More Cowbell

The Anchor Church worship team is a big fan of the Saturday Night
Live "More Cowbell" skit. We have a copy of it on the computer we use
for projecting Powerpoint slides. For Christmas this year, Pam got me
the "Best of Christopher Walken" SNL DVD, which includes the cowbell
sketch.

The skit is really famous among the younger set. I've run into many
college kids who can recite some of the lines, like "I've got a
fever, and the only prescription is more cowbell."

Yesterday, we did a jazzed up version of "This Little Light of Mine"
as part of the music package. As we practiced before the service, we
decided to add an instrumental verse in the middle of the other
verses. The drummer used the cowbell during the instrumental. And
then a light came on in my eyes. Instead of showing just a blank
screen during the instrumental, how about if we flashed for a few
seconds the words "More Cowbell"? We all smiled at the idea.

And we did it. During both services, as we did the instrumental, the
words MORE COWBELL flashed on the screen for about three seconds,
prompting the drummer to use more cowbell. Did the people in the
congregation get it? Did they know what the words meant?

A few did during the first service. A few more did during the more-
crowded second service. Last night during a meeting, I talked to a
couple of 50-ish adults, asking them if they knew what the "More
Cowbell" slide was all about. They didn't. Probably most of the
adults didn't get it. But a few did, and most of the younger adults
and teens "got it."

I'm just glad it's something we would try at Anchor. We brought some
smiles to people's faces, including my own as I stood at the keyboard.

Tom and Paula, Engaged

This morning I received a call from my niece, Paula. "I have some good news. What do you think it is?"

I immediately assumed she was engaged. It's something we've been waiting on, knew was most likely coming. She and Tom are a great match. Tom's a great guy. I totally approve. But yet, I was afraid to guess and say, "You're engaged?" So I hemmed and hawed, while Paula said, "Oh come on, you know." Finally I said, "Did you get a ring?"

"Yes!" And she then proceeded to tell me how and where and etc.

Tom and Paula have been dating for a couple years now. Last summer, Tom was part of our family vacation in Gatlinburg (to celebrate my parents' 50th anniversary). The picture above shows Tom and Paula on a trolley the day we all went to the Aquarium in Gatlinburg. In front of them are Stu and Joyce, Paula's parents (Stu is my brother).

One evening Paula asked me, "So what do you think of Tom? He says you're kind of hard to read, and he's not sure what you think of him."

I told Paula, "I've liked Tom from the moment I met him." And it's true. I think it's great that he was interested in the approval of me, a mere uncle. He's a good Christian guy from a good Christian home, a hard-working fellow, and I'm sure he and Paula will have a great life together. And I'll enjoy having him around.

Preying on the Believers

Keith Drury published an online piece called "Let us Prey." I highly highly HIGHLY recommend reading it. It includes "Five Things that Make Me Mad at Parachurch Organizations." He really goes after TBN and Benny Hinn. I got a kick out of his statement about the "seed faith" TV preachers: " I get angry when parachurch preachers promise poor people that God will bless them if they 'plant a seed of faith' by sending money to the televangelist. Hogwash! If this is true, then the televangelist should send money to the listeners—then God could bless their own seed-faith! Seed faith preaching is a signal of crooked hucksterism." (Read this eye-opener about the extravagant lifestyle of Paul and Jan Crouch of TBN.)

He also refers to an organization called MinistryWatch which keeps an eye of accountability on parachurch ministries. I checked out that site and was impressed.

In a previous life, when editing our denominational magazine, I did two special issues about parachurch organizations. I wrote to gobs of organizations requesting their audited financial statements and other info. It was all very interesting. It was also encouraging to see how many organizations are organized to humbly respond to requests like that. If they're on the up-and-up, they'll send you their audited financial statement. But then there are the low-life hucksters who bring shame to the body of Christ, and yet find ready victims among the seemingly infinite ranks of gullible, gullible Christians.

Where Do You Start to Help?

On Friday night, Pam and I stopped in at the Friday night youth
center our church runs. It's open 7-10 pm every Friday night. We meet
in a house next door to the church (which the church owns). There's a
pool table and other games in the basement, a room upstairs with TV/
videogame equipment, a front room with bar chairs and tables, a
kitchen, and a large room in the back of the house. Teens and post-
high schoolers drop in, and adults spend time with them. Pam and I
volunteered with this ministry for about four years, but during the
past year we transitioned out to focus on other ministries. But on
Friday night we drove over to the Third Street Cafe (which is what we
call this ministry) just to check in and see what was happening.

We spent the whole time in that front room, talking with adults and
some high school age kids. There was open talk about birth control
methods and other things I don't remember my youth group ever
discussing. It was good being reminded of the dysfunctional
situations these kids come from. In particular, we talked with a guy
and girl who are living together, she's pregnant, he recently got out
of jail (for the second time), and they're thinking of getting
married sometime this year. They come to church regularly. They were
there today and stayed for the potluck after church. I think that's
great.

