The Contemplations of Chastorpad

I've Moved!

2010-04-26T11:34:00.000-07:00

The Contemplations of Chastorpad has moved to this address:

http://chadwhitley.wordpress.com

Check me out there!

Packing Light

2010-03-01T11:43:00.000-08:00

Last weekend, my mother and my sister came into town. They arrived late on a Friday night, and after a good night's sleep (and a few hours at Upward Basketball on Saturday), we commenced with some merry-making at Crabtree Valley Mall in Raleigh. Up and down the corridors we traveled, until my wife and sister stumbled upon an entire store dedicated to cosmetics.

Yay.

So, while my mother and I sat (un)comfortably off to one side, my wife and sister browsed the merchandise. My wife located a brush that was to her liking, and my mother volunteered to pay for it. After the purchase was made, I looked at this tiny, rather insignificant construction made of hair and plastic, and asked innocently, "How much was it?"

$28.

TWENTY-EIGHT DOLLARS.

I can buy a TOOTHbrush for $4, and it will save me from decay and dentures. So you can forgive me if $28 seemed like a lot of money for a few hairs in a plastic shell. The kind folks at the store had placed it in a bag (which, for $28, should have come with a lock, an alarm, and a little man with a gun), and I noticed that the bag was rather ornate. Handsome, even. As a matter of fact, I liked the BAG better than the brush, and I couldn't help but think, "If you just used regular brown paper bags, you might be able to knock a little off of this brush here."

Now, if you read this blog, you know how my mind works. Or, perhaps, you wonder IF it works. That's a debate for another time. For now, follow me here. See, for me, the bag--the packaging, the presentation--overshadowed the purchase itself. The brush was the merchandise, and it should have been the star. But next to the awesome bag, the brush just looked, well...like a BRUSH.

And it certainly didn't look worth $28.

Stay with me, because I'm going somewhere.

Don't we do the same thing with the gospel?

Don't we feel the need to dress the gospel in more contemporary garb in an effort to make it relevant for today? (By the way, the gospel doesn't need our help to be relevant; it already is the most relevant message on the planet.)

Have you ever wondered what the world thinks of our packaging? We preach a message of sacrifice, of loving God and others first, of the poor being elevated and the rich being humbled, of self-denial and discipleship, of selling possessions and giving proceeds to the needy--and then proceed to fill our churches and youth departments with the BEST MATERIAL GOODS THAT MONEY CAN BUY.

Student ministries spend inordinate amounts of money on Xboxes, PS3s, and Nintendo Wiis--and nary a cent on buying clothing for the homeless. The packaging is in the way of the message.

Churches drop 500 grand to refurbish their sanctuaries, to make them "more appealing" to the world beyond its walls--but pinch pennies when it comes to meeting the needs of the people in their community. The packaging is in the way of the message.

We have loud music, multimedia presentations, dynamic speakers, books by the truckload, the latest and best technology on the market today, stylish decor, trendy seating and facilities--but people leave our worship services disinterested, unchallenged and unchanged. The packaging is in the way of the message.

Now, I do believe that churches have every responsibility to, as Reggie Joiner says, distinguish between the things that are core and the things that are cultural, preserving the former and being willing to change the latter. And the bottom line is that much of what we do in church is, to varying degrees, cultural.

There's nothing inherently wrong with packaging the gospel in culturally relevant ways, as long as the packaging doesn't eclipse the gospel. In fact, all of our packaging--all of our programming--ought to highlight the gospel and bring it to the fore, not push it into the background. No program on the planet has ever changed a person's life; Jesus does that. We don't have the right to change the message, and we don't have the right to obscure it in the name of being relevant. We do have a responsibility to preach the gospel in a language that people understand, but it is the gospel we preach, not the merits of the language itself. The language is simply a vehicle.

So, going forward, let's make sure we focus first on that for which Jesus died, and structure our programs to demonstrate the gospel to the world. May our methods never become our message, and may our message be the gospel and the gospel alone.

On the Downfall of FlashFAILward

2010-02-23T12:49:00.000-08:00

Ok. Before I launch into yet another television tirade, read this and this.

Finished? Good.

(Cracks knuckles).

At the beginning of each fall television season, I always get just a little bit giddy as I search through headlines, set reports, and early reviews to find a new television show to watch so that I can waste hours of my time staring at my 47-inch Samsung LCD bad boy (which I hear is being made obsolete by LED technology. Figures). I will admit to some disappointment this year, as I didn't find the bevy of opportunities I had in years past; the pickin's was slim indeed. But there was one show that had promise, one show about which I thought: "That has the potential to be the next Lost." I mean, it had a good premise, good actors, and competent writers and show runners (except for Brannon Braga, to whom I refer not-very-affectionately as One Of The Guys Who Killed Star Trek On TV). Oh yes...I had such high hopes for FlashForward.

And then, I saw the first episode. At first, I was suitably impressed. Nice graphics. Decent acting. And the premise was, again, interesting (if not iron-clad). But then, I realized something.

I don't know these people (the MTV article above agrees with me on this). I don't know who they are, and I don't know why I should care about them. By the end of the first episode, I couldn't remember the names of the main characters. And now, ten episodes in, I STILL CAN'T TELL YOU THEIR NAMES.

This is a problem, you see. In order for a weekly television drama series to work, there has to BE drama. And one of the key ingredients of good drama--one of the things that makes drama so dramatic--is a solid cast of characters in whom a viewer can invest his or her time and energy on a weekly basis. If I'm invested in a character, I CARE about what happens to them. I pull for them to succeed, I'm sad when they fail, and I mourn when they leave. I should FEEL something--anything--for them, and there is a massive list of emotions from which to pull: contempt, adoration, anger, joy, excitement, hatred, love, etc.

Boredom isn't one of those, and for good reason. If I'm bored, I'm not invested.

I am bored with FlashForward. And clearly, I'm not the only one.

ABC has tried to rectify the problem by changing show runners, replacing Mark Guggenheim with David Goyer.

FAIL. Now Goyer is gone from the post (if not from the show).

They have also tried to generate interest in the show by selling the first half of the season on DVD before the rest of the season has even aired.

FAIL. But that may just be my opinion. Apparently, some people like it. The way I see it, people who buy this set are either going to have TWO DVD cases sitting in their cabinets in order to have the complete season, or they're going to buy the inevitable "super-duper awesome deluxe director's cut special edition" set that will inevitably be released as ABC tries to recoup some of the money they've blown on this sub-par show so far. Either way, real people with real money LOSE.

Finally, the show halted production and took an extended hiatus mid-season to reboot.

And, FAIL. Having to REboot a show that has just been, er...booted (I guess) for the first time, and only 10 episodes in, can't be a good sign of things to come. It's like pulling into a restaurant and seeing a sign that reads: "No mater what the helth inspecter says, we ONLY use the highest grad of "meat" in our dishes. Injoy yore meal, and don't worry about the aftertaste. It goes away in a while. But if'n you develup a hedake, or start pukin' blood, call a doctor rite away."

Yeah, that would raise a few too many questions. First of all, if you are competent enough to run a restaurant, why can't you spell? Second, what did the health inspector say? And why did you put quotes around the word "meat?" And by the time I get to the part about the aftertaste, I'm already headed out the door.

Does ABC know what to do with this show? It doesn't look like it. I mean, right off the bat, right after the characters woke up from their flashforwards, they established a date for when the flashes took place (meaning that the whole show is pointing to THAT DATE as the focus of the entire show leading up to it).

The date? April 29. OF THIS YEAR. So, then what, ABC? Another flashforward? More blackouts? Whole episodes of people just hanging out in their offices like any other day? Do you know? Do you care?

I am an eternal optimist. I sincerely hope I'm wrong about this. I hope that somewhere, deep within the recesses of the writers' minds, there is a gold mine full of ideas just waiting to be harvested. I'll watch and see. But for now, I fear that FlashForward was just a flash in the pan.

A Tale of Two TV Shows

2010-02-18T17:42:00.000-08:00

There's an old saying that goes something like this:

"The more, the merrier."

It's a phrase often used to say, "Sure, you can come along (even though we didn't plan for you to come). It's totally cool (that you invited yourself, without even taking into consideration the fact that we didn't invite you to come for a REASON, namely, that you're ANNOYING). It'll be fun (trying to ditch you at the first possible opportunity. And you're paying your own way, pal. I'm just saying). THE MORE, THE MERRIER.

And sure, there are certain things that are just more fun with more people. Football, for example. It's great fun with 30 people. It's slightly less fun with 20, even less with 10, and downright boring (and virtually impossible) with just one person.

But "more" doesn't always equal "merrier."

Take, for example, a few television shows for whom "more" cast members simply gave them "more" problems.

I'll start with Heroes. Now, I know that I've been hard on Heroes lately, so let me begin by saying that I'm sor...

You know what? I can't do it. I'm not sorry. Heroes blew chunks this year. And last year. And mostly, the year before that. So they deserve every bit of venom that I can vomit in their direction. I make no apologies for it. But here, I think, is one reason for their inanity.

They just have too many people in their show.

Now, truth be told, I don't really know exactly how many main cast members there are. I think they started with something in the neighborhood of seven or eight (Nathan, Peter, Mohinder, HRG, Claire, Hiro, Matt, Isaac, and Niki/Jessica). To this, they added what seemed like a never-ending list of supporting characters, and then--THEN!-- they removed a few of the cast members (temporarily, of course) and replaced them WITH NEW CAST MEMBERS. So they lost maybe one or two characters in season one, and then in season two, they added Maya and Alejandro (EPIC EPIC EPIC EPIC FAIL), Sylar became a lead character, and Adam Munroe waltzed onto the scene as our villain. And the cast has rotated ever since, preserving, however, the completely ridiculous number of characters for which the writers have to attempt to create meaningful stories and scripts.

It's impossible. There's no way to to do that for such a vast number of characters in the course of a single season. And so, you have Hiro being stranded in feudal Japan for half a season (season 2, if you're interested), Nathan and Peter meandering in a jungle for several episodes and switching sides on what seems like a daily basis FOR NO APPARENT REASON WHATSOEVER (season 3), Sylar being stuck inside of Matt's head and...NATHAN'S BODY (you think I'm kidding. I'm not. Season 4), and Hiro (again) trying to "help" people and correct the mistakes of his past, starting with a dude on the roof of his building who is attempting to commit suicide for making photocopies of his naked rear end (season 4).

