A Word in Season

True Friendship, or Friendly Sales Pitch?

2010-02-21T21:17:00.000-08:00

I recently reread some of George Alder's short essays written for The Lookout in the early 1980s. In my early pastoral ministry days--my "previous life"--I collected several dozen of his "A Minute With George Alder" columns and have held on to them all these years. Alder was one of my favorite professors at San Jose Bible College (now William Jessup University) where he taught Greek and homiletics among other courses. A godly, learned, gentle-spirited man, he astounded us young Greek students by reading directly from the Greek New Testament, translating into English, even when he preached at chapel. He was an avid outdoorsman and a strong advocate for the careful stewardship of the earth and its natural resources. A gentleman and a scholar was he and, in many ways, a true renaissance man.

In one article, titled "The Friendly Sales Pitch," he recounts the time he and his wife, Eileen, were visiting in London and were given a bus tour of the city, then treated to a fine lunch at the London Hilton, which was followed by a sales pitch from a young salesman who wanted him and Mrs. Alder to buy land in Florida (of all places) sight unseen! Throughout the presentation, the salesman was as friendly and affable as can be, even calling George and Eileen by their first names. At the climax of the presentation, when it was clear the time had come for the Alders to make the obviously intelligent decision to buy some property, Professor Alder said, "'Well, as attractive as this all may sound, we wouldn't put a dime down on a piece of land anywhere without seeing it.'" Suddenly, the salesman's demeanor changed from warm and friendly to cold and abrupt. He was done with the Alders and summarily dismissed them saying, "'I think you can find your way out!'"

Mr. Alder went on to write that "much of human acceptance, open friendliness, and offers of great advantage is just bait to lead us into an entrapment to enhance someone else's situation." His point wasn't that we should resist all overtures of friendliness, but that we have to "develop sufficient perception to sort out true friendship and brotherliness." And, more important, that we need to be careful not to manipulate others for selfish purposes. God's love should be our motivation in all our interactions.

Many years ago when I was first starting in full-time ministry as an associate pastor, the senior minister's wife confided how hard it had been for her husband to develop close relationships with the church members. She believed it was because the previous pastor never phoned or visited folks unless he needed something from them. Even when he inquired into their well-being as a loving, concerned shepherd of the flock, he always seemed to have an agenda: he needed something from them or wanted them to do something for the church. In other words, his interest felt manipulative and utilitarian. His unspoken message was, "I'll care about you as a person ... as long as you can give me something I need. If not, well, see ya later -- I think you can find your way out!"

Sometimes it's hard to know even our own motives for being friendly or nice to people. Are we really concerned about them as individuals and in getting to know them as interesting human beings who have fascinating stories to share? Are we looking for common areas of interest to serve as contact points in potential friendships? Or, are we like the salesman in London who played the "friendly game" because he hoped to use the relationship to selfish ends? Do we invest in others to earn some sort of "return," and when that return--whatever it may be--appears to be slow in coming, do we summarily dismiss them?

Alder concluded his column with these words: "What a loss it would be to miss all the good that comes to us from others or to have every attempt we make to help others rejected. Christian love and friendship is never social manipulation. Its motivation is God's love."

Evan's Graduation from Seminary

2009-06-27T11:31:00.000-07:00

Our son, Evan, completed all requirements for his Master of Arts degree in Theology from Fuller Theological Seminary in December 2008. On June 12th, the family traveled to Pasadena, accompanied by Evan's good friend, Nebyou Berhe, for the commencement ceremony held on Saturday the 13th.

The event was held at the large and beautiful Lake Avenue Congregational Church, which was filled to overflowing with graduates, faculty and guests.

It rained during the night and morning before we left the motel we were staying at to head over to the church (extremely rare for Pasadena in mid-June!). Fortunately, it had let up by the time we arrived at 8:45, which meant we had over an hour to park the car a couple of blocks away and get inside the packed house to find a seat before the 10 a.m. start time.