The guy had just landed a job. He told us about it Friday night, and
we celebrated that with him. It's tough for guys who have been in
jail to land decent jobs. He was telling people today at church about
it. We have another fellow who was in jail for a while, and I
remember how happy he was when he finally found a job.

And now he's gonna be a dad, and he seems so terribly young, so
terribly unready. Both of them do. How do we help them? They need
good examples, and they have them in the adults at the youth center.
But that's only for a few hours. You can't replace the value of
growing up in a home where you can watch a mom and dad interact year
after year in healthy ways. I treat Pam like I saw Dad treat my Mom.
But for this couple, who come from dysfunctional situations (she
never knew her biological father, and both her mom and step-dad died
within a few months of each other a few years ago, at which point she
went to live with an aunt), they both start from such a terribly deep
hole.

It' s just overwhelming, sometimes, when you see the depth of needs
in people's lives. Particularly in a neighborhood like ours, though
you can find these situations in smalltowns just as easily.

Anyway, they have little or no family support system, low-paying
jobs, a baby on the way, little knowledge of how to relate to each
other in healthy ways, a shallow value system. But they have us, and
a loving church. That needs to go a long way. They've been on my mind
a lot during the last few days. That makes me happy. I can be
callous. I guess in this situation, I truly care.

Faithfulness Out of the Spotlight

Back in the mid-1980s, I came across an amazing little free-verse
poem by Ruth Harms Calkin. I typed it and taped it on the wall above
my AT&T MS-DOS computer (2 floppy drives, no hard disk). Back then, I
was editor of my denomination's magazine, a position which gave me
quite a bit of visibility. People knew me. Because of a popular
monthly humor column I wrote (disguised as an editorial), people
often told me they had been wanting to meet me. Imagine that.

The AT&T was, blessedly, supplanted by a Mac II (still two floppies,
but with an enormous 20 megabyte hard drive), but the poem remained
in place. In fact, it hung on that wall until 1993, when I moved to a
different office.

At that point, the poem found its way into a "keepsake" box. That's
where I rediscovered it a few months ago. It was originally typed on
an IBM Correcting Selectric typewriter, which makes me wonder if it
actually predates the AT&T. It's still a wonderful poem, goading me
on issues of humility and faithfulness.

So here it is. Enjoy, and be thought-provoked.

I Wonder

You know, Lord, how I serve You
With great emotional fervor
    in the limelight
You know how eagerly I speak for You
    at a women's club.
You know how I shine when I promote
    a fellowship group.
You know my genuine enthusiasm
    at a Bible study.

But how would I react, I wonder,
If You pointed to a basin of water
And asked me to wash the calloused feet
Of a bent and wrinkled old woman,
Day after day,
Month after month,
In a room where nobody saw
And nobody knew.

--Ruth Harms Calkin

There Because They Wanna Be

A group called the Literacy Alliance meets in the basement of our
church on Thursday nights, during the time that the music team is
upstairs in the sanctuary practicing. The Literary Alliance teaches
people of all ages to read and write.

Tonight I noticed a light on in an upstairs classroom. I peeked
through the cracked door and saw two people sitting at a table, their
backs to me. One was an adult woman, and to her left was a young man
with black hair. Was he Hispanic, perhaps, and wanting to learn
English? Or just a young man--junior high, high school, post-school--
who never learned to read? I couldn't see their faces. But they were
both looking down at a book on the table, and the woman was leading
the young man through something in a voice too low for me to hear.

I thought of some of the junior high school boys from our
neighborhood who come to the Wednesday night children's ministries
and wreak havoc. Just do everything they can to disrupt the teaching.
They come voluntarily, but they don't really have any interest in the
reason we do Wednesday night.

Then here was this young guy, coming probably by himself on Thursday
night, coming without any requirement that he be there. Coming
because he wants to learn. And he's listening intently to his tutor,
following her words, taking it all in.

My, wouldn't it be nice it all of the youngsters we attract held that
attitude toward spiritual things. I'm certain that some of our
regular Sunday morning adults don't necessarily come because they're
truly interested in learning about the Bible and spiritual growth.
There are other motivations, like just making the wife happy, or out
of some long-established habit they just can't break.

Anyway, I'm glad the Literacy Alliance uses our church, and that they
want to be located in our neighborhood. Just seeing those two
faceless persons, their backs to me, huddled in purposefulness, made
me feel real good.

Deflated

I suddenly have no interest in football. I've been paying closer
attention this year than I have for many years; Pam has even gotten
into it. But after the Colts lost today, I feel totally deflated,
like I don't care about the NFL anymore. Sure, I'll watch games
again next week. But I didn't realize how much my renewed interest
was dependent on the Colts. As I type, the Panthers and Bears are
playing, and I haven't even been watching it.