Yes, I'm serious. And when you stop laughing at the sheer absurdity of this reality, ask yourself what might have been if:

--Mohinder had disappeared five minutes into season 1, never to return.
--Hiro (as lovable as he is) had never been introduced as a time-traveler.
--The show had rightly kept its focus on the family dynamic between Claire/HRG and Nathan/Peter.
--Maya and Alejandro had appeared for just long enough to burst into flame and vanish forever from our sight.

--The show had not introduced a new villain with each volume, but kept developing the few villains they already had (Sylar and Linderman, from season 1).

--Sylar hadn't spent half of a season stuck in Matt's head and...NATHAN'S BODY (still not kidding, but it doesn't really have anything to do with the size of the cast. My Lord, though. How stupid. Sheesh.)

And these are just a few suggestions. The point is: too many cast members made Heroes virtually impossible to follow (and like) after season 1.

Lost had the same issue: a cast that was much too large to handle on a consistent basis. But the writers of Lost knew that it would be an issue, so they had a large cast that felt small, because they kept the individual episodes focused on one character at a time, while keeping other characters in the periphery, reminding us that they were there without making them the focal point. This allowed viewers to get to the know the characters one at a time, and slowly, over the course of a season or two, viewers started to care about these main characters. Plus, Lost knew how to trim the fat (Boone and Shannon, anyone?) and did so relatively frequently. Yes, they added characters, but those characters were fleshed out well, and fit within the meta-narrative that governs the Lost universe. There have been hiccups (Niki and Paulo, for example), but mostly, Lost is a tale of an ensemble cast done well.

All things considered, though? I would recommend keeping the main cast small, and allowing stories to revolve around them. Bring in supporting characters to fill the empty space, and guest stars are always welcome. But a small cast can help make a TV show a lean, mean, ratings-earning machine.

What Matters Most

2010-02-14T18:41:00.000-08:00

Today, I did something that I've never done before.

Before you get all excited, thinking about how you're about to hear this harrowing tale of adventure and danger, let me assure you--it's nothing like THAT.

No, my first-time experience was something far more mundane: I traded in some video games at GameStop.

Please don't stop reading, because this IS going somewhere.

See, a year or so ago, my mom gave me a PlayStation 3 for Christmas (which, incidentally, I use primarily as a Blu-Ray player). For whatever reasons, the geniuses at Sony (and by "geniuses," I mean "money-grubbing thieves") decided NOT to make the PS3 backward-compatible, so none of my PS2 games would work on it. For over a year, they've been sitting on a shelf right across from my seat on the couch, just taunting me, daring me to do something about their uselessness. And for a year, I've endured their taunting, convincing myself that someday, I might just break out that old PS2 (I don't even know where it is) and play those games again.

Now, please understand: I'm a guy, and guys have a tendency to mark milestones in their lives by the things (namely, gadgets) they accrue. For example, I like to think of my time in Middle School as "the Nintendo Years" and my tenure at Mars Hill as the "N64/Sega Genesis Era." My PS2, then, helped me through a move to Texas, 1,000 miles away from the rest of my family. I can remember spending hours playing Kingdom Hearts, Splinter Cell, and a couple of Lord of the Rings titles. While there were good times in Texas, there were some dark times, too; and those dark times were often illuminated by the flicker of a television screen and the "click clack" of a game controller in the middle of the night. Getting rid of those games, then, wasn't just a matter of disposing of some technology; it required me to do away with some tangible reminders of a very important time in my life.

Perhaps that, more than the passing thought that I might play them again, was what kept me from trading in those games long ago.

But today was different. I packed up those games, put them in my car, and drove them across town to my neighborhood GameStop. There were about eight games, for which I received about $15. Total.

But I made a mistake. In one of my game cases, I had accidentally packed the wrong game, and just for fun, I asked the GameGuy to price it for me. He gave me a quote of about $2.50, and his fellow GameGuy laughed and said, "$2.50. That's how much your memories are worth to us."

He said it in jest, but it hit me like a brick wall. In that moment, two things occurred to me simultaneously:

1) Why am I selling my memories at such a cheap price?
2) I am WAY too attached to my stuff.

In a weaker moment, I might have said, "No thanks, buddy. You keep your lousy money. Give me my games back. They're worth more than $2.50." But they aren't. Not really. I should feel blessed to have gotten that much for games that are designed to work on a system that is already obsolete.

But when I turned around after receiving the quote, I saw my wife and my little girl standing there in the store next to me. My wife was grinning ear to ear at even the THOUGHT of clearing some space in our home (and getting paid for it, even if it was in store credit), and my little girl was just looking around at all the pretty colors and bright lights, just happy to be out, happy to be alive.

And I remembered that it wasn't my PS2, or the games that I played, or the flickering of a late-night television set that got me through tough times. It was the grace of Jesus Christ, offered through loving church members, and through the steadfast love and presence of my wife, right by my side, right where she's always been. And my memories are not bound up in plastic cases, multilingual instruction manuals, or circular discs containing graphics and sound. Those memories are part of the grand story that God is writing in my life, and while they may be worth $2.50 to the GameGuys, they're priceless to me. And they're not for sale. But I don't need games to remember that. I simply need to look into my wife's eyes, and into the smiling face of my daughter to see what matters most.

So I just want to take a moment to say "Happy Valentine's Day" to my wife and daughter, the two most wonderful gifts that God has ever given to me. I love you both with all of my heart.

And to my Lord and Savior, my best friend, Jesus: I'm sorry that I have ever given ANYTHING or anyone else the glory for what only You could have done. It is only by your strength, by your grace, by your mercy that I live and move and have my being. I love you, and though I know I don't say it enough--thank you, Lord.

A Brief Trip into the Past

2010-02-13T19:13:00.000-08:00

Remember 1997?

The year that Princess Diana died in a tragic automobile accident? And Tim McVeigh was convicted in the Oklahoma City bombing? Perhaps you remember a little movie called Titanic?

Yes, it's true--1997 was important for a lot of reasons, and for those of us invested in comic books, one of the grandest of those reasons can be summed up in three letters:

J. L. A.

1997 was the year that the Justice League clawed its way from the sales basement and into the hearts of DC Comics fans everywhere. The reason? Grant Morrison.

Well, he was ONE of the reasons, anyway.

Yesterday, I purchased (and read) JLA: Volume 1 (The Deluxe Edition), collecting issues 1-9 of Morrison's run on the title. Here, for your reading enjoyment, are just a few of my thoughts about the early issues of JLA.

First of all, let me say that the lineup of the Justice League has often operated like prune juice: members come in quickly only to exit a short time later. Typically, very few of the "A-listers" (e.g. Superman, Batman, Wonder Woman, The Flash, Green Lantern) are regular members of the League; they usually serve as "reserve" members, or in "an advisory capacity," leaving the primary staff of the League to include lesser known (and, lets face it) often poorly equipped heroes.

THAT NEVER MADE SENSE TO ME. NOT EVER.

I understand that as a comic book title, JLA (or Justice League of America, whatever the trendy title happens to be at the time) could serve as a showcase for characters that don't get their own books. Fine. But as a team within that title, having only a few of the A-list heroes on the squad is just unbelievable.

Morrison turns the tide, and staffs the Justice League with only A-listers (at least, in the first few issues). They are: Superman, Wonder Woman, Aquaman (A-lister status is in question here, but Morrison pulls it off), Green Lantern, The Flash, Batman, and the Martian Manhunter. Later, he adds Tomorrow Woman (briefly) and Green Arrow (Connor Hawke, not Oliver Queen).

The result is the Justice League as I have always imagined it should be: with the most powerful heroes in the DC Universe united and working as a team to overcome whatever threats may come. And Morrison presents them with some awesome challenges right off the bat. So he got the line-up right, and future Justice League writers should take note of what he was able to do with such a solid cast (which, incidentally, he kept for more than two issues).

Second, the writing. Now, these issues were written in the 90's--only two years after Geoff Johns (DC's current superstar and, well--universe architect) graduated from college, and two years before his first work at DC Comics. The dialogue is often a bit over-the-top, relying (I think) too heavily on 90's slang at times; but Morrison nails the characters and the interactions between them. He gets what makes Aquaman tick, for example, and anyone who can make me care about Aquaman is impressive. He understands the potential conflict that could arise between two members of royal classes (Aquaman and Wonder Woman), and how these two sort out their disagreements. He gets the difference between Batman and Superman, and plays the two off each other extremely well. And most of all, he establishes a brotherhood between Wally West and Kyle Rayner, both of whom inherited mantles (The Flash and Green Lantern, respectively) that they are still trying to sort out for themselves. It's good stuff.

Third, the art. And here is where I found myself less than pleased, and a little surprised. I've seen Howard Porter's work before, and I've liked some of it. In JLA, though, it looked too cartoonish, almost silly at times. I would liked to have seen Ivan Reis' pencils on that book; I think he could have given the characters and the action a bit more depth. The art isn't so bad that I can't enjoy the rest of the book, but it is a distraction, and an unnecessary one.

I recommend JLA, for a bit of 90's fun and nostalgia. If nothing else, it will expose you to (or remind you of) Grant Morrison's work, and that's never a bad thing; Morrison has a penchant for turning his readers' expectations upside down (see, for example, his excellent but freakish Batman: R.I.P and wonderfully weird Batman and Robin). He's one of only a few comic writers whose work I will buy, sight unseen (Geoff Johns and Ed Brubaker are the others, if you're interested).

Check it out.

TV Fail

2010-02-10T12:56:00.000-08:00

As the 2009-2010 television season begins to inch past its midway point, I can't help but feel that I'm drawing closer to the end of an era.

First of all, this is the sixth and final season of Lost, a show that has both thrilled and frustrated me for the length of its tenure on the air. Show runners Carlton Cuse and Damon Lindelof have promised an exciting time for their viewers, and so far, they haven't disappointed. To be sure, the last six years have been...maddening at times, offering more questions than answers, but taken as a whole, Lost has been one of the most consistently fulfilling television experiences I've had in several years. I will miss it.

