For whatever reason, Governor Bill did not recognize me.

We tried not to stare, tried to act casual, tried not to draw the attention of the Governor's friends with weapons in their pants.

He and his crew boarded the plane first, but it pleased me that he did not get on the plane secretly, and that he was flying commercial, and that he was flying an airline (Frontier) that did not even have first class accommodations. As I stumbled down the narrow fuselage to find my seat, I passed him. He was sitting on the aisle. I think my laptop case brushed his shoulder. I smiled at him, trying to communicate with my eyes that I was impressed by his thrift, his integrity. He didn't look up.

I don't recall where we made the connection, but I was further impressed that the route Governor Richardson chose was not a direct flight. He disembarked my plane and boarded the next one, sharing another leg of the trip with me. We landed together in Detroit just before midnight.

I am not a Democrat or the son of a Democrat. But I thought, I could respect a guy who flies coach.

Today we learn that Governor Richardson has pulled out of the appointment as Commerce Secretary in President-elect Obama's cabinet due to an ongoing investigation into campaign finance shenanigans. One smells the scent of scandal.

I wish we could all be consistent with our integrity.

As far as Resolutions go, this is a record!

2009-01-03T11:27:00.002-05:00

he following:

I will add the Blogger Dashboard to my "Daily" group, which opens 20 (now 21) websites automatically with Google Chrome (a great Internet Explorer alternative, BTW).
I will broaden the narrow confines of what I thought Grace Clinic should be about (Grace) and just write about whatever comes to mind (the original intent of this blog). I'm sure grace will come to the top of the stew, since it's always on the mind I hope God uses to write this stuff.
I will str

Day Two: Success!

2009-01-02T11:44:00.001-05:00

ery single day. In order to ensure my success with this resolution, I will do t

New Year's Resolution

2009-01-01T17:44:00.002-05:00

My first New Year's Resolution for 2009:

I will write something on this blog ev

Hope College Noro-Virus Simulation

2008-11-11T08:37:00.003-05:00

My son's Junior year at Hope College in Holland, Michigan was interupted last Friday when the Ottowa County Board of Health closed the school because of a noro-virus outbreak. Some friends from our area were visiting the college that day and gave Gary a lift home, where he has stayed noro-free--for which we are inexpressibly grateful! In his spare time waiting for the re-opening of campus, he threw together a little computer expression of the contagion.

You can find it for download here: http://www.bensonbasement.com/misc/hope-college-norovirus-simulator/#comments.

Follow the directions to run the simulation. It should take about a minute to run. (Remember: the programmer is in college).

Feeling the Glo

2008-10-27T17:09:00.002-04:00

I pulled into my driveway this morning at 2:30 a.m. after eight busy days, most of them spent at Glorieta Christian Writers Conference. I'm tired, but it's a good weariness--like after a backpacking trip, or raking the leaves.

One of the things that kept me going through the week was the enthusiasm of On-Ramp participants. This group of first-timers attended the pre-conference session taught by me and my friend Lee Warren, and all week long the group was excited to learn, to pitch, to soak up everything they could about the business and craft of writing. They spread the contagion around liberally, and I caught it.

I have much more to write about, a lot to ponder, and work to do. (There's always work to do after a writers conference). For those of you who prayed for my week, thanks. Your prayers were answered.

# 6172

2008-10-20T23:37:00.003-04:00

I did the Detroit Marathon yesterday.

Now I hurt. My legs are sore. My feet feel like they have bone spurs at all the wrong places. I have a sunburn. My hands are red and wounded, my fingers are bleeding.

But it was all worth it. Because yesterday my daughter April actually RAN in the marathon, finished in just over five hours, and although she is stiff, she is probably less immobilized than her father, who only walked enough to find a place to set up his folding chair so he could see her run by a few times. April ran 26.2 miles. I putted around Detroit, probably racking up a mile or two, and I'm in pain. What's wrong with this picture?

My hands are a mess because of the clapping. Linda, Jon, and I clapped hard for April everytime we saw her run by. We also yelled, screamed, and Linda passed bananas along like relay batons. But before and after April swept past, there were other nameless runners in various stages of utter fatigue, running their hearts out, some quite literally, and we offered encouragement. It was the most fun I've had in a while.

There are so many lessons here; you'll probably hear them in a sermon or read them in an article, so I won't go into the details. But if you ever get a chance, go stand on the sidelines of a marathon some morning. Go with the express purpose of cheering some runner on to the finish line. See if it doesn't just make your day.

And a word for my daughter: You are simply amazing. I honor your committment and determination and endurance and stubborn will to see a thing through and turn around and say, "See? I did it!" Way to go, Ape.

Another Challenge

2008-10-18T12:06:00.002-04:00

One post every six months. I'm going to try to break that pattern!

Here are a couple things to pray about:

I'm teaching at Glorieta Christian Writers Conference this year. My writing friend, Lee Warren, and I will be doing something new--a pre-conference called On-Ramp designed for writers conference rookies. I'm excited about the prospect of helping people get up to speed for the conference. I'll also be teaching several other classes. Please pray for a good week.

Also, our Royal Oak house is still for sale. We are now entertaining lease options. PLEASE PRAY FOR A SALE OR LEASE! We need to get this taken care of soon. Please ask God to guide a buyer, leasee to our home. Pray that this miracle would happen in spite of the economy.

Thanks.

The Perfect Storm and the Hope for Calm

2008-06-17T08:46:00.005-04:00

Last year at this time we were aware that the waters were moving. We'd been living out God's call, Linda teaching Kindergarten in Detroit and me pursuing writing and speaking, but we sensed that a tide change was in the works. Grace Christian Fellowship was looking for a pastor and we were looking for what God had next. God placed our little boat on a collision course for the island of Grace, and we landed safe and sound, coming aground exactly where he planned.

During that time, as we sailed the sea of life, everything fell into place giving us the confidence we needed to raise the sails and follow the wind. Watching God work it all out provided assurance and peace and exhilaration. (All you Baby Boomers, cue Christopher Cross' Sailing . . . )

It's not far back to sanity

At least it's not for me

And when the wind is right you can sail away

And find serenity

The canvas can do miracles

Just you wait and see

Believe me

It was a miracle, more because of all the little miracles that piled up into a wave and washed us to Grace.

However, we didn't know it at the time, but a perfect storm was forming that would impact the big move. Recession, mortgage crisis, Michigan economy, (add your favorite depressive here), and our house in Royal Oak, MI was at the center of the confluence.

Even though we are sure that God provided our new home, and we are sure that this is where he wants us, our former house continues to languish in a flooded market. We don't have answers for the obvious question: why? If everything else worked out in amazing ways, why not this part of the story?

We don't know the answer, but I can tell you that it's another opportunity for his grace. He knows what's up, and he is the one who calms the storms, and we can trust him.