The two-plus-hour ceremony was carefully planned and well executed. One of the highlights for me (besides hearing Evan's name called and seeing him walk across the stage to receive his diploma from President Mouw), was the congregational singing of a couple of great anthems of the church accompanied by Lake Avenue's monstrous pipe organ -- certainly one of the most moving and meaningful worship experiences in recent years for me. We were filled with pride and gratitude as Evan marked with a stamp of closure this educational chapter of his life begun nearly three years ago.

Evan, we are proud of you for this wonderful achievement,
And look forward to what the good Lord has in store for your future.
May He bless and keep you, now and always.

Interesting Coincidences

2009-05-19T19:59:00.000-07:00

Last Wednesday, my wife Glenda decided it was time to take her car to the auto shop to have her driver's side power window fixed. It had been frozen in the rolled up position since last fall, and, with the heat of summer on the way, she thought she might need to actually roll her window down once in a while.

So, I followed behind her to our favorite mechanic, Charlie, of "Charlie Auto" (yes, there is no apostrophe "s" in the name) at 7 am. Our plan was to drop her car off, drive my car to my work place and drop me off, and Glenda would take my car to her work, then come get me at the end of my work day. A bit of a pain, as car repairs always are, but a simple enough plan.

The first part of the plan went smoothly: we pulled into Charlie's place and explained what needed to be done. He advised it might be a costly repair as the door would need to come off and a motor be replaced, but, oh, well-- it needed to be done. Glenda jumped in my car with me and off we headed toward my work place. But first, I decided to swing into the gas station as the tank was almost on "E." I paid at the pump, filled the tank, slid back in behind the wheel, put the key in to start 'er up and ... nothing. I mean nothing! The battery was dead as a doornail.

Now, the first interesting coincidence occurred. I had noticed while filling the tank that there was a bright yellow pickup parked next to us getting its thirsty tank refilled at the same time. We were doing this at almost exactly the same pace, so that, when I got back in my car, the pickup driver was about to wrap up his refueling. I'm turning the key a couple of times, realizing my battery is dead, just as this guy is stepping back into his pickup. I quickly decided to ask for his help because, you see, incredibly (what I haven't mentioned), in big bold letters on the side of his truck were the letters "AAA," underneath the official logo of the Automobile Association of America, and neatly printed on the rear side panel were the words "Battery Service." At first he could hardly believe somebody's car had died next to him at the gas station, but he quickly swung his truck around in front of mine, hood-to-hood, and had me jump started within about 30 seconds of my plea for help. He jotted down my Triple A membership info and we were done with the whole business in about 75 seconds.

But now, I know I've got a bad battery that we had to take care of right away. I drove the half-mile back to Charlie Auto. Glenda's car was already in the garage when we arrived, and Charlie right away came over to tell us he got the window to work with a little WD-40 -- it was apparently just stuck shut. That should save us a couple hundred bucks, I thought. I explained that I needed a new battery, and while he was at it, would he please check out the "Service Engine Soon" dummy light that had been on for some time. I would leave my car with Charlie for the day and go with Glenda in her car now. They pulled her car out of the garage, stopped the engine while we finished with the work order, and then we hopped in to resume our trip to my place of work. Glenda put in the key, turned it and ... you guessed it -- nothing! Her battery was dead now -- suddenly and without warning!

I've lived a fairly long time on the planet. This is the first time in my memory that batteries of two cars in the family household had gone dead on the same day, within minutes of each other. And, of course, here we were at the auto shop where help was immediately available. Granted, they had to send out for the particular size battery Glenda's car needed, and we ended up having to drive my car to work after all, but that's no biggie.

So here's the bottom line: It was apparently the day both our batteries were going to go dead. If we had followed our normal routine, mine would have died in the parking lot of my work place, four miles from home, and Glenda's would have died in the parking lot of her work place, six miles from home and nearly the same distance from my work place. Instead, my battery dies next to a Triple-A battery service truck, and Glenda's dies at Charlie Auto. Yes, it cost me $241.53 that I didn't plan on spending that day, but compared to the headache, hassle, and overall pain in the kiester that could have been, I was happy to pay it.