Second, this is also the 8th season of 24. Now, look--no one has been a bigger fan of this show than me. I can't even count the number of times I've said, "24 is, hands down, THE MOST INTENSE HOUR OF TELEVISION ON TODAY." Jack Bauer has become a national icon, and Kiefer Sutherland (when he stays out of jail) has managed to...revive a career that (let's face it) wouldn't be half of what it is without the show. But eight seasons? Really. It's just sad now. How many times are we going to be subjected to the same plot-lines (corruption in the government? No! A mole at CTU? It can't be! Jack "going dark" and being kidnapped/tortured/imprisoned by the bad guys? Say it ain't so!) I can't remember the last time I saw a plot "twist" that I hadn't already seen, in some form or fashion, during another season of THE SAME SHOW. I'm having a hard time staying engaged with season 8, and if the execs at Fox know what they're doing, they'll bury it in 2011. No disrespect intended, but it's time.

Third, Heroes. I almost feel as if I don't need to say any thing else. I have never seen a show go from "eyes glued to the TV set" to "head through the TV set" in such a short amount of time. Tim Kring and company didn't just jump the shark; they played hopscotch with it. On Pogo Sticks. On a trampoline. IN SPACE. I just can't fathom what happened to make this show plummet the way it has. Season 2 was incomprehensible. Season 3 was utterly ridiculous, with plot holes so vast that you could fit a medium-sized midwestern TOWN through them (and have space left over for sandwiches). Season 4 was mildly interesting, for a time; but then, the commercial ended and actual shows began to air, which rapidly made me lose interest. I wonder what Kring and Co. were thinking with this show. Perhaps something like this:

(This is a fictitious account of the first meeting of the creators and writers of Heroes. This is spawned purely from my imagination).

CREATOR: So, I have an idea for a show. It's about people with special abilities, but they don't know they have them. Then, they find out they have them, and they have to hide because they're afraid people won't understand them. But they can't hide for long, because they have to save the world.

WRITER: That's cool. Isn't that like X-Men, though?

CREATOR: So, anyway. I was thinking we could have a guy who could fly. And maybe a girl who heals.

WRITER: Great. Just please, please don't have a time-travel dude.

CREATOR: OOOHHH...TIME TRAVEL. There's no way THAT will backfire on us. Ok, so a Time Travel Dude.

WRITER: (Sigh)

CREATOR: So the end of season 1 is that they save the world. Whew, I'm tired. Let's get a burger.

WRITER: Wait. We know the end of season 1. But we don't know the rest of the season. And even if they save the world, what next? Is there a story? Is there any reason for this show to be on the air at all?

CREATOR: I like Burger King.

(End of fictitious account).

So, anyway, back to the commentary. If there is any television justice at all, Heroes will end this season. It's just painful to watch, and while keeping it on the air has been funny for a couple of seasons, it isn't anymore. Let it go. Let these actors find other jobs. They deserve it, having been forced to shovel manure for three seasons.

Fourth, Smallville. A show about Superman as a teenager, showcasing the trials of the Man of Steel as he goes through the pains of adolescence. Another good idea, in its inception.

Fast forward to NINE YEARS LATER. Lex is gone. Lana is gone (which is, actually, a bright spot). Pete Ross is gone (who?), and Tom Welling is 54 years old. Not really. But come on, guys. This was intended to be, at best, a high school teen drama. Think Dawson's Creek, but with heat vision. Like all high school dramas, Smallville began to wander aimlessly once the characters all (gasp) GRADUATED FROM HIGH SCHOOL. I watch now, but only because I have too much invested in the show to surrender. In the contest of who will last the longest, I WILL WIN. I will NOT be defeated by an angsty (no longer) high school soap opera.

Oh, well. At least I have Fringe. I hope.

A Checkpoint for the Translation Journey

2010-01-05T08:25:00.000-08:00

It's been two months since I declared my intention to choose (from a plethora of options) a primary translation from which to read, teach, and preach on a (fairly) consistent basis. And, having spent time with a number of those options, I have narrowed my search down to four, listed here in no particular order:

1) Holman Christian Standard Bible
2) New Living Translation
3) New Revised Standard Version
4) New International Version

To be honest, I'm really not that happy with the last one; I would much rather have put the Today's New International Version in its place, but it fails to meet one of my criteria (availability/publisher support--Zondervan has discontinued the translation in favor of a top-to-bottom revision of the NIV in 2011. We'll see how that goes). Because of that, I didn't think it fair to put it on a list of modern, up-to-date translations that do at least address the criteria, with varying degrees of success. That said, I may have to reserve judgment on it until 2011, because as the NIV stands right now, it comes up shorter than the other translations with regard to some of those criteria (I'll explain later, but know that I believe that the TNIV made some important and much-needed improvements over its 25-year-old cousin, and was a better translation for those improvements).

I should offer a proviso here, because I don't want anyone to think that I am on the search for the perfect translation. Such a beast does not exist, and to search for it would undoubtedly prove to be both frustrating and futile. What I am searching for is the translation that, in my opinion and for my purposes, meets the criteria that I listed in my last post on this topic. There are many, many wonderful translations that I have not included in my top four, and my reasons for doing so are varied; however, their exclusion from this smaller list should not be misconstrued in any way as a statement on my part that those translations are not good, accurate, and valid translations. They just didn't "tickle my fancy," as it were, with regard to this project. Just so you know.

Continue to pray for me!

Beautiful Ashes

2009-11-03T12:06:00.000-08:00

Steven Curtis Chapman has been a mainstay in an industry that has been blown about "by every wind of doctrine" and every style of musical expression imaginable. His music has been predictable in all the ways that it has needed to be, while still demonstrating Chapman's progressive growth as an artist and as a believer with each successive album. I have been a Chapman fan since "Heaven in the Real World," and though I've never had the privilege of meeting him, Chapman's honesty, vulnerability, and willingness to rip open his journey and share it with anyone who will listen for an hour or so has left me feeling as if I've known the man my whole life.

But nothing in Chapman's storied musical career prepared me for what I experienced when I first listened to his latest album, Beauty Will Rise.

For those who haven't heard (both of you), the last year and a half has been a long "dark night of the soul" for the Chapman family, for it was in May of 2008 that they lost their daughter Maria to a tragic accident. I won't recount the details of that event here, for it has been done elsewhere, and better than I could ever do it (see, for example, James Dobson's interview of Steven here.) Needless to say, the horror of Maria's death combined with the questions that flow naturally out of the messiness of grief left Chapman wondering if he would ever write, play, or sing music again.

I'm glad to say that he has, and in my opinion, Beauty Will Rise is Chapman's best effort to date.

Musically, this album might sound foreign to Chapman fans; the man made his career on upbeat pop/rock anthems that (at times) would flow seamlessly into more reflective worship ballads--only to have the guitars sound and drums pound with another fast-paced number to follow after them. There are no such numbers on Beauty Will Rise; most of it is driven by more acoustic sounds of a contemplative quality that beckon the listener to enter the Holy Place of Chapman's grief, where the air is thick with the smoke of unanswered questions and unresolved doubts. Chapman is not afraid to peel back the tender, new flesh on his still-healing broken heart and allow us to see both the scars and the seeping wounds within.

And yet, Chapman doesn't ask questions from a place of utter darkness and despair. Having spent no little amount of time there, Chapman has arrived at a place where he can proclaim hope in the midst of sorrow. On the song "Faithful," for example, Chapman almost forces the words from his throat, as if he is choosing to believe in the goodness and faithfulness of God, despite the heartache that he and his family have endured. It is Chapman's way of declaring victory over his sorrow:

You are faithful, You are faithful

When You give and when You take away

Even then still Your name is faithful

You are faithful

How does a family endure something so tragic, and come through with the ability to say, through tears, that "our God is control?" I cannot imagine what the Chapman family has experienced over the last year and a half, and to attempt to do so would, I fear, cheapen their suffering. It is much better simply to listen to Steven sing the journey that has taken him through death's darkest valley, and wait with him for the day when his journey will end in the green pastures and still waters of eternity. For Steven, however, I imagine that those wonderful things will simply melt into the background, for waters and meadows cannot compare to the glory of being in his daughter's arms again.

If you are a Steven Curtis Chapman fan, buy this album and a box of tissues. If you're not a Chapman fan, buy this album anyway. You won't regret it.

A Translation Plantation, Part One

2009-10-20T09:26:00.000-07:00

The title of this entry, in case you were wondering, is adapted from Disney's "101 Dalmatians." Dalmatian Plantation" was the name of the song that Roger wrote in celebration of the new canine additions to his family. There were so many (101, to be exact; try to look surprised) that Roger and family felt it necessary to move out of their cramped city dwelling and into a large country domicile complete with lots of land for their dalmatians to run and play.

There, I said it. And now, it's out of the way.

We may need something similar to accommodate the vast number of English translations of the Bible available to us today.

There may not quite be 101 (or are there?), but regardless of the number, it's difficult to argue against the fact that we are guilty of Bible gluttony. We have the luxury of choosing a translation based upon philosophy of translation (Formal equivalence? Check. Dynamic equivalence? Check. "Optimal" equivalence? Immodest, perhaps, but Check.) We can also choose whether we want a study Bible, a student Bible, or a student Study Bible. We can choose whether we want a compact, personal size, slimline, Large print, Giant print, and even a square Bible (if they're still in print). We have One-Year Bibles, devotional Bibles, metal Bibles, pink Bibles, blue Bibles, green (and Green) Bibles, and the list goes on and on.

It's a veritable Bible buffet! And while that sounds wonderful (all the Bread you can eat!), buffets are not without their shortcomings:

They're usually expensive. (Try this one out on Amazon. Go on--add one of each available Bible translation to your shopping cart, and see what number comes up.)

It's hard to focus on just one selection. (With so many choices, where does one even begin?)

I leave full, but rarely satisfied. (Unable to focus on one selection, my plate often looks like a sampler platter. The tastes all run together, and I find that while I've eaten a substantial amount, I haven't really savored anything).

The same applies to Bible translations, at least for me. I find myself faced with such a sumptuous spread of Scripture that I find it difficult to choose a main course. As a result, I flit from translation to translation, sampling the merchandise, but never savoring the flavor.

I'm ready to move away from the buffet line, and toward a gourmet meal.