PS -- if you're looking for a great home, check it out here: http://www.realtor.com/realestate/royal+oak-mi-48073-1100403006/

Attractive Holiness

2008-03-05T12:08:00.003-05:00

Our church, Grace Christian Fellowship, has a blog called "GraceAbility." I use the blog to offer further thoughts to ponder after my Sunday sermon. I posted some thoughts over there today on whether holiness attracts or repels. I'd be interested in your comments. Check it out HERE.

Snow Tracks

2008-02-21T11:51:00.002-05:00

Since moving to Michigan in 1990, snow has been an absolute delight. In Southern California, snow was something you visited, not something that was dumped whole-hog into your back yard.

My wife will tell you that I don't like shoveling the stuff, but I will shovel if that's what comes with having free playdough available 24/7, and the slickest funfest imaginable just outside your basement doors. On a night like last, the moon eclipsed, the snow still bright with its reflection, the bare trees cast a shadow like you have never seen during spring or summer or fall.

Through this white powder the living lay their tracks--turkey, lots of turkey, and mouse and possum and weasel and chickadee. You may not actually see the animal, but you know it's been around.

God, whom to see in person is to die, leaves his tracks in the snow of our lives. If we would be careful to study and identify them, we would know he is there, even when it is hard to.

gobble

2007-12-10T14:29:00.000-05:00

Be afraid.

Wild turkeys wander through my back yard like it belongs to them. A group of six males (flock? brood? gaggle?) waddles through together, looking for chicks. A larger group of females comes a little later, gleaning for lawn bugs in the snow --I suppose they had to stay back and make the beds.

These turkeys are large: market-size. To see a couple dozen of them off your back porch through the sliding glass door, poking around for insects, each gang strutting their stuff for the other, is disquieting. They run like the velociraptors in Jurassic Park, bobbing their beaks with mysterious, brightly colored body parts wobbling, making clucky, gobbly sounds. It's not hard to imagine them pecking you to death.

So OK. Here's the worst part: Turkeys fly. THEY FLY! God save us all.

I've seen them fly over the river, so I know it's true. I thought turkeys were incapable of flight. I've been to a turkey ranch. The fences are not high. Thousands of birds eek out an existence behind the fences, kicking up dust and feathers and turkey dung all in one tight space. You'd think that just one of them would say, "OK. That's it. I'm outa here," and spread its stubby wings and take to the sky. But they don't. And I always assumed. . .

So OK. Here's the worster part: Turkeys fly up into tall trees. They "perch" there. God have mercy!

The back of my house sweeps down to riparian woodland. 30-40 foot trees grow out there on the edge of the river, and turkeys roost in them. Imagine one of those frozen turkeys in the open freezer cases at Kroger. Now imagine it with wings, sitting in a tree near your home, watching you. Not a pleasant picture.

I was gazing at the river the other day when two turkeys with great drama flew up into the trees and sat there looking at my home, scouting for small people. So I know it's true. Turkeys fly and perch in tall trees.

My new back yard is no longer the quiet refuge I thought I was getting when I bought the place. I was duped. My back yard is a breeding ground for large, bulky, eerily wattled animals with beaks who live in trees and monitor your every move.

So OK. Now I understand the whole Thanksgiving Turkey Feast thing. I'll grab the cranberry sauce and meet you at the tree line. Bring a gun and some rain gear. This could be messy.

Cone of Silence

2007-11-21T11:06:00.001-05:00

For those unexposed to great 60's comedy, here's a clip about the Cone of Silence from Get Smart.

Church

2007-10-03T11:40:00.000-04:00

Church bleeds from my veins.

Papa was a pastor, and I grew up thinking that the church building was just as much part of my home as the bathroom, although I didn't work that out in the most graphic of ways.

I recall running through the sanctuary--not on Sunday morning when it was was a sin, but on a weekday afternoon when holiness was looser. The church was like a playground to me, offering much more space than the tiny parsonage next door, and letting Mom have a few minutes of sanity whilst I roamed the property.

My brother and I used to crawl under the pews while the church pianist practiced and the room was dark. She suffered from delusions, and believed she was a former Communist, now a U.S. spy, and she knew that her previous employers would eventually hunt her down. Robert and I would sneak around making creaking noises on the floors, popping up every now and then, and trying to cough like Communists, to watch her jump from the piano bench.

Growing up a PK provides a singular perspective on the church. I have been a pastor for over twenty-five years, and serve as a pastor now. I have seen the church from the inside out.

I have observed the way a church can love a person into faith in Jesus, and I have seen how a church--even the same church--can convince a person to turn around and walk fast in the opposite direction. I can delineate the methods of subversive torture a church can use to ravage its leaders, and I can testify to the wonder of a soul restored and given hope in the midst of darkness and evil and guilt.

As a result, I have a perpetual question on my heart. I live with it every day, and although I hope it will be answered before I die, I do not anticipate that resolution. The question is this: Is the church God's agent for grace?

I want the answer to be yes.

What is your answer?

Patching

2007-09-02T10:07:00.000-04:00

I cried today. Bending over a crack in the concrete in my driveway. I blubbered up, tears rolling off my cheeks into the mortar I was fingering onto the crack to repair it. Emotion that has been boiling under the surface for weeks, months, came rolling over the edge.

Headphones were blaring the Hope College Worship Band CD, Fill the Streets, and "Praise to the Lord the Almighty, King of Creation" was playing and the sound in my ears went to a place in my heart and touched right there where the soft tissue was hiding and BINGO! I fell apart kneeling on the pavement with the Quickrete Patch bottle in my hands.

Why? I think it was these timeless words that finally found the tender place: Ponder anew what the Almighty can do, if with his love he befriend thee. It struck deep, the thought that his love has been so active in my life, and I haven't noticed. When I look behind me, I see the tracks of his love, the evidence of his work, the skill of his merciful hands.

It's his patching. The BIG CRACK in my heart, made by the years, had been repaired. That crack had kept me wary of ministry and leary of church in general, willing to avoid at any cost the ensnarements of personal contact. Could it be that while I was protecting myself, he was at work patching the breach? While I was concerned with keeping the crack away from anything that would make it worse, spread it apart further, and make it hurt more, is it possible that he was gently, faithfully filling it in with his grace?

I'm not worthy of his skill, his artistic work. My failings and weaknesses have made that crack wider, deeper. But his fingers work the mortar of his love into the gaps, and the trail left behind is a testament to his amazing ability.

I fell on the ground, hands and knees bent in humility, sobbing. I don't know if I can do this thing. I don't know if I have what it takes to be "in the ministry" again. But I know this, and will hang on to it:

Praise to the Lord, who o'er all things so wond'rously reigneth.

Shelters thee under his wings, yea, so gently sustaineth.

Hast thou not seen how thy desires e'er have been

Granted in what he ordaineth?