After all this, I still got to work 15 minutes early that day. I told the story to a couple of colleagues. One of them said, "You were really lucky!" Yes, I suppose one could say it was a "lucky" sequence of events -- or perhaps "coincidences." Or, were they? Is it possible that a living God -- "the God who is there," to use Francis Shaeffer's term -- who according to the Bible cares even for the sparrows of the air and the flowers of the field, actually cares for an unworthy creature like me and condescends, according to his purpose and pleasure, to reveal that he is and cares? I'll leave that to the reader to ponder.

"Of course," some may say, "you indeed are quite an unworthy creature ... but not your lovely wife!" And they would have me there.

On Stolen Sermons

2009-04-10T19:24:00.000-07:00

My family and I were members of a megachurch for a number of years before it came to our attention that the pastor, an eloquent, good-looking young man adored by many for his brilliant, funny, "biblical" sermons, preached the material of other pastors--without ever mentioning it or giving credit where credit was due. In fact, every sermon he preached was stolen. Yes, he would always tweak them a little -- leaving out an illustration here, adding one there -- but the main points, the outline, and most of the illustrations and supporting material, were all "borrowed."

When this came to light, and one of the junior pastors on staff lost his job over it, the pastor decided to come clean with the rest of the staff, but not the congregation as a whole. He admitted that he couldn't preach if he had to actually compose his own sermons. Now, one would think he would make some changes -- maybe confess to the congregation from the pulpit, maybe begin giving credit for borrowed messages, maybe even stop the practice and at least try to create his own. But, no. None of this happened. He kept on preaching stolen sermons and, to my knowledge, does so to this day, some 13 years into his tenure with the church.

It's been a little astounding for me to discover that few people see anything wrong with a pastor preaching the sermons of others -- even week after week, and without giving credit. The attitude of many in the pews could be summarized like this: "I'm fed, edified, entertained, challenged [or whatever] by the pastor's messages, and people are being 'led to Jesus,' so, come on, lighten up! What difference does it make?" The prevailing ethic in pragmatic, 21st century America, is, if it works, it must be good. The end justifies the means. Questions about whether something should be done take a back seat to whether it can be done.

Yet there is clearly a double standard in play here. Keep in mind that, in your profession or at your workplace, if you were to constantly “produce,” “create,” or “design” things someone else had produced, designed, or created – without giving credit – if you were caught you could, just possibly, suffer adverse consequences. Your boss/board/stockholders/etc. might not be favorably impressed with this practice. They might believe you were cheating, or at best, slacking in your work.

I wrote an article on this subject of sermon stealing that was published in the Christian Standard, a national periodical, in October 2005. I titled it, "Integrity in the Pulpit." The responses by readers were as interesting as they were varied. One reader who registered a dissenting opinion wrote, "My attitude on this issue goes back to my homiletics class in Bible college. Our professor would regularly give us outlines of his own sermons (or at least I have always assumed they were his) to illustrate the type of sermon we were studying. One of my classmates asked if we should give him credit for an outline if we used it. His reply was, 'No, if anyone asks, just say the Lord provides.' That pretty well sums up my attitude on both utilizing sermon material from others and in giving my material to others."

The Lord provides? Hmm. In other words, the pastor is saying this: if someone says it's all right to use their material without attribution, go ahead -- there's nothing wrong with it. I guess this is morality by popular consent. And then, as if to thumb his nose at the arcane notion of pulpit plagiarism being somehow "wrong," this pastor went on to invite preachers to freely use his material without attribution. A noble gesture indeed!