To that end, I shall embark upon a journey to find a primary Bible translation to which I will commit for the long haul. That is, I will attempt to find a translation that I use for devotional reading, study, and the vast majority of the teaching and preaching I do. That's not to say that I won't do my due diligence and check a number of translations in my sermon/Bible study preparation (and even in my personal study); it is, however, a commitment to choose a translation to which I always return after such brief detours.

I plan to use four criteria through which to evaluate translations:

1) Accuracy (not necessarily "literal, word-for-word" accuracy; I'm not convinced that "literal" and "accurate" are synonymous).

2) My personal theological convictions (it seems hypocritical to preach/teach from a translation that routinely varies from my theological perspective).

3) Readability, both personal and public (sorry, KJV; I gotta move on).

4) Availability/Publisher Support (thanks, Rick Mansfield, for pointing out the importance of this one. And thanks, too, for the idea of doing this to begin with. Readers, check out his excellent blog (and top ten list, complete with reviews) here.

For your benefit (ok, maybe not. But at least for my benefit), I will chronicle my journey on this blog. Feel free to follow along. And pray for me. It promises to be a long journey.

Sticky Hand Student Ministry

2009-10-14T06:28:00.000-07:00

Do you remember "sticky hands?"

You know, those toys you could buy from the 25 cent machines at the grocery store?

The toys that had a gummy hand on a gummy rope that would stick to almost anything?

As a young child, I thought those things were the COOLEST EVER. When my mother would take me grocery shopping, I would ask for a quarter, and run to the corner of the store where the SuperBalls, plastic rings, and Sticky Hands took residence. And once I had obtained my sticky prize, I would practice with it on a variety of objects (in the store, actually, which got me in trouble more than a few times). And it worked, too--those sticky hands would adhere to a number of different objects.

At least, for a while.

Eventually, the sticky hand would be covered with dust, hair, and various other disgusting substances that would render the hand ineffective. Sure, the hand could be washed, which would restore some degree of stickiness, but it was never quite the same, and there was always a point of no return--a time when no amount of washing could return it to its former glory.

I guess it's time I got to the point.

I feel as though the "sticky hand" serves as an apt metaphor for the way I've been doing student ministry.

I'm from the old school of student ministry, and yes, I know that when it comes to student ministry, "old school" could technically mean "I just started last month." In my case, "old school refers to a particular methodology, which involves three tenets: Isolate the students (giving them their own space, classes, ministers, and (when you're REALLY growing) worship services; Educate/Indoctrinate students (depending on your particular theological persuasion); and Satiate students (with truckloads of food and entertainment).

Whether anyone would agree that this was an "official" methodology or not is not the point; this is how student ministry has been done in the past, and I'm sad to say, I've been part of that trend.

But let's be honest--like the "sticky hand," this model of student ministry "worked" for a while (whatever that means). It still "works," if by "working" we mean that it has the potential to draw students to youth meetings. But it also created an atmosphere of comparison and competition, and a church version of "keeping up with the Joneses" that saw small student ministries grabbing at whatever trend or fad came down the pike in order to boost their numbers to levels comparable to those of larger churches. Often (at least in my case), programming choices were made based on what "worked" at those churches, not on intentional planning and reflection on what the Holy Spirit was saying or what the students in my context needed. It was programming based on desperation, pure and simple.

Sling the "sticky hand," and see what it grabs.

The point, I guess, is that like the eventual fate of the"sticky hands," this method of student ministry is losing its stickiness for me. Fewer and fewer "fads" are drawing students to our ministries as they become less impressed with the pomp and circumstance we "Sticky Hand ministers" often substitute for faith formation.

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I know it will mean a top-to-bottom reevaluation of what student ministry is and isn't, of what is absolutely foundational to the process in order to call it student MINISTRY. I don't think the answer will be a new fad or trend, or a new flashy program released by a mega-church that we transplant directly into our own ministry contexts.

I think it will be a "grass-roots" transformation, one that begins (and has already begun) within the hearts and souls of student ministers everywhere.

I'll be attending the National Youth Worker's Convention in Atlanta this year, and I hope to receive some training that will expand my vision beyond the "old school." Sticky Hand Student Ministry--the desperate grabbing at anything that holds out a promise of "working"--just doesn't stick with me any more.

After all (to paraphrase Jesus), if a sticky hand loses its stickiness, how can its stickiness be restored? It is no longer good for anything, but is thrown out and trampled under foot.

And no, I'm not interested in Sticky FOOT Student Ministry.

"Just Over That Rim"

2009-10-05T09:38:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite television shows of all time is The (Original) Twilight Zone; it holds for me a certain sense of nostalgia, which is odd, since I wasn't really exposed to it until my junior year of college. My father watched it when he was a teenager, and when CBS released certain episodes on VHS, he purchased them and introduced me to the series.

I was hooked. Rod Serling, Earl Hamner, and the rest of the TZ "scribal council" (eat your heart out, Jeff Probst) knew how to hone in on some fragment of the human experience, flay it, and put it under the microscope for closer examination--and they could do all of this while capturing the attention of the audience. I highly recommend it; all five seasons are available on Amazon.com for a very reasonable price.

The title of this entry comes from an episode of TZ called "100 Yards Over the Rim." This vignette tells the story of Christian Horn, a husband and father who is leading his family across the country in 1849 to a better, richer land full of opportunity. Along the way, however, his son falls ill, and Horn becomes desperate to find someone who can deliver him from his malady. As he prepares to leave the caravan behind in an effort to find help, he tells his wife that he's not going far; hope might lie "just over that rim, there, about 100 yards." Horn grabs his rifle, gathers his courage, and walks toward the large hill that separates certain death from redemption, his fears and his hopes, his past and his future. And as he steps over the rim, he finds...

...well, that would be telling, wouldn't it? :)

As I think about that story, I can't help but wonder:

What are the "rims" in our lives?

What keeps us from "screwing our courage to the sticking place" and charging headfirst over them, come what may?

Why are we so afraid of that which we do not know?

After all, we're not the first people to face the rims with a choice to make; the encounter has happened time and again throughout history:

It's Abraham, standing at the rim of uncertainty, walking away from his roots and toward only God knows what.

It's Moses the murderer, Moses the stutterer, Moses the alien taking his first tentative steps back into Egypt, where he's wanted dead or alive, to rob Pharaoh of his slave workers.

It's Jesus, staring down the devil, and walking out of the wilderness into a calling that will cost him his life.

It's Paul, seeing the light, and rising from the ground with blinded eyes, walking toward Damascus, with only a name and a hope to guide him.

What are the rims in our lives?

Fear.

Uncertainty.

The unknown.

Disappointment.

Hypocrisy.

Self-doubt.

Or some as-yet-unnamed monster that keeps us paralyzed in our wagons, afraid to take a chance, afraid even to face the rim, much less charge over it?

What are the rims in our lives?

And perhaps more importantly...what mystery lies just on the other side of them?

As threatening as the rim may seem, is it really worse than never knowing what might be waiting for us over there?

Isn't it worth the risk to find out?

In Memoriam

2009-07-07T07:49:00.000-07:00

Our family lost a dear friend yesterday.

Her name was Maggie, and to say she was a dear friend does not do justice to the true nature of the relationship she shared with us. She was, in every way, a vital part of our family, and she could never, ever, be forgotten or replaced.

Maggie, you see, was our 13-year old family dog, and this entire blog entry is dedicated to her, and to the impact she made on all our lives.

I don't remember the exact date of Maggie's arrival in our lives; I do know that I was a senior in high school, and that the call from my Aunt Norma came in one of the colder months of the year. One of her doggies had delivered puppies, all of which looked the same--except for Maggie, who was the runt of the litter, and Aunt Norma wanted to make sure that she, too, had a home. We drove up to see her, and we fell in love with this beautiful black-and-tan little puppy almost immediately. We drove her home that day, and enjoyed her until it was time to go to bed. We tried (oh, we tried) to put her in the bathroom for the evening, but Maggie would have none of it. She was a people-person even then, you see, and didn't like to be left alone at all. Mom (who has a bleeding heart for animals, just like me) picked her up from the bathroom, and took her to bed with her.

It was over after that.

From that moment on, Maggie was (at times, literally) attached to my mother's hip. They were like Lassie and Timmy, except that Maggie was not a collie and Mom was not a ten-year-old boy. But the same friendship and loyalty were there, through and through: Mag and Mom, against the world. If Mom was watching QVC, Maggie was, too. If Mom went to the kitchen to pour a drink, Maggie followed. When Mom went to work, Maggie tried to accompany her, and when she was rebuffed, she crawled up to the top of the couch and mourned until she came back home.

So loyal was Maggie that when my mother underwent sinus surgery that became the precursor to severe anxiety attacks, Maggie stayed unwaveringly by her side. When Mom sat, Maggie sat. When Mom paced the floors, Maggie paced them right alongside her. I am convinced that it was Maggie, not medication, that got Mom through that difficult period of her life.

The relationship between Mag and Mom was exceptional, without a doubt. But Maggie loved us all, just as we loved her. And she was there for all of us. When I worked at Lowe's Companies, I would often drive back to my parents' house for lunch, and find only Maggie there waiting for me. I would eat (and share) my meal with her, and when we were finished, she would stretch out between my legs, sigh, and settle in for a short nap. When we were sad, Maggie knew how to cheer us up. When we were sick, Maggie faithfully and unselfishly took care of us. Whether with a slobbery "kiss" or a full-body wag (Maggie's tail alone could never contain the abundance of joy she kept inside), she always knew how to make us feel better.

Few people will believe me, but Maggie was a gifted performance artist. Upon arrival at my parents' house, I have been known to begin a chorus of "Howling Song" (don't bother looking it up; it's my own creation), knowing that Maggie would always be there to provide the necessary vocal accompaniment. And she always did. It was the most beautiful singing/howling I've ever heard. But her talent didn't end with singing; she was also quite the dancer. The arrival of my mother brought about a spontaneous doggy jig that Mom called the "tappy-tap dance." Her excitement in those moments was so intense that her paws barely touched the floor, and when they did, they sounded like a thousand Irish dancers in a roach-stomping contest. It was prettier than it looks, there on your screen.