Grace, Indeed

2007-08-13T22:05:00.000-04:00

Yesterday I got a call from my new friend, Marty. His call confirmed the call of Grace Christian Fellowship, and the call of God. After four years, I'm heading back. I'm going to be a PASTOR again.

People have asked me how I feel about that. After all, I've been known to poke fun at the church. I delight in pointing out the grape juice stains and bread crumbs on the blouse of the Bride of Christ, and I will continue to do it.

Only now I'll do it from the inside. Of course, I'm going to be the pastor of the greatest church in the world, not because I'm there, but because Jesus is. And the truth is, Jesus can be found in quite a few churches, often in spite of their idiosyncrasies and their pastors.

God has done some "minor miracles" to get me this far. It was a little miracle that I sent my resume to any church. It was a minor miracle that my resume would garner any attention. It was a miracle that I would believe that I could be both a writer and a pastor. It was a miracle that God sent me to a church that thought it was good, even biblical, to do both.

There have been many more minor miracles, and they continue to occur; gentle nudges in the direction of Bay City/Saginaw, Michigan, where yesterday a warm, friendly, exciting congregation voted to bring in a pudgy, graying, somewhat jaded Joe as their pastor-person.

Grace, indeed.

Finally, Some News

2007-07-19T20:54:00.000-04:00

You can take a breath now. I know your breath has been baited for all this time, whatever that means, and now after long last I have something to tell.

The book has a cover! The book has my name on it! (You can almost see it under Coach's name). The book has endorsements! God is great!

Check it out here: Coach's Challenge: Faith, Football, and Filling the Father Gap.

A Movie from my Kids

2007-05-15T09:44:00.000-04:00

My sons Jeremy and Garrison, both students at Hope College, produced a video for a competition at the school. They didn't win, but the video is great. I wanted to share it with you. (I know this is nepotistic self-promotion, but I really like these guys).

Click here for a fun short film. Squabbit

New Satire Blog

2007-04-23T11:31:00.000-04:00

I've just discovered a new church satire blog. Check it out: Whatever Worketh.

Parenting Superstitions

2007-04-20T09:54:00.000-04:00

My friend Mary DeMuth was kind enough to feature a piece I wrote about my dad on her blog, Pioneer Parenting. Click over to read it, then look around at some of the other great stuff that's there: http://pioneerparenting.blogspot.com/2007/04/parenting-superstitions-ii.html.

Let the Gaps Remain

2007-04-18T09:37:00.000-04:00

I came across a couple great quotes from the late Moses Hadas, professor of classics at Columbia University. Hadas was a gifted scholar and teacher, but the quotes that are passed around are mini-reviews of books that he was apparently asked to endorse:

I have read your book and much like it.

Hadas believed the proliferation of books held no particular benefit unless quality attended the writing.

Thank you for sending me a copy of your book. I'll waste no time reading it.

My favorite quote, and the one that drew my attention, concerns our insatiable need to answer all the questions:

This book fills a much-needed gap.

As a student in my first year college Bible class, I appreciated the teaching of Dr. Curtis Mitchell of Biola University. Dr. Mitchell offered his approach to understanding the Bible: "If the plain sense makes good sense seek no other sense."

Makes sense to me.

I've developed my own hermeneutic over the years, drawn from that simple instruction, consisting of two rules. The first:

1. If God says it in black and white, you can't make it gray.

God makes a lot of things quite clear, and regarding them he leaves little room for fudging. You can generally say that the whole purpose of Scripture is God's intention to clear things up for us. God's communication is designed to give us "all we need for life and godliness."

The second rule, however, must also be applied to the Bible:

2. If God says it in gray, you can't make it black and white.

Jesus sometimes told his disciples that he was presenting truth in a way that was intentionally unclear in meaning. Why? I can't answer for him, but I trust his motives. God, like any good parent, keeps some things under wraps on purpose.

Heresy often springs from our attempts to, as Hadas put it, fill the gaps. But what if God intended the gaps to remain? What if the gaps have a purpose? What if the gaps are necessary to our trust?

As a father, I have sometimes left gaps for my kids. The gaps are not dangerous, I hope, and I have purposefully not filled them because part of growth and maturity is dealing with the vacancies. Some of the gaps can't be filled by anyone else but the person who faces off with them. Other gaps can't be filled at all, and shouldn't be.

Which turns me back to writing and books. How many books are published that try to fill the gaps?

My prayer is that God would enable me to write truth with passion and skill, using the gifts he has given to craft beauty and reveal truth. Sometimes that means I will expose the gaps. I pray that I can leave them unfilled, free to perform their own work of God.

Running Toward Dad

2007-04-01T19:15:00.000-04:00

We've all seen the video by now. A Navy soldier, home from Iraq, surprises his son at school. If you haven't seen it, check it out here--but be prepared. It will make you cry.

Here it is: Homecoming.

When I think of heaven, this is how I picture meeting Jesus. I imagine seeing him, maybe across the parking lot. I'll know him as soon as my eyes glance his direction, even if he's far away--even if he's surrounded by other people. He will look my direction, and our eyes will lock. I will hesitate, I think, for a fraction of a minute. I will sift through my next move, thinking about the impropriety of bursting into a run, and wondering if I should run the other way.

But something in his eyes, just a look and a smile--something will tell me that it will be OK, I can just be me. And then I will run.

While running I will cry. Joy, grief, shame, and utter delight will all flood in at once. I will run into him full speed, but he will take the blow with a laugh, and he will wrap me up into a God-warmed bear hug.

He will laugh and cry. I will cry. He will squeeze me.

I will be home.

Me Worship

2007-02-21T19:26:00.001-05:00

Ah, the bite of honesty

Coach

2007-01-30T08:50:00.000-05:00

When I reread my last post, I cringed at my selfism. "My name" on a book cover. Wow.

Fact is, the book is about a great guy, Coach Mike Gottfried, his life, and his passion: boys without dads. His work is accomplished through Team Focus, a program for fatherless boys.

I've written here about a coach in my life, memorable for all the wrong reasons. Coach Gottfried is memorable for all the right ones, and he is making a difference in the lives of young men across the country.

The first question Coach asked me was, "Ron, do you like sports?" I had to admit to him that I was a passive observer, not anything close to a fanatic. I love it when I can justify sitting down to a U of M game on Saturdays, but I couldn't tell you the names of the players. Coach Gottfried could have turned the car around at that point and found another author for his book. But he took a big chance and we worked together for about nine months to get the story right, to make an impact. And that is what I'm praying.

Here's a recent article about Coach in the Jackson Sun. Amazon has the book, Coach's Challenge, available for pre-order. It will be on the shelves in September.

Oh, Oh, Oh!

2007-01-25T08:02:00.000-05:00

My heart's all a-flutter. My name showed up on the official Simon and Schuster website, Simon Says, for the book: Coaches Challenge: Faith, Football, and Filling the Gap. You can pre-order the hardcover now!

Can you see me smile, God? Thanks.