I'm bummed. Maybe I'll call in sick tomorrow. The work of the Kingdom
can continue without me.

How Does She Read So Fast?

Pam, my wife, read 175 books last year. She's had a goal, since the
mid-1980s, of reading at least 52 books a year. Lately, she's been
doubling that goal. I think she was somewhere around 120 last year.
But 175? Geeesh! That's almost a book every two days. And she doesn't
skim. I skim, to an extent. Pam reads every word.

So far, she has read five books in 2006. I've read two, one of which
I actually started in 2005. I'm a competitive person. But in this
matter, there is absolutely no competition. I flat-out concede to my
wife's superiority.

People Who Prefer to Say No

I came across an interesting quote: "There are people who prefer to say ‘Yes,’ and there are people who prefer to say ‘No.’ Those who say ‘Yes’ are rewarded by the adventures they have, and those who say ‘No’ are rewarded by the safety they attain."

I'm still inclined to run many things through the filter of the Missionary Church vote. That's the biggest "No" I've encountered for a while: when my denomination said "No" to joining forces with another highly like-minded denomination. It would definitely have been an adventure. And yet, the No vote pretty much forced us to launch into a different kind of adventure, an adventure in remaking ourselves, an adventure in survival. And I must admit--it is kind of adventurous.

But I suspect that as we go, we'll get increasing resistance. Because the vote, I'm more and more convinced, was not against joining the Missionary Church. It was in favor of existing comfort zones. People didn't want to be yanked into the unknown. If they felt comfortable with the world they were inhabiting, they wanted it to remain that way. And so they were saying, "Let it be. I'm happy. Don't force me to leave the Shire and go on an adventure."

Not everyone held this attitude. So Anthony, don't scold me here. But many did.

Nevertheless, we're on an adventure as a denomination. People seem cooperative right now. But when the bishop starts stretching people with accountability and continuing education and evangelism and other things, there will be resistance. Because people don't like being nudged out of their comfort zones, out of the safe worlds they inhabit. And they'll start finding new things to criticize in their efforts to preserve their comfort zones. They'll crititize the process ("process," I've observed numerous times, is always an easy target, and usually the first target), and the leaders chosen, and "the way things are being handled," and other things. So the seasoned cynic in me says.

This is the adventure which lies ahead for the bishop--dealing with the people who prefer to say No, who prefer to remain safe. Fortunately, he knows they're out there.

A Year After the Mugging

As we pulled into our usual parking place--beside a telephone pole on a side street down from the church--Pam remarked that it was just a year ago that Joanna Herrick was mugged in the church parking lot. When I mentioned it to Joanna, she said, "It was a year ago tomorrow. I don't normally remember dates, but I remember that one."

I wrote about the experience a year ago, how Joanna came to church an hour early and, while still in the church parking lot, was approached and mugged by two guys. They stole her purse, which was the small thing. The big thing is that she fell to the ice-covered lot and broke her right leg. A very nasty break.

"I consider myself a miracle," Joanna told me today. "Doctors said it would take me a year to recover, but look at me." Indeed. On Labor Day Sunday, when we hold services at a campground for a baptismal service, Joanna was walking around fine, though a couple ladies would assist her. Joanna was back to driving her car in the fall, coming to my Sunday night home Bible study. During our Halloween event at the church, she dressed as a clown and did face-painting.

Joanna is somewhere in her 70s, the latter part, I think. But she sure doesn't act it. She jokes easily about the mugging. Nothing's gonna make her afraid or cautious. The leg still hurts sometimes, but she doesn't complain. The muggers were never caught, the purse never recovered. But I suspect that if she met the two fellows, she would go up and hug them. And then tell them they needed to get right with the Lord. And she wouldn't be able to resist kidding the bigger guy about how, when she fell to the ice, she took him down with her.

We're truly blessed to have somebody like Joanna at Anchor Community Church.

I'm Impressed by Bloggers

I'm developing some blogs for denominational use, and they'll be
unveiled in the coming months. I'm pretty excited about it.

As I've been working on this, I've been visiting scores of blogs to
get ideas, particularly regarding graphic design. And I've been
impressed by how many people out there can write well. I thought
writing had gone down the tubes. But at least in blogdom, there are
lots of really great wordsmiths out there, lurking amidst the huddles
masses. Ordinary blokes and housewives and students and what-have-you
who decided they wanted an outlet for their thoughts, and phooey on
whether or not anyone cares to read their stuff.