Maggie was (by far) the most humble creature I've ever known. She never had to be told more than once to do something, and we never had to use raised voices. But she was no wimp; I saw her chase dogs three times her size on more than one occasion. What Maggie lacked in stature, she made up for in spirit. With the exception of one scary time, she was always where we thought she'd be--either with Mom (wherever that was), or sitting on the porch after an outdoor adventure.

Maggie and I used to share a special time that I called "The Quilt Game." The premise was simple: someone would hold Maggers, I would lie on the floor, and cover myself with a quilt or blanket. After a few seconds, I would start squirming under the quilt and growl, saying, "Robber, Robber, Robber." Maggie would join in the growling fun, and attempt to free herself from the grasp of her captor. Eventually, the person holding her would let go, and she would fly at me, growling and nibbling on the moving parts of the blanket. This would continue for a while, but when I said "friends, Maggie," she would always stop, ready to give me a kiss.

In recent years, the "tappy-tap dance" wasn't quite as fast and didn't last as long; the full-body wag had slowed steadily over time; she grew tired more quickly; and the Quilt Game became merely a fond memory, as Maggie was unable to do the vigorous things she once did. But her love and loyalty never changed. Even after last week, when she was diagnosed with lymphoma, Maggie never stopped caring for her family. Until the very end, I'm told, she was still by Mom's side, still demonstrating her love for her people in big and small ways, still giving kisses whenever she was asked for them. But that was Maggie, at the very core of who she was: a dear friend, a constant and reliable companion, and, in many ways, a sister and a daughter to us all.

And now, the quilt has fallen silent; "Howling Song" has become a solo refrain of lament; and the happy sounds of the "tappy-tap dance" echo only in our minds and hearts. I will miss the kisses, the wags, and always-perfectly-timed companionship that Maggie was always willing to provide. The Whitley family lost a loved one today, and the fact that she was a dog doesn't change the gravity of that loss at all, for none of us thought of her as a dog. She was a member of our family, a steady and calming presence in our lives, for thirteen wonderful years. And though she may be gone, she will never be forgotten.

Rest in peace, Maggers. We love you, and we will miss you.

You Gotta Fight...For Your Right...To Swear?!

2009-05-21T12:13:00.000-07:00

Ok, so I was perusing the music section of Christianity Today's music section, and I ran across this tasty little piece.

First of all, let me say for the record that I have been a big fan of Derek Webb, both during his tenure with Caedmon's Call, and throughout his controversy-laden solo career. I really do believe that Webb is saying some important things within Christian music--things that virtually no one else (save, perhaps, Jars of Clay) have dared even to approach. His first solo effort (entitled, She Must and Shall Go Free) was, I thought, a heart-felt plea to the Body of Christ to wake up and realize that what we are is not what we were meant to be. That album still resonates with me; as a matter of fact, it's in my CD player right now. It was a work of genius, both musically and lyrically, and proved to be a prophetic message clothed in beautifully poetic wrappings. Subsequent albums didn't do as much for me (musically, at least), but I can't fault Webb for exploring some different musical avenues. And the message remained strong, and even increased in potency, if that's possible. Webb's passion for social justice and other concerns that are often neglected within Christian circles is evident.

That said...whew. This business with INO records disturbs me. I understand the perspective from which Webb is arguing his case. He's an artist who wants to preserve the art he's created, without interference from the powers-that-be. I get that, I really do--and yet, I'm still "old school" with regard to certain standards of conduct.

Swearing is an "old school" issue with me.

Now, I've heard arguments made on both sides of the debate (even Christianity Today published some reader responses to their own article; they can be found here.). But I remain unconvinced that swearing--in any circumstance--is necessary to our communication of the Gospel. And if it's unnecessary--if there are other ways or means by which we can communicate a deeply held passion or conviction (and there are)--why use language is that is divisive, potentially offensive, and inflammatory?

One of CT's readers mentioned a controversial statement made by Tony Campolo, during which Mr. Campolo gave a disturbing statistic related to children starving to death due to malnutrition, and then accused his audience of not caring (except, in the original speech, he used used a scatological term). He then made the statement that his audience probably cared more about the offensive term than they did about the starving children. Well, no offense to Mr. Campolo, but that is, in my opinion, a false dichotomy. It is possible to be concerned about both the children and the foul language, as I am. And yes, I know all about the Apostle Paul's use of the word skubalon, and what it probably meant in his day, blah, blah, blah. But I just can't help but think that Christians should follow a higher standard than that set by the world. We can be loving, generous, kind, nurturing, forgiving, challenging, and yes, prophetic, without looking, smelling, tasting, sounding, or speaking just like the world around us. I'm all for being relevant, but the Gospel, for me, has always been about transformation: submitting ourselves to Christ and allowing him to mold us, shape us, and change us into the people we were created to be.

It seems to me that if we lose that which makes us different, we lose that which makes us relevant to begin with. So I'll pass on swearing, thanks. I cannot, in good conscience, speak good news from a potty mouth.

Wrong, Again

2009-05-14T05:30:00.000-07:00

Ok, so earlier this week, I posted a blog entry in which I explained that I have difficulty admitting that I'm wrong.

There, I said it.

But it's easier for me now than it used to be, because I have learned that being wrong--and being willing to acknowledge it, accept it, and admit it--can be cathartic. Redemptive, even.

Want to know the story of how I came to this (not really) mind-blowing realization?

Well, too bad. Because I'm going to tell it, anyway.

Several years ago, when I was still a *young* youth minister, I had the privilege of serving in a church that really had a passion for young people. But what made this particular congregation really special is that the youth had the same passion for their peers; they loved Jesus, loved each other, and earnestly desired a powerful, relational connection with one another and a deep, abiding intimacy with God. All this sounds great, right?

The problem came when I stepped in as youth minister. You see, as I said before, I was a *young* youth minister, very inexperienced, with zero theological training (outside of my excellent but rather generic liberal arts degree in Religion and Philosophy). As such, I was possessed of minimal knowledge, but extravagant hubris, and when I stepped through the doors for the first time as youth minister, I immediately saw things that I thought needed to be changed, because, you see, these youth spoke a language I didn't understand (not literally), and these youth had a different way of doing things than that to which I was accustomed, and these youth didn't seem to want run-of-the-mill youth stuff, but something much deeper, and these youth, well...you get the point.

We seemed to come from two different planets, and rather than try to open dialogue between us, I simply walked in like Adolf Hitler and declared their country conquered in the name of Chastorpad. Pretty soon, everything in their youth ministry started to look the way I wanted it to look: the walls changed color, the room got brighter, the worship became more formulaic and predictable, and the youth themselves, well...they were still awesome, hanging in there with me, doing what I asked of them, all while their hearts were breaking because of the unwanted and unnecessary changes that I forced down their throats.

A few of the youth tried to connect with me, to get me to understand why they did things the way they did them. And they also tried to understand why I did things my way, but again, the channels of communication closed too quickly for the necessary relationships to form. I know, because I was the one who closed them.

Don't get me wrong; I loved them dearly. I still do, now more than ever. And I really thought that I was doing what was right and good. I really believed that I was "fixing" things for them. But they didn't need my brand of medicine.

I needed theirs.

Only now, after years of prayerful reflection and (hopefully) a bit more spiritual maturity have I realized the truth. I didn't "fix" anything; I took something that was already good, something holy, something pure, something extraordinary--and made it mundane. Prosaic. Ordinary.

I was wrong.

I was wrong to close my ears to their hearts' cry. I was wrong in my attempt to take their expanded vision and shove it into my narrow box. I was wrong to trample the sacred space where they met God each and every time they gathered.

I. Was. WRONG.

But the story has a happy ending, so wait for it.

As I said, this revelation came to me after years of reflection. See, for a long time, I've had this sense that something wasn't quite right, and it has been rattling around in my spirit since I departed from that church. Only recently has the truth come to light, and once I saw the full vision of its grotesqueness, I knew I had to do something.

I found two of the leaders of the group on Facebook and apologized.

Both of these guys were instrumental to the youth ministry while I was there. Though they may not have known it at the time, they were leaders of men and women. Good leaders, too. It was (super) natural to them. God had raised them up, I now believe, not to be stooges for me and my small-minded agenda, but to teach ME some things that I needed to learn. These guys stuck with me, even though they felt that my approach was misguided. They had the guts to tell me that, but in such a way that wasn't offensive or disrespectful. They really tried to connect with me. And I shut them down, and shut them out.

I. was. WRONG.

Anyway, so I found them on Facebook, and wrote two fairly long letters of apology. I felt broken, honestly, and I didn't know if they'd even respond. I was afraid that I had cut them so deeply that there might be no way to heal what I had torn asunder. I prayed each time before I sent the messages; I was looking for forgiveness, for redemption, for reconciliation, for, well...a relationship.

Both guys--BOTH GUYS--responded quickly and mercifully, offering me full forgiveness for my transgressions, and opening the door for a real relationship--a fellowship--for the first time. I am so grateful to them for their gracious expression of Christian faith; would that all Christians could respond in such a kind and spiritual manner. Because of the lesson I have learned from them, I hope that, in the future, I'll be a better minister (youth or otherwise) and a deeper, more spiritual Christian. Thanks, guys. You're the best, and I love you.

Thanks for hearing my story. Pray for me, ok? I appreciate it.

What Once Was Old is New (and Good) Again

2009-05-12T10:28:00.000-07:00

Two Star Trek posts in two months? Are you kidding me?

Some of you may be asking those questions even as you read this sentence. I can't say that I blame you; there are lots of important things going on in the world right now, and even the most die-hard (DIE HARD!) of Trek loyalists would have to admit that those issues need to be at the front and center of our minds and hearts: a sluggish economy that has forced millions to run screaming into unemployment offices; the tragic slaying of five American soldiers by a U.S. Army sergeant; Mariah Carey's husband going berserk over an Eminem song; and so on, and so forth.

Well, that last one hardly qualifies as important, but you get the gist.

But I'm not here to opine about important things; if you want to read that stuff, go buy a newspaper.

No, I'm here (yet again) to talk about Star Trek--in particular, the latest cinematic offering by J.J. Abrams and Co., which arrived in theaters last Friday (just before Mother's Day. Perfect timing. I'm sure the theaters were positively swarmed with mothers who were trampling each other [as well as the few straggling males and children present] for the best seats. But probably not).