But I can't help returning to the morality of the "secular" and "godless" university and news media that says that using others' intellectual material without giving proper citation is dishonest. It is cheating and stealing. And when a pastor of a Christian Church does it -- continually and without remorse -- it raises serious doubts about his moral fitness to shepherd the people of God under his care. At the very least, doesn't it make you wonder how he's using his time to earn his salary?

A Centennial Tribute to My Dad - Part 3

2009-03-21T16:51:00.000-07:00

Dad was a genuine Christian gentleman. In the main, he kept his emotions in check and his temper at an even keel. His basically shy nature caused him to demur in social settings – to remain in the background, out of the spotlight, simply enjoying the company of others. He almost never – uttered a cross word, and never (in my hearing, anyway) cursed or used profanity. He had a wry sense of humor, and enjoyed puns, silly rhymes, and homespun proverbs.

Dad never made much money. His homes, furnishings and clothing were always modest – but neat and clean. He was meticulous about his personal appearance and that of his home. We never went without basic necessities – probably because Dad was never without a job. He was proud of the fact that never in his life did he have to “go looking” for employment – that job offers had always come to him. In Dad’s mind, this was evidence of God’s faithful provision. It never occurred to me, nor perhaps to him, that it may have also been evidence of a reticent nature that made him maybe a little too willing to “settle” for the first thing that came his way.

Perhaps this helps to explain all of Dad’s moving around. He was a lifelong nomad, always seeking and never finding his pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. I often heard him comment that, "A rolling stone gathers no moss, but acquires a polish of relatively equal value." He must have lived in literally dozens of different places in his life. In the years after my birth in 1956, when Dad was 47, we lived in Madison, South Dakota; Storm Lake Iowa; Madison, again (two different places this time); Moorhead, Minnesota; Loveland, Colorado (two places); San Jose, California (three different apartments); and, in 1985, Dad and Mom moved in with us in Montclair, CA; then moved with us to Chino, CA, and finally, to Bakersfield, CA, where Dad lived his last four years. If my math is correct, that’s 13 different homes in Dad’s final 36 ½ years on the planet.

Nomad or not, Dad never hesitated to pitch in to the work of the local Christian Church (or Church of Christ) immediately upon arriving at a new location, and he served faithfully with that congregation until moving on to the next place. He was almost always made an elder wherever he went. He attended services on Sunday morning and evening, went to mid-week prayer meeting or Bible study, attended board meetings, called on the sick and elderly, showed up for every work day, potluck, or other activity of the church. No layperson was ever a more active participant.

In his later years, after “retirement” from a lifetime of farming and employment in general stores, chicken hatcheries, supermarkets, and finally, a hospital kitchen, Dad became an apartment manager and then, finally, a church custodian. As I said, he worked long hours, and he worked hard. It’s what helped to keep him strong and active until shortly before his death.

Though he wasn't often demonstratively affectionate toward his wife and kids (I have four older siblings - Phyllis, Carlton, Kenneth and Janet), he had a soft heart, and loved his family dearly. He would do any act of service for anyone in need, any time. I don’t remember him often verbally expressing words of encouragement. But I do remember a certain posture he would take: he'd throw his shoulders back a little and puff out his chest ever so slightly. He would get a twinkle in his eye and a little smile on his lips. That was his way of saying, "I'm proud of you." When you get a hint that makes you think your father is proud of you – even just once in a while – it makes all the difference in the world to a son. Even today, when I have done something well, I want to believe that Dad would be -- or is -- proud of me.

So, on the occasion of the 100^th anniversary of his birth -- and 100 years isn't really such a long time, after all -- I remember my dad, grateful for his example of strength, diligence, gentleness, service, perseverance, Christian faith, and love.