Demotivation

2007-01-23T09:52:00.000-05:00

My writing friend Patrick Borders at Emdashery introduced me to a great website, giving me several good minutes of outright laughter. You've seen them in the dentist's office, the insurance office, the church office - those motivational posters with beautiful photos and encouraging words. The folks at Despair.com finally had enough motivation and encouragement and started looking at the dim side of life. Here are some samples:

THIS is satire!

They also offer DVDs, Podcasts, Calendars, and you can even design your own demotivational poster.

Again, here's the link: Despair.com. Take a look and have a laugh. It may be the last one for awhile.

Analyzing American Idol

2007-01-18T13:23:00.000-05:00

Please don't hate me. I watch American Idol. And I like it.

Lots of reasons:

It's devoid of sexual exploitation and physical violence. I can watch it without blushing or getting nauseated from seeing the autopsy from inside the cadaver.
It offers an amazing picture of our culture, for good or bad.
It is generally good music. Taylor Hicks and Catherine McPhee made me smile just to hear them sing.
It is a study in human interaction and relationships.

However, it amazes me more every year how deluded so many people are concerning their abilities. Ten thousand singers showed up in Minnesota to try to get one of a handful of golden tickets moving them on to the next round of competition in Hollywood. Out of those, how many really had a chance?

Simon Cowell and the other judges can be ruthless and rude. But more often than not they are simply saying what should have been said by someone else. I get angry listening and watching the train-wrecks. It is sad, and it could have been prevented. Instead of Cowell being the one to put up a wall in front of the careening engine of a contestant's false hopes, it ought to have been someone who knows them, loves them, and from whom they can hear the truth. I get angry at parents and family members who have lied to these people.

The very obvious truth screams out from the screeches and a-tonal "music" of aspiring Idols: the people in their lives who should have yelled "STOP!" were instead shouting praises and compliments and cheering the doomed singer on along the route to catastrophe.

Why? Here are some thoughts:

We have misinterpreted encouragement. To encourage does not mean boosting confidence where there is no foundation. If you don't have wings, it doesn't matter how much I tell you, "You can do it! I just know you can fly! Don't be afraid. It's really not as high as it looks. You've got what it takes." Without some ability to fly, you're still coming in for a rough landing, with lots of pain and suffering that could have been avoided if I'd just said, "Maybe we need to stop and think about this."
We have decided to be nice instead of being honest. American Idol has been around for a while now. It doesn't take a whole lot of smarts to know that average singers don't have a chance, much less someone who can't carry a tune in a bucket. But for many of these sorry contestants, there was no one in their lives who loved them enough to be honest. They just wanted to be nice, and they continued to lie to their faces so as not to make them sad. So they let their karaoke friends, or brothers and sisters, or children run headlong into Simon Cowell, who is forced to do the dirty work for them, with ugly results.
We have lost the fine art of giving rebuke. We just don't know how to do it anymore. Even when I use the word "rebuke," images of yelling and berating and verbal abuse come to mind. But that's not what rebuke really is. Rebuke, in the Biblical sense, is correction conducted within a loving, grace-filled environment for the building-up of the other person. When's the last time someone rebuked you? When's the last time you offered rebuke? How'd that go?
We have lost the willingness to receive rebuke. Even if we knew how to give it out, it is questionable if we could find anyone willing to listen. Rebuke is not seen as a loving act; it is considered rude and socially inept. In our culture, rebuke doesn't share the same characteristics as encouragement. But it should.

So the trains keep on rolling down the tracks, and we grimace at the carnage we can envision as the speed picks up and the wall looms close.

Garrison Keillor tells the story of his mother catching him pretending to be Buddy Holly in his bedroom. He asks his mom, "Am I a good singer?" She answers, "You're a good enough singer." Keillor sings regularly on his Prairie Home Companion show, but he's still just a "good enough" singer, and he knows it. He didn't get where he's at because of his singing prowess. He'd be Simonized on American Idol.

Trains need brakemen who are wise and can stop the engine before the wreck. If you love someone, it's OK to stop them. Dreams, aspirations, goals - all of that is good. But don't let someone you care about dream themselves into a nightmare.

Pioneer Parenting

2007-01-13T14:59:00.000-05:00

Mary DeMuth, a fellow writer, asked me to post an entry for her blog, Pioneer Parenting. A Pioneer Parent is one who is marking out new territory, attempting to steer clear of the parenting pitfalls of the previous generation. Mary is a great writer with an intense passion for Jesus. I've read most of her books, and I recommend them. Please cruise over and read my post, and be sure and look around Mary's site and explore the links. Here's where you can find it: Pioneer Parenting. As always, let me know what you think.

New Article

2006-12-26T22:53:00.000-05:00

I doubt too many of you have been avoiding cracks in the sidewalk in order to prevent your mother's back from breaking. I know some of you, in fact, probably walk UNDER the ladder on purpose, and may even open your umbrella indoors just for spite.

Often, however, we can get seduced into thinking that some little thing we're doing is buying us some favor, or extra protection, or a spiritual benefits package from God.

My latest article, Fishy Business, concerns the issue of subtle superstition. You can access the article here: Fishy Business. Take a read and let me know what you think.

Christmas Blob

2006-12-22T14:18:00.000-05:00

There's a new look to Christmas this year, at least all around my city. Here's a sampling of the unique decorations on my very block, in front of the homes of my own neighbors:

These decorative touches were captured in the middle of the day, of course. Occasionally at eventide these characters get full of themselves and enjoy life for a short while, but it doesn't last long. I came by one house the other night just as someone pulled the plug. The magic of Christmas ebbed and hissed out of the Holiday Snow Globe Carousel Featuring Real-Looking Snow, Authentic North Pole Figures and a Musical Merry-Go-Round with Actual Revolving Motion. It sputtered and sagged away until there was nothing left but a Christmas Blob.

It's a dramatic visual for a common problem: Christmas deflation. Christmas takes a lot of work. It's not easy staying bouyant and jolly for days, especially with the guilt-producing demands of family and friends and culture and tradition. It's all great - but it takes a good deal of oxygen.

I've seen people in the malls and in the Walmarts and on the streets who share the same posture and bearing as the Christmas blobs in front yards. Christmas demons have come and taken the wind right out of them, and they've decided there's nothing left for it except to fold into themselves and surrender. So they lay swaddled with good intentions and overwrought conditional love.

There's only one solution to keep from becoming another saggy Santa or pooped penguin: stay plugged into the Power.

Old Quote

2006-12-11T09:05:00.000-05:00

Maturity is a bitter disappointment for which no remedy exists, unless laughter can be said to remedy anything.

Kurt Vonnegut

Coming Out

2006-12-06T08:39:00.000-05:00

OK.

I've been putting this off too long. I've been in the closet and looking out on the rest of the room through a crack in the door, but I'm getting claustrophobic in here, and my feet are numb, and I can't sit down because it hurts. When I stay in the same position too long, it's really hard to get moving.