Well, I went. Now, to be frank, I've never been a huge fan of Kirk, Spock, and the rest of the U.S.S. Enterprise NCC-1701 crew. No offense to them, or to the actors who portrayed them, but Star Trek: The Original Series (which I prefer to call "Star Trek Classic") always seemed a bit hokey to me. Obviously, the special effects (though groundbreaking in their day) now seem pathetic when compared to those presented in Star Trek: The Next Generation (again, though, I call it New Star Trek). And when you stand those special effects up next to, say, Transformers (2007, I think), well...I think you get the picture. By today's graphic standards, Star Trek Classic just can't hold its own. And yet, it's one of the most loved television series of all times (it was just released in Blu-Ray, for crying out loud; none of the other Star Trek series has received that honor).

So I went to the movie with a bit of anxious anticipation. I had seen the previews, and I liked what I saw there, but, well--there was a part of me that wished Abrams could have used my favorite crew (from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine, or Cherry Star Trek (it's just cooler than regular Star Trek). I just wasn't sure I wanted Kirk, Spock, McCoy, and Scotty. But, it was Star Trek on the big screen again, and I had to give it a try.

I loved it. Parts of it weren't quite Trek (mostly action, very little philosophical pondering or big ideas, and greatly reduced technobabble), but it enough of it was Trek-ish that I could recognize and enjoy it. The special effects were, in a word, AWESOME. The plot was a bit formulaic, relying a little too heavily on the tried-and-true Trek device: time travel. But the real shiny spot was the characterization. I worried that no one would be able to play James T. Kirk without essentially mimicking William Shatner, who chewed up tons of scenery and several of his fellow actors each and every time he spoke in Star Trek Classic. And when Chris Pine first showed up as Kirk, I thought, "Really? He's Kirk? Am I supposed to believe this junk?" But there was a key point in the movie--near the end,where Kirk and Spock are working together to bring Kirk's plan to fruition--where I said, "you know what? He's got it." Chris Pine made Kirk his own, without asking us to forget about Shatner. And I didn't think that was possible.

Zachary Quinto owned Spock--his mannerisms, his struggles, and even the slightly nuanced sense of humor possessed by his predecessor, the inimitable Leonard Nimoy. My only problem with Quinto was that I initially struggled to see him as anyone but Sylar, the serial killer he plays on Heroes. But that only lasted for, like, five minutes. After that, he became Spock.

I swear, Karl Urban must've watched DeForest Kelley's Leonard McCoy on a constant loop for four years straight. His portrayal was spot-on, and one of my favorites of the movie. The scene where he and Kirk meet for the first time? Absolutely priceless, and almost worth the price of admission all by itself. His is the perfect blend of professionalism and gruffness that defines McCoy as a character. I loved every minute of it.

Simon Pegg's Scotty was also great, though underused in this film. He is hilarious, and though he played Scotty a bit too over-the-top, I still believed that Montgomery Scott was the most brilliant engineer in Starfleet (even if he was slightly unbalanced).

The rest of the cast performed admirably in their various roles, but their characters were not in the spotlight as often as the others. Make no mistake about it: this movie belongs to Kirk and Spock, and it's a doozy. Go see it; you won't regret it.

One last word: the sign of a good film is that it leaves something with you when you depart the movie theater. Toward the end of the movie, when Spock flashes the Vulcan sign in a gesture of well-wishing, the little girl in front of us--probably no more than 10 years old--held her hand up and tried feebly to imitate the sign. It's been a long time since that sign has been seen in a major motion picture, and longer still since it had any real meaning. But seeing a 10 year old girl try to imitate it made me realize how much I've missed Trek being a regular part of my life. It was a special moment, and one I hope to repeat in the future with the inevitable sequels to come.

Welcome back, Star Trek. Live long, and prosper.

When I'm , I'm

2009-05-11T07:27:00.001-07:00

Wrong.

The word that fits both blanks in the title of this post is "wrong."

And yet, typing that word after the first person singular pronoun, in any form, is so distasteful to me that I will avoid doing it at almost any cost.

It's very hard for me to admit that I'm (gulp) W-R-O-N-G.

See? I had to spell it letter by letter, rather than say it all together.

Why is it such a hard thing to say?

Well, for one thing, no one likes to be wrong. It's really no fun at all to realize that something you've thought or believed for whatever period of time is nothing but bunk. And if realizing it is difficult, admitting it to others is only going to be even less comfortable. For me, it's an issue of pride, which (I know) is a rather shopworn idea, and as such, one that needs very little in the way of explanation here (as it has received bounteous attention elsewhere). Instead, I'll tell a story that might shed some light on why being w-r-o-n-g is so hard for me--and why, in the end, I have nothing to fear from it. The story is forthcoming, and should appear in another post later this week, but for now, know that I have been WRONG in the past and I'll be WRONG in the future. And while admitting that I'm WRONG may require drinking an extra-large dose of bitter humility (it tastes like chicken. Not really.), it is also the ONLY way that true healing and restoration can come to relationships that have been damaged by a refusal to do so.

More to come...

In Defense of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

2009-03-19T19:50:00.001-07:00

Let me guess--you saw the title of this blog, and thought "oh, brother," right? As if the world needed another brave little soldier defending the Trek franchise...

Well, I'm big fat gonna defend it, OK? It's late, and I'm bored. Get used to it.

But I won't defend it for the reasons of which you're probably thinking right now. And I'm not going to touch The Original Series (TOS, to Trek fans) or The Next Generation (yep, you guessed it--TNG, for short [we're really creative]). Specifically, I want to talk about Deep Space Nine, the basement-dwelling relative, the unwelcome visitor, and the slow driver in the fast lane of the Star Trek universe.

Here's the thing: in my humble opinion, DS9 (points to those of you who deciphered the code and know that DS9 stands for Deep Space Nine) is often ostracized by Trek purists because of its radical departure from Gene Roddenberry's vision of the universe as something of a utopia, where money isn't needed and science is hailed as the principle virtue that unites the various galactic species. This is an oversimplification, I know. But this is a blog, not a book, so you'll just have to let it go this time.

DS9 presented a somewhat darker perspective of humanity, but I still feel that pieces of Roddenberry's vision remained in tact; diversity, for example, was championed in a major way, presenting Trek fans with the first African-American in the Captain's chair (the wonderful Avery Brooks as Benjamin Sisko), as well as the first female first-officer. But it is true that in general, DS9 painted a grittier picture of the Trek universe than any series before or after it.

Trek has long been known for its love of asking difficult questions of its viewers, and DS9 did it better than most. Kirk was a "shoot first, ask questions later" kind of Captain, but supremely confident and (aside from a weakness for chasing the ladies) a rather self-righteous fellow. Picard possessed Kirk's confidence, but lacked his more human qualities; however, Picard always sided with the angels, saw things in black and white, and rarely strayed beyond the confines of his "Starfleet Rules and Regulations" manual. Sisko, however, well...Sisko cared little for rules, and strayed into morally gray territory more than just about any other Trek captain. It's one of the things that made the show so interesting to watch, because you really never knew quite what was going to happen. I remember an episode entitled "By the Pale Moonlight" which saw Sisko trying to find a way to bring the Romulans into the Federation war with the Dominion. The means by which he attempts to do this don't just accent black and white with a little gray; they grab a paint sprayer and douse the whole canvas in a pretty shade of it. And when things don't go the way Sisko had planned, the situation escalates and becomes even more precarious. Rather than backtrack, Sisko forges ahead and accomplishes his purpose--but not without a cost. It's disturbing, troubling--and absolutely some of the most compelling television I've ever watched. Check it out sometime; the episode occurs in Season 6.

DS9 also flirted with religion, and whether you are religious or not, you can't deny that religion plays a major role in the lives of a lot of people. Trek didn't always ignore religion, but it never went out of its way to explore it, either (at least, not consistently). DS9 boldly goes where no Trek had ever gone before by placing its lead character in the role of a religious icon. Now that takes guts. And throughout its run, DS9 continued to return to the "religion vs. science" debate, arguing (to some degree, I think) that the universe is a big enough place for both--that the presence of one doesn't necessarily preclude the existence of the other. It's Deep stuff.

I guess I didn't really defend DS9 after all...I just shared my enjoyment of it. And now I don't think it really needs defending. The quality of the writing, the professionalism of the cast, and the boldness and uniqueness of the concept pretty much speak for themselves.

So now, if you'll excuse me...I'm halfway through Season 7, and I'd like to finish it before my conference next week.

Later.

No Nuggets? Get the President on the Phone, NOW!

2009-03-04T06:56:00.000-08:00

Sigh.

Sometimes you just have to wonder...

http://www.tmz.com/2009/03/03/mcnugget-crisis-ends-with-woman-behind-bars/

Now, look. I'm not unsympathetic to the whole "I can't get a refund" cause. I get annoyed when I take an inferior product back to the place at which it was purchased, only to be told that I can't get a full refund for the faulty merchandise. I paid real money for it; I don't think it's unreasonable to ask for real money back. It's as simple as that. And sometimes, I don't want store credit; if that particular store has sold me junk once, shame on them. If I go back to that same store and spend the same amount of money on junk again, well...shame on me. In a BIG way. So I feel for this lady and the frustration she must have felt when she was offered something the store had but she didn't want in place of something she wanted but couldn't have.

However, the lack of Chicken McNuggets does not constitute an emergency, no matter how hungry you are. And while the restaurant employees probably should have been a little more helpful and a bit less cranky, missing McNuggets simply do not justify a 911 call.

But the story made me think a bit about myself (yes, I can turn even a ridiculous story like this into a moment of personal and theological reflection). I wonder if my friends, after hearing me complain about some "crisis" in my life, ever think "THIS was the big emergency? THIS is what I woke up at 3:00 AM to hear you gripe about?" Even worse, I wonder if God ever takes a 911 call like this from me, a call that makes God want to gather everyone around so that God can tell one of those "you won't BELIEVE what happened to me today" stories.

I'm quite sure it has happened. Probably more than once. Today.

Maybe what the McNugget queen needed was a healthy dose of "move on medicine." If so, I probably need a year's supply.

So, here's what I personally take away from this story: I hope that I can be a bit more reflective about my life, and stop turning every little bump in life's road into a matter of national security. Stuff happens. I can't avoid it, but I can learn to deal with it. And more importantly, perhaps, I can learn to get over it. Because most of the things that seem like crises to me are nothing more than small inconveniences when compared to things like:

Poverty.