A Centennial Tribute to My Dad - Part 2

2009-03-20T14:14:00.000-07:00

When my dad was born, many homes still didn't have electric lights, gas furnaces or indoor plumbing. Many Americans lived in rural areas, farmed the land, worked hard, played little, went to church, helped their neighbors, and did their duty – to God, country, community, home, school and church. My dad was one of those people. The salt of the earth; a hard worker, a God-fearing man. He had a wry sense of humor, expressed within proper bounds. He always wished he had gone to college and become an architect or draftsman – he told me so several times through the years before his death from cancer in our home. As it was, he did graduate from high school in 1929 -- a hefty achievement in itself for early 20th century rural America -- and attended a “business college” for part of a year. He was too old to be drafted during the Second World War.

Dad loved the Lord and the church. Growing up a Norwegian Lutheran, he and my mother were “converted” (as he always referred to it) to the Christian Churches/Churches of Christ of the Stone-Campbell Restoration Movement in 1942, and baptized by immersion – the only true baptism, he believed – in a small church in Brookings, South Dakota. He enjoyed hearing a good sermon, appreciating the well-turned phrase of a booming voice. In his estimation, powerful preachers were especially favored of God; men to be admired.

One word many who knew Dad used to describe him was “gentle,” or “gentleman.” Dad was truly a gentle man. Make no mistake: he was a physically strong and tough man. And, he had the capacity to be angry. In fact, it was one of his very few character defects, and it was a minor one. For example, he was a conservative – fiscally, socially, and religiously – and “liberals” could make him mad. In the late 1960s, when my childish comprehensions of reality were beginning to sharpen, I noticed that hippies rankled him (at first, he called them “beatniks,” until he realized that term was from an earlier period in American history); in the early ‘70s it was “women’s libbers” and anti-war demonstrators that got his goat. If you rode with him in the car, slow drivers could get under his skin, or, waiting at an intersection for pedestrians who seemed to “take their sweet time” to cross in front of him. And, I must admit that in the cantankerousness of my immature adolescence, I certainly pushed his buttons a time or two. But Dad mellowed significantly in his later years, becoming much more patient and easy-going.

Dad believed in hard work. Maybe too much so. My mother, Gladys Meling Christensen, to whom dad was married for 60 years and two days, often complained that he “never” took her anywhere. While this was a blatant exaggeration, uttered when Mom – whose emotional constitution was often a bit fragile – felt lonely or neglected, there was certainly a seed of truth in it. I think that Dad bolstered his sense of self-worth with a strong work ethic. He believed his personal value stemmed from carrying out his obligations to provide for his family and to help the work of his church, and both required long hours and hard work. He believed he honored the Lord that way, and I’m sure he certainly did.

(Next time - Part 3)

A Centennial Tribute to My Dad – Part 1

2009-03-19T13:14:00.000-07:00

My father, Donald Leroy Christensen, was born March 20, 1909, in a little farm town, Jewell, Iowa, to farmer Arthur G. Christensen and his wife, Belle Hiaring Christensen. He was the second of three children in their quiver -- following brother Aunis and preceding sister Delilah. The attending physician was Dr. Christenson, who spelled my father’s and grandfather’s surname on the birth certificate with an “o” instead of an “e.” Apparently, it didn’t occur to him that not all those with that name spelled it the same way. Dad died on May 2, 1993 at the age of 84. Tomorrow he would have been 100 years old.

One hundred years – a century – that sounds like a long time. It's mind-staggering to think about how much has happened in the last 100 years – how much the world has changed. One hundred years ago, in March 1909, William Howard Taft was inaugurated the 27^th president of the

United States

. He was noteworthy primarily because he was our heaviest president, weighing in at over 300 pounds, and was the last president to sport facial hair – a bushy handlebar mustache.

In 1909, the Detroit Tigers, led by the immensely talented and fiery Ty Cobb, faced off against the Pittsburgh Pirates, led by the indomitable Honus Wagner, in baseball’s sixth World Series. The Pirates, playing their first season in brand new Forbes Field, won the series four games to three. Still recognized a century later as two of the greatest players in major league history, Cobb and Wagner were among the original five inductees to baseball’s Hall of Fame.