Coming out is not easy. I have to admit that my desires and needs are much different than I've let on. I have to come clean with the cold truth. I think it's for the best, and I hope my friends and family will stay by me, support me, and help me. I hope they will forgive me for waiting to reveal the awful reality. I hope that the following will not be a disgraceful, embarrassing revelation, but I don't know how to ensure that it won't.

I've known the truth for a long time, but as life goes on it gets harder and harder to keep up with the lies. Things are happening now, circumstances beyond my control, and keeping this dark secret is getting near impossible. People have become aware of the truth, and I'd rather just come marching out of the closet on my own than be "outed" by some activist organization (we all know who they are).

I am sorry - more sorry than you can ever know - and I wish there was something I could do to change. But I am now convinced it's just not possible. I believe what is true about me is built in, a part of who I really am, sewn into the DNA string that makes Ron Benson. There is really nothing I can do about it. This is the truth about me:

I am getting old.

Linda gave me a haircut recently. I loathe going to a mirror afterwards, not because she does a bad cut - she's a great barber - but because every time my hair is cut I can see patches of bare skin up there. My follicles are mounting a good fight, but they are losing the war, and each skirmish in the battle leaves patches of scrabbly, war-zone scalp, evidence of a complete failure of diplomacy and reason.

Hair lost from my head appears other places. Like my eyebrows. The two strips of untamed agriculture above my eyes seem to have taken on a life of their own. There are weeds growing in there. They are prolific, unmanageable, undisciplined, and LONG. I have to trim them. I thank God they have yet to decide to join in the middle, but I fear, because of the sheer volume, it will happen, and that it won't stop until my forehead is forested, an ugly mass of random, rebellious, wiry hair.

Ah, but it gets worse. There is hair popping out my ears. And my nose. Where will it end!? Will I one day look in the mirror as I'm brushing my teeth and discover a new sprout there along the gum line, or find a fresh GRAY hair growing between taste buds on my tongue? What new place will this curse choose to erupt? My imagination goes wild, and I refuse to put it to print.

(Please skip this paragraph if you are at all squeamish).

I have purchased, and now am forced to use, a "personal hair trimming device." At one point in my life, not that many years ago, I actually had to ask someone what this particular appliance was used for. Now I stick that thing up my nose once a week. It buzzes away, tickling my nostril to the point of sneezing, which is not pretty when you have a razor stuck up in there.

Now I know what "olfactory" is: it's a hair-producing factory for old people.

I thought I was old when the nose hair showed up. But when I trimmed the hair, and it decided to revolt and go ingrown, that's when I started pricing nursing home packages and shopping the web for hot deals on cremations. It's bad enough I've got hair growing out my nose, but now it grows back into my nose, making my proboscis more prominent, red, and bulbous. That's probably why people open doors for me all of a sudden, and offer to get me a motorized shopping cart at Walmart. The "greeter" sees me coming and says, "Look. He's got ingrown nose hair. He's old. Let's everybody be nice to the old guy."

I'm not sure where to go to complain. While I am confident that everything in life has a purpose and that God doesn't make mistakes, I'm at a loss to know what He was thinking when He invented nose hair like this. I know, nose hair helps filter out bad stuff - I'm good with that. But the filtering materials stay in the nostril. The growth now coming out is not filter material, it's twine, rope, braid-able. The last time I used my personal hair trimming device, it strained, smoked, and chortled at the task of slicing down one of these sturdy strands.

They say that if you stay alert and keep learning, you will age more gracefully. I am learning new things everyday. For instance:

You can go to the Senior Adult Center in my city and play billiards or cribbage when you're fifty years old. I qualify, and by golly, I'm gonna go. I think they have canasta down there, too.
AARP is a recruiting powerhouse.
I now know where the term "old fart" originated, but I don't think it's appropriate to talk about it here.
You know those little fungi people you see in those commercials? I've got a family of them knocking on the door of one of my toenails.
Asking for a "senior discount" is not all that embarrassing once you get used to it.

So, I'm out of the closet. Hope you can still love me. If you see me, be kind. Offer me a chair. Look past the little hair eruptions and find the curmudgeon within. And please clip out the senior-saver coupons for me.

The Longing

2006-11-07T09:34:00.000-05:00

Donald Miller writes about meeting Makoto Fujimura in his blog here. Here's a bit:

"After Mako became a Christian, he realized there was a reason for beauty, and beauty was not to be feared but to be admired. His paintings, now, are designed to create in the viewer a sense of ache, a sense of longing for the eternal, for the metaphysical.

This interpretation of the artists actions causes me to wonder about the nature of God as an artist. I am wondering if sunsets, faces, mountains and rivers were not designed to give us this same emotion. I am wondering if they are not invitations to know God more fully, more completely. This seems the nature of a love letter, in ways. That is, a love letter adores and praises, but also invites a greater intimacy."

Here is Fujimura's website, where some of his work is displayed: http://www.makotofujimura.com/

Hilarious Site

2006-10-30T12:08:00.000-05:00

Check out this irreverent website, especially the link to "Wally the Worship Leader" here: Wally. The site also has some funny video.

Shacking Up

2006-10-27T23:24:00.000-04:00

My latest article is available online here: Seniors Shacking Up. The article is a discussion about marriage and its procedures. The issue is simple, really, but the ramifications and permutations are complicated and personal.

When I was writing the article I tried to get feedback from pastors and others concerning real-life situations of seniors who cohabit. I only got a smattering of responses at the time. Now that the article is out, I'm hearing from people who are very close to some family member or parishioner who has had to make hard decisions about the law, the system, matrimony, companionship, the church, and God.

At the crux of the issue, I believe, is whether marriage should be an issue of the state or the church. Jesus, when pressed to give an answer about church and state, said, "Give unto Caesar what is Caesar's, and to God what is God's." So is marriage a God-thing or a Caesar-thing? Do we really want the state to determine who should marry and who shouldn't? Do you trust the state to grant a "license" for two people to become married?

My purpose in writing the article was to make people think by bringing up the questions. So what do you think? Let's talk about it.

Give Me an Oar

2006-10-19T10:23:00.000-04:00

Todd Jones, closer for the greatest come-back team in baseball - the Detroit Tigers - was asked by Fox Sports about playing on the team for the second time in his career, this time under the leadership of Jim Leyland:

"I'm just so lucky to be on a ship that's headed to the postseason and on a ship that's going to the World Series. So when Jim Leyland hands me an oar, I'm going to row like there's no tomorrow."

The closer we come to understanding that Jesus wins, the more we are motivated to row like there's no tomorrow. If we think that winning - i.e. finding favor with God and going to heaven - is up to us, the more discouraged we get and the more tired we become.

"I have overcome the world," Jesus says. He always means what he says, and what he says always comes true.

"Go," he says, and he hands me an oar.