The AIDS crisis.

Broken homes.

Broken lives.

Starvation.

I think I have it pretty good. And I know I should be more thankful.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a phone call to make. It seems that my Ziploc bag is neither zipping nor locking, but that will change once I get President Obama to take up my cause.

Later.

A Lamentation

2009-03-03T06:31:00.000-08:00

Sometimes, life is tough--even for a minister. That's right--those of us who are "expected" by some to be perpetual fountains of joy and mercy sometimes fall prey to the occasional bout of discouragement or despair that is common to humanity at all times and in all places. Sometimes, I just feel sad. And when I feel sad, I write. Below, you will find a portion of a journal entry I drafted after a particularly difficult day. In an attempt to provide a glimpse into the heart of a minister, I've decided to share my private experience of lament in this public forum. And I ask for your prayers.

I'd cry, but I don't think I can muster the tears. Shouting won't help, and would only serve to scare people, who would then feel compelled to ask me questions that I do not want to answer, so shouting isn't an option, either. I could withdraw; I could hole up in this dimly lit closet-monastery and wait for the cloud to pass over while I stay warm and dry in my prison of wood and sheetrock. Or I could put my brave little smile on, brighten my eyes, and drive out the murky sadness lurking just on the other side of my wearied lids in the hope that no one will discover the leviathan of grief within. It is, at best, a temporary solution, I know; for while the leviathan might sulk for a while at its being ignored, it will not voluntarily lie dormant forever. But at least I'll get through the day. Maybe.

Well, how am I supposed to feel, hm? Have you ever driven home after a long day at work, looking forward to a warm supper and an evening spent warming your feet by a fire while lounging (and occasionally napping) in a recliner--only to arrive at your destination and discover that without your knowing or being asked--without your even being CONSULTED at all--your supper, your recliner, and your relaxing evening have all been decimated by a fire that you didn't even realize was burning? Yeah, it feels like THAT. And there's no cure for that, friend; no magic formula that can soothe the pain I feel, the desperate, longing ache of a heart that has just been pounded into mush by circumstances beyond my control. I can imagine that it would be like saving for 30 years to buy a special present for your spouse, and waiting for just the right moment--THE moment--to present this offering of love, this 30 year agape gift that has been carefully nurtured in the garden of sacrifice. And just before that moment arrives, your spouse serves you with divorce papers, because, well, you see, there's someone else, someone younger, richer, smarter, more popular, better looking--you fill in the blank. It's your worst nightmare coming to life, eating your food, using up all the toilet paper, and moving permanently into your guest room.

It's dirty business, I tell you, and I wouldn't wish it on the most vile, despicable person on the planet. I'm no saint, to be sure--I spend more time on my face than I do on my feet--but I can't help but wonder: "what have I done that demands such a desperate penalty?" I have no answer, and none is forthcoming. And so I stare at this closed door, the only barrier between me and the world beyond, both a haven and a prison--and I feel at once the safety of a child wrapped snugly in his mother's arms AND the nauseous quiver of cowardice that keeps me chained to my chair. The next move I make will determine the outcome of the conflict that wages within me, and I realize now that the choice is not to stay or go, to hide or face the world beyond my cloistered environs, to put on a plastic smile or weep genuine tears; in some strange and mysterious way, the choice I face is more elementary than those things, and yet not simple in the least. It is not a choice of what to do, but of what to be. And I must be real, even if being real means walking out of this door and taking with me all of these things still suspended in tension, like a flying insect dangling from a spider's web, not yet free, but not yet dinner. The door awaits. The struggle continues. And beyond? Only One knows...

Why am I So Bad at Blogging?

2009-03-02T06:46:00.000-08:00

I try to be a good husband.

I try to be a good youth minister.

I hope I am a good friend.

I want desperately to be a good father.

I am a good eater.

But I am a terrible blogger.

Over the course of the past few weeks, I've given a lot of thought as to why I am a bad blogger, and I've come up with a few reasons. Here they are, for your consideration.

1) The time issue. I only have seven 24-hour days in which to accomplish everything I have to do. Now, mathematics have never been my forte', but I believe that adds up to something in the neighborhood of 168 hours a week. I need about six hours of sleep per day, so knock 42 hours right off the top. That brings us to about 126 remaining hours...and I still haven't gotten anything done! For my health, I try to exercise about an hour a day, all told, so that puts us at 119 remaining hours. I probably drive at least an hour per day, depending on the tasks before me, so we're down to 112 hours. Now we can talk about work, which occupies more time than I care to calculate here. Needless to say, I don't have a lot of time, and when I do acquire some of that rare and precious free time, blogging is just not that high on my list of priorities. Sorry about that.

2) The internet issue. It might surprise you to learn that not everyone got on the 21st Century train at the same station. While many of us have moved beyond 20th century technology and on to bigger and better things, a few of us have simply decided to reside in the stone-age. I have caveman internet. That's right, you guessed it...DIAL-UP. Dial-up is functional, if you have about an hour to spare (but see point #1, above). If you want to check your email, it's fine. If you want to navigate away from your home page, pull up a recliner, a magazine, and a fizzy soda, 'cause you're gonna be there for a while, friend. Seriously, I have come inside to check my email after mowing my grass, and watched it grow to the point of cutting again in the time it takes to load my inbox. Ok, it's not that bad, but it's close. So I don't get on the internet much at home. And (usually) home is where I have "free" time.

3) The "I have nothing worth saying" issue. For some reason, every time I sit down to blog, I feel pressured to publish the next Atlas Shrugged or The Grapes of Wrath. You know, something...life-changing, something significant. I constantly live in the delusion that someone, somewhere actually reads the drivel I produce. It's a happy world I've created for myself, but it gets pretty lonely, sometimes. And because I live in this shiny, happy place where my opinions matter and are fawned over by thousands of adoring fans, I feel compelled to write something transformational. And if I have nothing significant to say? Then I say nothing. Hence, it's been months since I've updated.

These are just a few of the reasons that popped into my mind, but ultimately, I've decided, it's about discipline. I'm not disciplined enough in general, and certainly not enough to keep a regular blog. But I'm working on it. Will you help me? Please? Both of you?

I appreciate it. And now, back to the grind. If you don't see a blog entry in the next few days, check in, ok? I may be visiting my summer home in Shiny, Happy Chastorpadworld.

America and the Kingdom of God

2008-10-20T11:36:00.000-07:00

Two weeks away.

Two weeks away from the answer to the question that seems to be on everyone's lips:

"So...who are you voting for?"

My specific answer to that particular question will remain locked within the confines of my shallow and warped mind until I arrive at the polls, but I would like to offer a few thoughts about this election before that time comes. So here goes...

Almost daily, I encounter people (on both sides of the political spectrum) who can only be classified as "doomsayers." You've met them: they're the "Obama is the Anti-Christ" or "McCain is another George W. Bush--just older" crowd, who believe that the end of civilization as we know it will come to a screeching halt if their candidate doesn't win The White House.

Don't get me wrong. I believe in voting. I believe that exercising our right to vote is a part of responsible citizenship. And I believe that this election is important--it's as important as any election that has come before it, and each election that will come after it.

I'm not a huge fan of either candidate--if you know me at all, you'll attest to that fact--but I do have a candidate in mind for whom I plan to vote when the fateful day arrives in two weeks. But here's the deal--if my candidate doesn't win, it will not bring about the Apocalypse. If my candidate doesn't win, I believe that Americans will awaken on November 5 to find America still standing. But know this: I am not shaken by this election or any other, for one reason and one reason only:

My faith is not in the United States of America.

My faith is in Jesus Christ, and it is to his Kingdom that I pledge my ultimate allegiance.

And the Kingdom of God will stand, regardless of which candidate occupies the Oval Office for the next four years.

So here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to vote on November 4 for the candidate who best represents what I believe is needed in our nation. I'm going to cast my vote for the candidate whose platform matches the things that I believe should be priorities for Christians.

And then I'm going to wait. I'm going to wait and see who wins. If my candidate wins, great. I'm going to pray for him and for his fellow leaders in Washington as they attempt to chart our course for the next four years (and beyond).

And if my candidate doesn't win? I'll pray for the winner and for his fellow leaders in Washington as they attempt to chart our course for the next four years (and beyond).

My response doesn't change. Because regardless of what happens with America, I am primarily a citizen of the Kingdom of God.

I love America.

I love living in America.

But America is not the Kingdom of God.

New Wine in an Old Wineskin: A Review of The Voice: New Testament (so far), Part Deux

2008-10-16T05:39:00.000-07:00

While there is much to commend The Voice: New Testament, there are a few things about it that I just didn't love, and I would be remiss if I didn't at least mention them. I'm giving them their own blog entry for two reasons: 1) Because I can; and 2) Because I want to. So there. :)

Here we go:

1) In an attempt to make The Voice more appealing to a broader audience, it seems, its authors/translators have curtailed some of the "churchy" sounding language and replaced it with other terms and phrases that might be more easily understood. In general, I have no problem whatsoever with this practice; I think that as language changes, Bible translators have a responsibility to reflect those changes in their work. That said, I'm sure that everyone has their "sacred cow" terms and phrases that they firmly believe should remain unchanged, and for me, "baptism" is one of those terms. Unfortunately, it's also one of the first terms placed on the chopping block by the authors/translators of The Voice, who prefer instead terms and phrases such as "ritual washing" or "ritual cleansing." Now, I realize that "baptism" is basically a Greek word (from baptizo, meaning "to immerse"), and that it smacks of "Christianese." I know that there are people who may need a bit of extra commentary on the definition of baptism, and I have no problem with that. But maybe there's a reason that translators historically have imported the word "baptism" from Greek into English, without providing much interpretive commentary on it. Perhaps no English word or clever phrasing can actually encapsulate all that the Greek word implies in all of its contexts, and I'll be honest--"ritual washing" (and its variants) is a very dry, and (I think) overly simplified attempt to capture all that baptism involves. There's a very deep, profound, and mysterious aspect to baptism, something almost mystical, that "ritual cleansing" doesn't even touch. It's too...plain, too ordinary. And, for me, baptism is way beyond ordinary.