The same year – and the same venue, Forbes Field in Pittsburgh – saw the centennial celebration of Thomas Campbell’s Declaration and Address, the brilliant and controversial document that set in motion the powerful American religious movement that eventually came to be termed the Restoration Movement, consisting of “Christian” and “Disciples of Christ” churches.

The short silent film, “A Brave Irish Lass,” starring Edith Storey, was released on March 20 that year. L. Frank Baum published the fourth in his “Land of Oz” series of books in 1909, titled, The Road to Oz.

America

celebrated the centennial of the birth of her greatest president, Abraham Lincoln, on February 12. World War I was still five years in the future. The Wright brothers had invented the airplane just six years before. Many people in rural America, which was still a significant, but rapidly shrinking, portion of the country, did their day-to-day traveling by horseback, buggy, or on foot. Ford’s 1909 Model T could be bought for $825, but, generally speaking, only the well-to-do owned automobiles, and this would remain true for another decade or so.

(Part 2 tomorrow)

The Change in the Christian Day of Worship from Saturday to Sunday

2009-03-09T19:25:00.000-07:00

Seventh Day Adventists teach that Sunday worship is wrong because the 4th Commandment says to keep the Sabbath day holy. While recognizing both the New and the Old Covenants, they believe many Old Covenant laws remain valid and binding for Christians today, including the Ten Commandments. (This brings up a related subject: the Adventists'--and many other denominations'--debatable understanding of the concept of covenant in Scripture, but that's for another time.) Consequently, Adventists don't buy the doctrine of Sunday worship and believe there is virtually no biblical evidence to back it up.

They are partially right about that. The New Testament evidence for Sunday worship is slim: only Acts 20:7 and 1 Corinthians 16:2 allude to it. But (and this is an important "but") these allusions are significant because they evidently reveal the practice of the earliest Christians.

Early church history also confirms the practice of Sunday worship. Church historian Everett Ferguson writes, "From the earliest days, the church had established the custom of meeting for communion and worship on the first day of the week, Sunday, to which Christians gave the name 'Lord's day,' in honor of Jesus' resurrection" (Church History: From Christ to Pre-Reformation, 2005, p. 152). Ferguson was probably using Justin Martyr's Apology as one source for this. In the middle of the second century, Justin, a prominent leader in the church, wrote, "We hold our common assembly on the day of the sun, because it is the first day, on which God put to flight darkness and chaos and made the world, and on the same day Jesus Christ our saviour rose from the dead; for on the day before that of Saturn they crucified him; and on the day after Saturn's day, the day of the sun, he appeared to his Apostles and disciples and taught them these things, which we have also handed on to you for your consideration" (Apology, I. 67). Justin thus gives two primary justifications for Sunday worship: (1) God created the world and light on the first day, and (2) Jesus, the light of the world, rose from the dead on the first day of the week. It therefore seemed natural and right that his followers would worship him on "The Lord's Day" -- Sunday.

There is evidence that Christians in some locations -- especially Jewish Christians -- continued for several years to practice Temple or synagogue worship on the Sabbath and also Christian worship on Sunday. Gentile believers were indifferent about Sabbath worship from the beginning.

I could find no evidence for some Adventists' claim that a pope declared Sunday to be the Christian day of worship as opposed to Saturday. Adventist teachers have historically held the papacy in low esteem. For example, a book written by A. Jan Marcussen titled National Sunday Law traces the alleged history of the change of the Christian day of worship from Saturday (the Sabbath) to Sunday. Marcussen argues that the Sabbath law is still in force, even under the New Covenant, and that Sunday worship is a corruption of God's intention, introduced in the 4th century by papal order through the agency of Emperor Constantine. The emperor did legalize Christianity and Christian worship -- which included recognizing the long-standing observance of Sunday as the Christian day of worship -- but he did not change the day of worship from Saturday to Sunday.