Help me, God, row like there's no tomorrow.

P.S. - While I'm hoping for a mid-western series with St. Louis, it would be irony for Jones to pitch against Carlos Beltran of the Mets: Jones pitched a strike to Beltran for the last out at Tiger Stadium in 1999, earning Jones his 30th save that year.

Just Plain Proud

2006-10-17T09:34:00.000-04:00

I think my kids are great. Here's one reason why: https://www.kintera.org/faf/donorReg/donorPledge.asp?ievent=131570&supid=145506230

Hymn

2006-09-13T09:40:00.000-04:00

Come, Thou fount of every blessing;
Tune my heart to sing Thy praise.
Streams of mercy never ceasing
Call for song of loudest praise.
Teach me some melodious sonnet,
Sung by flaming tongues above.
Praise the mount! I’m fixed upon it,
Mount of Thy redeeming love.

Here I raise my Ebenezer;
Hither by Thy help I’ve come;
And I hope, by Thy good pleasure,
Safely to arrive at home.
Jesus sought me when a stranger,
Wandering from the fold of God;
He, to rescue me from danger,
Interposed His precious blood.

O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above.

My Career

2006-09-12T11:16:00.000-04:00

The Second String of the JV football team at San Jacinto High School only played in a crisis.

On this particular autumn evening, in a Southern California drizzle, the crisis loomed. The team was falling apart on the field, figuratively and literally. Guys were getting hurt, being whacked and beaten in ways they’d never practiced – who would hit that hard in practice? And the plays weren’t working, plans were falling apart, players out of position, wandering around. Coach Longfellow was miffed. No. That’s not the right term. But I would be amiss to use the kind of language needed to adequately describe his disdain.

He was huffing and puffing up and down the sidelines. The seated members of the Second String avoided his path and his eyes; you didn’t want to be challenging the leader of the pack by looking him in the eye at that particular moment. So we looked down at our four-years-worn football shoes, inherited from the varsity team two years ago.

Coach Longfellow steamed past me, ranting about the offensive line and their obvious ignorance of the play book. “?$*&%” he said, “These guys don’t know how to block! They don’t know the plays! Those *$!$#^ing airheads.”

Maybe because I’d never heard those words actually spoken by a living person out loud, I looked up at him just then, and my eyes met his eyes. Wrong move.

“BENSON!” I looked back down at my shoes, quick. “BENSON! RONNIE BENSON!!!”

“Yes, Coach?” I said, choking, my adolescent voice cracking, head towards him but avoiding eye contact.

“Benson, I need someone to go in there and block. You’re a tackle, do you know the plays?”

Plays? Coach Longfellow obviously hadn’t been paying attention at practice. I didn’t know football from farm implements. I only joined to impress girls – that’s what some of my friends told me would work.

“BENSON!” he yelled, “STAND UP!”

I stood, and he came over and put his face down several inches into mine. “BENSON! DO YOU KNOW THE PLAYS? HAVE YOU STUDIED THE PLAY BOOK?”

Play book? They have them in a book? Did anyone ever give me that book? What exactly did the book look like, sir? I’m sorry, Coach Longfellow, but apparently there’s been some problem with the circulation on this play book thing – I’ve never even seen a play book and don’t have a clue what it would be or how to use it. And I think my dog ate it, anyway.

“CAN YOU DO THIS, BENSON?”

My head was swimming, and there was this part of me that really did want to step up and be a man and come through and go out and hit someone hard and catch the ball and run it in for a touchdown and have the cheerleaders swarm around me with their pom poms bouncing. That part of me attempted to take control from the other part of me, the weenie part of me, and in the subsequent internal fracas out of my mouth came my BIG STATEMENT OF SELF-CONFIDENCE:

“I think so, Coach.”

My keyboard does not have the proper symbols for what came out of Coach Longfellow’s mouth at that moment. Sure, I could put “&*$@#,” but it just doesn’t reflect the honest truth.

“YOU THINK SO?! YOU THINK SO?!” And he turned and walked away.

I still feel it sometimes – the emotion I felt on the sidelines that Thursday night when he walked away from me. “Self-loathing” does not even come close to describing it.

An assistant put me into the game late in the fourth quarter, when we were down like 65-0. I played three plays and somebody stepped hard on my left foot and broke my little toe. My injury impressed the girls and allowed me to save face. What face I had left, anyway.

New Article Available

2006-09-07T12:08:00.000-04:00

My article for Plain Truth Magazine is now available online. It's called, Caution: Religion Can Hurt Your Marriage, and you can reach it by clicking here:

http://www.ptm.org/06PT/SepOct/SelectArtcl.htm

After you read it, please tell me what you think. I have already heard from several Plain Truth readers who told me their own stories of relational damage at the hands of a legalistic church. If you've got a story, I'd be interested in knowing about it.

Marriages - in fact, relationships of all kinds - need an environment of grace to flourish. The Body of Christ is supposed to be that environment.

2006-09-05T12:32:00.000-04:00

This is grace: My kids. This is from the U.P. camping trip in July. We're visiting T-Falls. From L to R: Jeremy, April, Jonathan, Garrison. A very good team.

An Extraordinary Event: Nearly Nothing to Do With Grace

2006-08-20T23:32:00.000-04:00

Less than a half mile from our home on the third Saturday in August, over a million people gather along a twelve mile stretch of Woodward Ave. along with an estimated 30,000 of the most beautiful automobiles in the world. It's called the Woodward Dream Cruise. Yesterday my wife was gracious enough to drive for a few miles on Woodward while I took pictures. Here are a few:

Dropping Everything

2006-06-23T10:33:00.000-04:00

A few years back I wrote the following words. I found them today, searching for something else. They are more true today in regards to my journey than they were when I penned them. I need to ask myself these questions all the time.

When Simon Peter saw [the huge catch of fish], he fell at Jesus’ knees and said, “Go away from me, Lord; I am a sinful man!” for he and all his companions were astonished at the catch of fish they had taken, and so were James and John, the sons of Zebedee, Simon’s partners. Then Jesus said to Simon, “Don’t be afraid; from now on you will catch men.” So they pulled their boats up on shore, left everything and followed him.
Luke 5:8-11

Curious, this “left everything” phrase. Especially in light of what had just happened. If ever there was a time to stay on the boat, with your nets in the lake and your eyes on the water, this was it. Production was . . . up!

The partnership between Simon Peter and his friends Zebedee had a mission statement: We Catch Fish. This is what the business had been about. Let other people clean the fish, market the fish, sell the fish. What Zebedee-Petros Ltd. was about was fishing.

And they did it well. They had been able to hire on others to help them out, thus the “all his companions.” They knew the Sea of Galilee - could navigate the vast lake with their eyes closed. They had a reputation for going out in the worst of weather and bringing home the bass when everybody else had given up, wet and wiped. James and John had the nickname, “Sons of Thunder” because they didn’t mind fishing right through a kickin’ lightening barrage. Born to fish, these men would never do anything else.