Because of my training and experience in writing, I tend to be much
more critical of writing. But I tell you--there are a lot of good
writers out there. They put words together well, and they even get
punctuation right. Many of these are people whose careers do not
involve writing; they aren't professionals. But blogs give them an
outlet for developing their writing ability, and in the process they
get good practice in organizing and articulating ideas. It's
certainly good practice for me, even though I write stuff as part of
my work every day. Blogs give me a chance to be creative, something
which a news report doesn't always provide.

Many bloggers are way to wordy to hold my attention--I prefer shorter
entries (a standard I don't impose on myself, obviously!). And some,
rather than creating new content, merely reference stuff they find
elsewhere (which bores me). But there are plenty of creative types
out there who churn out interesting new content, even if it's merely
describing what they did the day before. A growing number seem to be
learning HTML, too, so they can also be creative with their blog design.

Anyway, just thought I'd mention that.

My Own "Farris Hassan" Moment

Hurray for Farris Hassan! I think it's marvelous that this young man
was so zealous about nabbing a story that he made his way to Iraq.
Yeah, it was dumb. Yeah, I'd be horrified if I was one of his
parents. But I find his journalistic enthusiasm and initiative to be
energizing. Plus, it reminds me of a very stupid thing I did when I
was only a few years older than him.

I guess I was 20. It was my junior year of college, and I was taking
the January Term off (you only needed to take 3 of the 4). I spent
January working in a grocery store during the day, and then doing
layout for the local newspaper in the evening. It was great fun.
However, I'd been taking journalism classes at college, had just read
"All the President's Men," and figured I would become a newspaper
reporter. And so, I yearned to get "out in the field." And that's a
very appropriate term in the San Juaquin Valley of California.

Migrant worker camps, peopled mostly by illegal aliens, could be
found in various places around us. Maria, one of our favorite patrons
at the grocery store, came every few weeks and loaded up with
hundreds and hundreds of tortillas, plus several 100-pound bags of
flour. She was a cook in one of the camps.

Anyway, I decided to go "investigate" one of the camps, see what kind
of story I could roust up. And so one day I drove my parents' car
many miles through cotton fields and vineyards until I found a camp.
I parked by the road, crossed a field, gently scaled the small barbed-
wire fence which ringed the camp, and began walking down the dirt
paths of the camp. Most of the people lived in shacks of
indeterminate age. A woman stood in front of one. I approached,
talked to her with highly broken Spanish, and peered through the
screen door to find kids playing on the all-dirt floor. She didn't
say anything back.

Meanwhile, a number of Hispanic guys were watching me closely, and
others kept joining them. I waved, and continued walking through the
camp. It began dawning on me how stupid I was. I didn't see any
stories in sight. I couldn't converse with the people. And I was
beginning to feel a bit afraid. I hadn't told anybody where I went. I could disappear without a trace. So I turned around, headed back over
the barbed-wire fence, across the field, and to the car. I could see
camp folks watching me as I drove away.

I don't think I ever told my parents about that.

Yes, it was stupid. But it was industrious! Like Farris! He'll be a
great journalist someday. If he doesn't get himself killed first.

New Years Eve 1974

Pam and I had a very uneventful New Year's Eve this year. We just stayed home and did nothing. No parties. No stepping outside to watch the fireworks downtown. Pretty boring. Part of the problem is that I'm still (still!) sick, this time with what seems to be bronchitis. The other issue is that nobody invited us anywhere, and we didn't invite anyone over.

I was trying to remember memorable New Year's Eve parties I've attended. Last year's comes to mind, because a good friend came over during the party at our house with the news that he and his wife were done (her doing). I ended up talking to him a long time about that. I remember a few others that were nothing special. But the one that stands out goes clear back to my junior year in high school, in 1974.

At the beginning of the school year, we moved to Pixley, Calif., where Dad began pastoring his first church. I had left a dynamic youth group where kids were getting saved right and left; that was in Lake Havasu City, Ariz. At Pixley, I found a much smaller youth group which was characterized by established relationships and pretty much no spiritual spark. I found it very difficult to "break in," and that's a big issue when you're a self-conscious teen.

The youth group leader, Wayne, hosted a New Year's Eve party at the church. And that night, especially as we played game after game of Tripoley, I laughed and laughed and mixed it up with the others in the group. And that night, for the first time, I felt like I was accepted into their circles. I went on to develop some really good relationships with those teens, and things of a spiritual nature happened.

Also things of a not-so-spiritual nature, like the kick-butt basketball team we formed for the summer park league--the only church team, and I think we took second place. One night, after I severely outplayed the guy guarding me on an all-black team, mainly because he was half drunk, that guy came at me with a crowbar after the game. He felt like he had been humiliated in front of his friends, even though I was smart enough to avoid any trash talking with this particular fellow. Something kept him from swinging, and considering his rage at me, I've always marveled that I got away unscathed. He did kick my car as I finally made my escape. Ah, those were good times!

Anyway, that party was a breakthrough in helping me feel "included." And that was a really big deal.