The High Cost of Medical Care

2009-03-07T15:58:00.000-08:00

The cost of going to the doctor for a routine checkup is astronomical – not to mention the cost of actually being ill and needing hospitalization or long-term treatment. One very small example will suffice. I have gotten my “annual physical” done by the same doctor for several years now. I’m fortunate to have decent health insurance that will cover much of the cost. But I noticed after the second physical that the insurance company had paid all but nine bucks of the fifty-dollar charge for a particular part of the physical: the eye exam. That's nine dollars I had to pay the doctor.

Now, here’s what the eye exam consists of. After the medical assistant weighs and measures you, she has you look at a chart on the wall with rows of decreasing sizes of letters -- like they have at the DMV or your optometrist’s office. She tells you to read it – just like they do at the DMV. You know, first you cover one eye and then the other. It takes about 60 seconds for the entire test.

My first couple of office visits, I just assumed this was part of the checking in process, along with the weighing and measuring. They don’t charge anything extra to weigh and measure me or to take my blood pressure or my temperature – at least, I don’t think they do! But they charged me (actually, billed my insurance) fifty bucks for this “eye exam” given by the medical assistant! (I'm not sure, but I don’t think she had a degree in optometry. If so, she never told me.)

Now, don’t get me wrong, I appreciate that my doctor is concerned about my eyesight, but, come on – fifty bucks to read an eye chart? So, for my most recent physical – just last month – the little medical assistant as usual wanted to check my eyesight. But this time I said, “No, thanks, my eyes are fine.” (And, I ought to know, I just paid a thousand bucks last summer for an eye exam and new glasses at my optometrist’s. Which is another story for another time.)

So, the doctor finally comes in (after the obligatory half-hour wait sitting on the examining table), and he’s looking through my chart. He gets to the eye exam page and stops abruptly: “What, no eye exam?” And so I just told him, “I don’t think it’s right to charge fifty bucks for an eye exam when all you do is have a minimally trained medical assistant make me read an eye chart. Besides, I just had an eye exam last summer by an actual optometrist. I didn’t appreciate that I’ve had to pay nine bucks out-of-pocket the last two years because I didn’t realize I was actually being charged for that.”

Do you know how he responded? “Wow, most insurance companies cover the entire cost.” Hmm. That wasn't the answer I was hoping to hear. I was hoping he’d say, “You know, Dean, you’re right. It’s absolutely ridiculous to charge our patients to read an eye chart -- like those eye charts at the DMV. We need to stop that unethical practice right away!”

Of course, I could be delusional. Maybe next time the medical assistant will give me an inkblot test to find out if I’m insane. They ought to be able to bill insurance at least 300 bucks for that one, don’t you think?

The Economy

2009-02-08T09:15:00.000-08:00

Bad economic news continues to roll off the presses every day. Case in point: today’s front-page headline in the Fresno Bee was, “Recession Bites Bulldog Athletics.” The local public university (Fresno State) is facing serious financial difficulties in every sphere, including, of course, athletics. “The problems are simple and familiar:” writes the reporter, “stagnant or declining revenues and expenditures stubbornly resistant to reduction.” The athletic director is quoted as saying, “We’ll have to make some hard decisions as we evaluate the future – the immediate future and beyond.”

Another article in the Sunday edition reported, “The nation’s employers shed 598,000 jobs in January, the highest number in 35 years, leaving 11.6 million unemployed.”

Yet another article’s title reads, “State Paying Price for Spending More Than It Could Afford.” It begins, “California is broke. But lost in the day-to-day drama over IOUs, furloughs and huge deficits is a basic question may Californians might be asking: Where has all the money gone?” The reporters go on to say, “The problem, according to a report last week from the state auditor, is that . . . politicians in Sacramento have shirked their responsibility for the past decade . . . Like homeowners paying off one credit card with another, they used accounting gimmicks and more debt, rather than raising taxes or cutting spending, to balance the books.”