Today had been a windfall day. Thanks to this mysterious stranger they had hauled in more product than all last month’s take combined. Which was a good thing for Simon, since they had given him a major ribbing for allowing the guy to use his boat as a bully pulpit earlier in the day.

Put yourself in their sandals. Let’s say you’re an insurance salesman. You’ve been doing OK for awhile, seen the clientele grow steadily. You have a good reputation in the business. One day, someone tells you to try selling your product door to door in a vast apartment complex. You balk at the idea – nobody sells door to door anymore and lives - but something tells you he knows what he’s saying, so you do it. After two hours, you’ve written 379 policies, earned salesman-of-the-year and commissions out the yazoo. Now, here’s the question: Would this be your last day in the business?

“They left everything and followed him.”

Such an impression was made that they dropped the nets, beached the boats, walked away from the vast, wriggling income on the shore and took to his heels. I can only imagine the conversation at the house that night as Simon Peter let his bride in on the mid-life career change:

Simon: ...So I’ve decided to go with him.
Ms. Simon: (Incredulous look in her eyes) You what?
Simon: I’m going to follow him. For the next couple years. I’m not going to fish anymore.
Ms. Simon: And what about the rent? What about the boats? What about the kids? Oy Veh! Simon! What’s the matter with you? Do you need to go buy a red convertible or something?

What is so big to me that I wouldn’t leave it for Him? What is so exciting to me that I wouldn’t consider His plans more exciting still? What would be so important as to hold me down when He says, “Get up and get moving; we’ve got plans!”

In his excellent book, Dangerous Wonder, Mike Yaconelli says:

The most critical issue facing Christians is not abortion, pornography, the disintegration of the family, moral absolutes, MTV, drugs, racism, sexuality or school prayer. The critical issue today is dullness. We have lost our astonishment. The Good News is no longer good news, it is okay news. Christianity is no longer life changing, it is life enhancing. Jesus doesn’t change people into wild-eyed radicals anymore, He changes them into “nice people.” If Christianity is simply about being nice, I’m not interested.

Look around. Hear a call? Maybe it’s time. You’ve been fishing in the same water too long, friend. Drop those nets. Pick up the pace. Follow Him.

Lilly Pad Faith

2006-06-13T08:15:00.000-04:00

It has been God's way of working in our lives - his modus operandi - to point the way ahead of time. Linda and I have rarely been forced to scratch our heads about the future, about God's will, about our next adventure. He's shown us what's next sometimes before we were ready to accept it; sometimes before anyone else knew about it.

We parked one Christmas night at midnight in the parking lot across from a tiny country church in agrarian Southern California and prayed. But the prayer was unnecessary to determine what God was up to. We knew we were headed to Nuevo for a new thing. The prayer was more like, "God, are you sure? You want to rethink this? Nuevo? Don't you have some other options?" The church had been ravaged by internal strife, had struggled by with about thirty-five congregants, and had meager resources with which to pay a pastor, save for the offer of the parsonage next door to the church and painted the same color (always a disadvantage for the parson).

But we knew. We were going to live there. It was what God planned.

Seven years and lots of ministry later, God pointed his finger to the northeast. Linda and I were celebrating our anniversary on Mt. San Jacinto. After dinner we took a little hike, sat on a rock overlooking Palm Springs, and I said, "Larry told me he mentioned my name to a church in Michigan that needs a pastor." Linda didn't tell me at the time, but a few weeks later she let it out that when she heard those words on the mountain, her stomach turned and she became nauseated. It wasn't the celebratory dinner, it was the surety God had placed in her heart that Royal Oak, MI was to be our new home.

From that June day we talked about going to Michigan with an almost arrogant presumption. "When we live in Michigan it will snow at Christmas." "When we get to Michigan we'll have a big garden." Meanwhile, the folks in Royal Oak were just barely getting started with the search for a pastor, and they had a pretty good idea of who they wanted that pastor to be, and it wasn't me.

They didn't call me until February. They flew Linda and me out in April for an overnight interview. We were told later that the trip was just a formality; the search team had a candidate in mind but thought they should investigate another one so that they could say they'd done their job. But if Linda and I had any doubts before that visit, they were all gone by the flight home. We were becoming Michiganders.

When the congregation held a meeting to take a vote, and the meeting was going on three hours, I admit I began to think we'd misinterpreted God's signals. But we squeaked by on the vote and went back to CA to pack our bags for the Midwest.

These last four years, however, things haven't been so clear. We're flying by the seat of our pants. It's not that God has left us - abandoned and lost without a map. There have been times when our direction was sure: leaving the church, bringing my parents from CA to live with us, pursuing writing, speaking, and the interim position at Livonia. But the distinctiveness of God's former dealings have changed. Now he leads not by photographs, clear and bright with good contrast, but by impressionistic grace, a Monet with blurred blues and dappled golds which creates the atmosphere of his will, not necessarily the details. He provides a lilly pad at a time, and we carefully tread out on the water.

Here I stand, on this lilly pad, for this summer. I have a deadline of September 1 to finish a book project that began just a few weeks ago. The decision about which lilly pad in this broad pond is the next location for my feet will have to wait until September. Until then, here I stand.

HELP

2006-05-23T09:56:00.000-04:00

This last month's been overwhelming. Or at least, whelming.

God is doing some amazing things, and I need to be ready. I'm on my way to Mobile, Alabama today to begin work on a book I've been contracted to write. Please pray for me in this process. I'll have more info later.

On another front, I'm finishing off a magazine article on an interesting topic: Christian senior adults shacking up. You can read it over again if you want, but it's not going to change. I'll tackle almost anything.

Here's how you can help: I am in desperate need for a real-life Christian senior couple who have decided to live together without the benefit of marriage. I need to interview them and use them in the article. I will respect their privacy and not use names or identifiers. If you know of someone like this, please put your contact info in the comment and I'll get with you.

Three Questions

2006-04-15T16:44:00.000-04:00

“I don’t know him,” Peter said. In the squeeze of a moment Peter turned a corner and made a choice.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asked. He asked not because he needed to know, or was curious, or was bothered by doubt. He asked because he cared about Peter.

“I never met the man,” Peter said, perturbed they had asked again. Peter was angry; he felt manipulated, put in a corner. Being decisive was his nature, but he felt sick, torn up inside, in his heart. He didn’t want to get caught, beaten, killed. He attempted to avoid the consequences of being a Jesus-follower. But he knew he would face consequences for his disloyalty. He was afraid. He deliberated about who, and why.

“Do you love me?” Jesus asked. He asked again, not because he hadn’t heard the first answer, but because he knew his friend, Peter; knew what kind of man he was; knew what he needed. Peter’s heart was broken, in need of mending.