Truly, we have truly gotten ourselves into a fine mess. I’m no economist, but it’s apparent that at the core of our economic woes is blatant, unfettered human greed. Combine that with a news media that last fall sent the public to a panic with its doom and gloom reporting of bad things that were happening, could happen, and might possibly happen, and you have the perfect recipe for a national economic meltdown. So far, the government and the all-knowing media are calling this a “recession” – although, if something doesn’t happen soon to check the continual torrent of layoffs, bankruptcies, scale backs and reductions, the word “depression” will soon be in order.

So, what do we common, everyday Joes do about this sorry mess? Well, I guess we do like our parents and grandparents did who endured the Great Depression in the ’30s: we get through it. We just get through it, one day, one step, at a time. Maybe the forced lifestyle changes of an economy in the toilet will be a good thing in the long run – for all of us. Maybe we'll learn how to distinguish between true necessities and "nice-to-haves." Maybe we'll grasp the wisdom of living within our means, paying off our credit cards each month, and delaying gratification. Maybe we'll learn anew how to care for those who are less fortunate, who are struggling to put food on their table and keep a roof over their heads. And maybe now, the simple petition Jesus taught his followers to pray will take on a new relevance: “Give us this day our daily bread.”

Fiction Books Read in 2008

2009-01-19T08:59:00.000-08:00

I typically read non-fiction works of history, biography and theology. But last year I read more fiction than I normally do. Here are some of those titles:

Roots, by Alex Haley. A phenomenal best-seller when first published in 1974. It is a work of fiction set against the real story of Haley's ancestors, beginning with Kunta Kinte in Africa in the 18th century, his daughter, Kizzy, her son, Chicken George, and down through all seven generations to Alex's own father. It tells the poignant and heart-wrenching story of slavery in ante-bellum America and how Haley's ancestors survived it and rose above the degradation. The copy I bought was a special 30th anniversary edition published by Vanguard Press in 2007, completely re-typset, and, unfortunately, loaded with typographical errors. I think every American ought to read this book, or at least view the TV mini-series based on it, hugely popular when first produced 30 years ago.

Lonesome Dove, by Larry McMurtry. This one was recommended by a highly respected professor of education in a workshop I attended last spring. It was published in 1985, and won the Pulitzer Prize for McMurtry. Like Roots, it was made into a mini-series for television. It is the story of a colorful cast of characters, the "Hat Creek outfit," led by former Texas Rangers W. F. Call and Augustus McCrae, and their 3,000-mile cattle drive, from deep in dusty, hot Texas all the way to snowy Montana. It's a great western, full of adventure, and fun to read.

Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain. I've read it before--a couple of times--but it just seemed a good way to wrap up the year. This enjoyable classic tale from one of America's greatest writers was first published in 1876. Talk about memorable characters: Tom, Huck Finn, Aunt Polly, Becky Thatcher, Injun Joe, et al!

In the second chapter (the famous fence whitewashing episode where Tom is able to get all the neighborhood boys to do his assigned job, painting Aunt Polly's fence, by making it a thing of sheer enjoyment), Twain makes this observation: "Work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and . . . play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do. . . . There are wealthy gentlemen in England who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thiry miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign." How true is that!

Greetings!

2009-01-03T20:14:00.001-08:00

I have no illusions that hundreds of people will read this blog. My purpose is, simply put, to write more often, and, therefore, more better. (You can see already that I need help.)

A quote from a book I read last year sums up my thinking behind this: "Writing scrapes the fungus off our thought, arranges our ideas in order, and underlines the important ideas. 'Writing,' said Francis Bacon, 'makes an exact man exact in thought and in speech'" (Biblical Preaching, Haddon Robinson, p. 184).

I hope, further, that those who stumble upon this site may in some small way be edified, challenged, comforted, or merely entertained. If nothing else, it can serve to inform friends and family of what I'm thinking and doing, should they care to know.

Blessings to all, and may 2009 bring you love, peace, and health in great measure.