“May I be damned if I even recognize him!” Peter shouted. Emotion whelmed up, overtaking his muscles and forcing him to sit at the edge of the fire. The turning was complete. In three swift movements he had betrayed the most important person in his life.

Moments before he had been ready, had lifted the weapon to strike, to defend and protect. He had aimed for a head – missed - but managed to lob off an ear. He'd have taken another slice, but Jesus stopped him. “I need to do this, Peter.”

The fire danced in his face, and a sound caught in his brain. Could it be morning? The sound went unnoticed and unimportant to the others waiting in the courtyard, but to Peter, the simple crowing of a rooster mocked his bravery, his integrity, his allegiance. It penetrated down to his heart and stabbed in hard. His head fell into his hands, and his fingers moistened with tears.

“Peter, do you love me?” At this point in his journey, Peter needed an exact number of questions – exactly three. One or two would have been insufficient. Restoration and healing, the kind Peter would understand, called for Jesus to ask, and ask again, and again. The look in Peter’s eyes indicated to Jesus that the burly, stubborn fisherman now understood.

Peter was crushed by the weight, had endured it many days. He did not know what to do with the burden, a stone around his neck. Eating fish by another fire, he measured his reaction to Jesus’ questions. Three questions for three rejections. Peter was forced to admit the heaviness of his guilt.

Jesus held his gaze, looking directly into the eyes of a hero-in-training. Peter’s eyes did not waver. Big tears rolled down his sun-worn cheeks. They spoke what his lips could not. I was so wrong, so weak. I thought I could follow you anywhere, but I’ve let you down. I am sorry. I don’t know if I can keep going your way. I don't qualify. Can you ever forgive me?

Peter said, “Lord, you know that I love you.” Jesus’ smile answered with forgiveness and restoration and healing. “Feed my lambs.”

*****************

How many times will Jesus ask me the question: “Ron, do you love me?” How many times will I need to hear it? How many times will it take to restore?

“Lord, you know that I love you.”

“Feed my lambs.”

2006-03-30T10:30:00.000-05:00

A dusty beer bottle sitting on the bar wobbles around for a moment, grabbing my attention, but before I can swing that direction, the wobble stops.

A bunny appears just outside the window to the right of the bar. It sticks its head up, and the ears wave. My arms lift to center on it, but then the bunny disappears behind some bushes.

Back inside the establishment sits a man at the piano with a tall, funny hat. He's playing "The Yellow Rose of Texas" on the tiny instrument. It is loud, honky-tonky, punctuated by the popping sounds of the people shooting on either side of me. I lift my rifle and take quick aim at the hat. I know what's going to happen. It jerks on his head. I shoot, and a bright red flash lights up in the middle of his ten-gallon head piece. Direct hit.

I shoot at a couple more moving objects from various sources: a viper coiling around a tree branch, a goofy-looking deer poking its head from behind a plastic tree, a vase of flowers on a table. I don't get any more points, and the game is over. Again.

*******************

I grew up with strict regulations on money, and plunking quarters into machines that ate them like candy was not considered good stewardship. Arcades were not allowed.

"That's just a waste of my cash."

"You should save your money for something important."

"Do you think this stuff grows on trees?"

I was arcade-deprived. They have therapy for this.

Any arcade I have ever played, I played as an adult, except for the times I rebelled and, looking over my shoulder, shoved a quick coin into a slot, played a game completely distracted with fear and guilt, and felt great remorse for my wastefulness when "Game Over" pointed a finger at me, identifying me to all around as a loser.

But I still love arcade games. One of my favorite birthdays, my wife planned a family outing which featured me and my kids "wasting" a load of lucre on an afternoon of fun at Dave and Busters. The Rifle Range is one of my guilty pleasures at a good arcade.

********************

Arm me with an electronic gun, point me in the direction of a faux-western, cardboard cut-out saloon in the woods, and it'll feel pretty much like life. Mine; maybe not yours.

This is multitasking: shooting at all kinds of targets in one try, on one quarter. When the time runs out, the gun drops, it's time for another coin to power up the works. I feel guilty, because I know all this is costing somebody. But I keep shooting, missing way more than I attempt with an aim.

When my pocket is empty I go to my DAD. A twitch in my open palm says, "I'm sorry I wasted all those quarters and didn't hit much." I look at him with guilt, expecting that DAD will say, "This is just a waste of my quarters! You should spend coins on something important! Do you think this stuff grows on trees?"

But He doesn't. He holds my outstretched hand in His, and he reaches into His pocket, and He unloads so many quarters that they fall around on the floor, and He laughs, and He says, "Go try again. There's more where that came from. This is what My quarters are for."

So I plunk another quarter in, and my gun starts to hum, and I'm feeling confident and cocky, and I fire one off at the beer mug on the round table to the left of the piano, and the red light flashes, and I feel like I can keep on firing away forever.

He Speaks!

2006-03-02T10:30:00.000-05:00

How's this for amazing? You can hear me speak. Right now. On your computer. Follow the link to Crossroads Community Church and glance down the page to find my talk: The Fig Leaf Dilemma. And please let me know what you think. Here's the link: Crossroads

Pre-Order For Frivolity

2006-03-02T09:41:00.000-05:00

Another book you need to buy. Be the first on your block to own A Field Guide to Evangelicals and Their Habitat by Joel Kilpatrick. You can pre-order now. You can pre-order by clicking on the picture. Support your fellow satirist.

Intelligence, Jesus, Art

2006-02-28T14:47:00.000-05:00

A writing friend, Mary DeMuth, shares healthy comments on arts, smarts, and Jesus here: The Master's Artist.

Mary has written a great non-fiction book for parents who were not raised as Christians. Reality being what it is, however, all of us need adjustments in our parenting protocol, whether we are GUBA's (Grown Up Born Again) or not. I benefitted from Mary's insights. I'm a PK.

(We need our own book, by the way. Maybe - PK Recovery: Learning to Love the Church after Growing to Hate It).

Mary's book is called Building the Christian Family You Never Had. You can learn about Mary and more about the book at Mary's website: Relevant Prose. Or click on the picture to order it.

Who Speaks for God?

2006-02-28T09:47:00.000-05:00

Editorialist Leonard Pitts Jr. makes me think, which is often painful and never finished. Here is a piece that appeared in the Detroit Free Press. Pitts throws his light on another fine mess created by someone who poses as God's official representative. Here's the link: Pitts

What is scary to me is that I presume to speak for God every Sunday. How can I possibly be arrogant enough to do that? What makes my words any more "godly" than Pitts or Phelps, Robertson, or Nagin? Jim Wallis and Charles Colson both wrote books with the title, "Who Speaks for God?" Do they arrive at similar conclusions?

Wouldn't it be easier if those who spoke for God were marked out in some way - wore sackcloth and ate locusts, for instance? And wouldn't it be much better if those who claim to speak for God but are just pretending were struck by lightening?

No, wait. Maybe not.