2) Again with the terms! The authors/translators of The Voice have also opted to replace the traditional titles used to describe Jesus (Christ or Messiah) with the terms "liberating king" or "liberator." Admittedly, this one is a little harder for me to critique. I think I see the authors'/translators' point here--Christ (from Greek, Christos) and Messiah (from Hebrew, mashiach) are basically synonyms meaning "anointed" or "anointed one, and Christians have understood both to refer directly to Jesus. But the question follows: what, exactly, is Jesus "anointed" to do? For what purpose is he "anointed?" And why is it significant that he be "anointed?" For the answer to these questions, we need look no further than Jesus himself, who addressed them during his "mission statement" in Luke 4: 17-21 (look it up, if you want). In short, Jesus claimed that he was anointed to free people from the things that ensnared them. He was "anointed" to "liberate." Hence, Jesus...is...The Liberator (coming soon to a theater near you)! So, I understand the choice made by the authors/translators--I just don't like it.

New wine, old wineskin.

Granted, the new titles ascribed to Jesus in The Voice are more difficult to use as a swear word (go on, try it...you know what, on second thought, don't). But the language of Jesus being anointed--being the Christ, being the Messiah--being set apart for this special purpose--is too valuable to sacrifice, I think. If "Christ" and "Messiah" are too "Christian-y", use "anointed" in their place. Just be aware that the first use of the term "Christian" in Antioch (ca. Acts 11: 25-26) falls rather flat in The Voice, since that may be the very first appearance of the term Christ in any context. And in The Voice, that lack of context makes the use of the term "Christian" seem rather nonsensical. This is an important (and detrimental) change, in my opinion. But I haven't read it all yet, so I may be wrong.

3) Some of the italicized material, which is designed to bring to the reader a more direct experience with the text by providing information that the original hearers would have possessed, goes a bit too far on occasion. Now let me be fair--most of what I have read in the italicized print is really quite good and very helpful. But consider Jesus' interpretation of the "rocky soil" in the Parable of the Sower (Matthew 13:20-21):

"You know people who hear the word of God and receive it joyfully--but then, somehow, the word fails to take root in their hearts. It is temporary. As soon as God's word causes trouble for those people, they trip: your friend who left her husband as soon as things got rocky (nice pun, by the way); your friend who listened rapturously to a teaching about trusting God, but refused to take a risk when a risk was called for--those people are the seeds sown on rocky soil." The Voice: New Testament, pg. 24, parenthesis mine.

Is this italicized information helpful? Sure. And creative. But can the authors/translators honestly claim something so specific under the auspices of helping the reader to obtain "information that would have been obvious to those originally addressed in the gospel or letter?" (The Voice: New Testament, vii.) How did they obtain that information? Again, to be fair, the authors/translators say that the italicized information is not taken from a dynamic translation of the original languages, but it seems that a comment box with some helpful application would have been a more appropriate place for such explicative remarks.

(Not Quite) Final Words

On the whole, I must say that I enjoy The Voice for what it is--a readable, understandable, and innovative presentation of Scripture that is, without a doubt, one of the most engaging experiences I've had with Bible reading. It is unique, dramatic, creative, and interesting. It is, in many ways, a work of art.

But it is also flawed, and its flaws are serious enough (for me) to keep me from using it as a primary translation. As a secondary text for devotional readings? Yes. For certain youth ministry activities? Yes. For preaching? Probably not. For public reading in my particular congregational context? Again, probably not. But I recommend trying it. At the very least, I think, you'll find it to be a different experience than you've ever had while reading Scripture. And you may find that, as you read it, The Voice will speak to you in a new way.

New Wine in an Old Wineskin: A Review of The Voice: New Testament (so far) Part One

2008-10-16T01:14:00.001-07:00

In some ways, I'm just an old-fashioned guy.

I prefer Coca-Cola Classic to the short-lived atrocity that was New Coke (and who wouldn't, really?).

I prefer the old Ford Escort to the new Ford Focus (although I've never really driven the latter).

And I'll take Raiders of the Lost Ark over The Kingdom of the Crystal Skull any day of the week, and twice on Sunday.

So it might come as no surprise that when I heard about a "new" translation of the Bible aimed at recapturing some of the art and beauty that is often missing from modern translations, I was more than a little skeptical. It's not that I'm not open to new things, mind you...it's just that for me, the appeal of a new thing is often in the newness itself. And once the newness wears off, I find myself gravitating back to that which is time-tested, trustworthy, and dependable. At first, I resisted the urge to go right out and purchase the first copies of The Voice I could find, but eventually, the sparkle of newness drew me right to the bookstore, much like those old cartoons in which the smell of a fresh apple pie would literally drag a character through the air to the object of his/her desire. I purchased my first copies of The Voice (Acts and Matthew, I believe), flipped through a few pages, and put them on the shelf. The newness wore off more quickly than I thought.

Recently, while perusing Amazon.com, I stumbled across The Voice again--this time, with the entire New Testament in tow. I couldn't resist; I pre-ordered it, and waited with baited breath for it to arrive. And arrive it did, only a few days ago. Having read thorough a portion of it, I thought I would give a brief review of what I like and don't like so far about this "new" approach to the Bible.

Stuff I Like So Far:

1) The Voice is the most thoroughly readable translation I've ever experienced, more readable, even, than The Message. I'm not even kidding; I sat down and read fifteen chapters of Matthew's Gospel in one sitting, without stopping or realizing that I had read and digested that much material. It reads like a story, and the authors/translators have done a masterful job in capturing the narrative quality of Scripture. Before I knew it, I had been reading Scripture for an hour straight, and I didn't want to stop. I can't remember the last time I had such a powerful experience with Bible reading.

2) The comment boxes provide an innovative way to explain to the reader what is going on in many places in the text without being disruptive or distracting from the main point of the text. The fact that some of them are imaginatively given from the point-of-view of the scriptural author is an original, creative, and altogether enjoyable touch that adds a whole new dimension to the reading of Scripture.

3) By now, many people are aware that projects from The Voice use a screenplay format where possible to eliminate the awkward overuse of conjunctions in the text. Again, I find this approach very satisfying, if at times a bit presumptive--the emotive direction of the screenplay ascribes certain characteristics to the various players that may or may not be clearly present in the text. These are hermeneutical decisions, and should be recognized and utilized as such, but when understood properly, they help the reader to become more emotionally invested in the given material. The words on the page seem less like words on the page and more like a live-action drama playing out in front of the reader. I find reading it out loud and "acting it out" in my devotional time to be an EXTREMELY rewarding experience.

Next: Stuff I Don't Like About The Voice: New Testament

Reflections on A Celebration of A New Baptist Covenant

2008-02-13T10:43:00.001-08:00

Once upon a time, there was a young man who, with the best of intentions, formulated a rather narrow-minded vision of Christianity. The young man meant no harm by his naive theologizing, nor did he intend for his journey to take him to the places which (eventually) it did. He was only grappling with the difficulties of faith and attempting to package them in a way that was comfortable for him. Needless to say, he found the task beyond his ability, and so he did what many good products of the Buster-generation do when overwhelmed with a task.

He let someone do it for him.

It wasn't long before he found himself spouting the ideas and beliefs of others rather than himself; it was easier, after all, than working through those beliefs from top to bottom and placing them under the proper amount of biblical and theological scrutiny. It was, indeed, a smooth, broad path with a comfortable, wide gate.

And we all know what the Bible says about broad paths and wide gates.

Before much time had passed, he heard himself say things that didn't quite sound like him; words and phrases that revealed the hatred and prejudice engendered by the ideas sown in the fertile soil of his mind. They seemed foreign to him because they were foreign; he had simply adopted them to avoid thinking through them himself. And he was challenged to examine the ideas he had swallowed hook, line, and sinker.

The young man began to realize that much of what he had accepted without scrutiny simply didn't jibe with his own personal understanding of God and interpretation of the Scriptures. He attended classes at a school which encouraged free thought and deliberate theology, and his experiences through that school led him to a meeting where his newfound openness and willingness to entertain ideas different from his own would be tested beyond anything he thought possible.

This meeting included persons from many different denominational perspectives, both male and female, from many ethnic groups and cultures. It included people of various political stripes and theological persuasions, and insisted that, despite their differences, all who attended could be united under the banner of Christ and his mission. The meeting challenged the young man's perception of the church and of the unity for which he already found himself yearning. The leaders of the meeting reminded all who were present that they could be far more effective uniting around the things they held in common than they could by dividing over the things that made them different.

And the young man was changed.

No longer would he insist upon one right way of doing church. No longer would he insist upon one proper interpretation of Scripture. No longer would he accept division for division's sake, without striving for the same unity he experienced that weekend. No longer would trite answers to difficult problems satisfy his hunger to make a difference in the world.

The young man determined that he would strive to make the mission of Christ his own, and to share that mission with his brothers and sisters from all nations.

And they all served happily ever after.

The Beginning

The Jesus CD Club

2007-11-14T23:36:00.000-08:00

Life can be pretty ordinary, sometimes. All of find ourselves trapped in the mundaneness of daily living on occasion, much of which leads us to search for the extraordinary when- and wherever it can be found. And once in a while, something happens which we didn't expect and to which we are unsure how to respond. I had one of those moments myself, not too long ago.

You see, I was invited to join a club.

Now to be frank, I know that an invitation to join a club isn't exactly an earth-shattering event; I had to stifle a yawn myself as I was typing it. But I haven't been a member of a club since high school, and the idea that I could belong to something--for a nominal fee--was exciting.

To be honest, however, I was more excited about the fringe benefits of joining this organization that I was about being a member. You see, this club was no ordinary, run-of-the-mill civil service society--it was a CD club. Yes, for the price of only one CD ($15 or so), I could join this particular league of music lovers and receive no less than eleven CDs free of charge! And the selection from which I could choose was quite good; there were no ridiculous selections like "The Phantom of the Opera on Kazoo" in the list. Eleven free CDs for the price of one, no waiting--sounded like a good deal to me.

Of course, there were other obligations. For instance, my nominal fee was only an introductory price; my brethren in the club would continue to send CDs "tailored to my interests" unless I opted out before they came. And once they came, I could send them back at the club's expense--but if I failed to do so within a specified amount of time, I would be billed for that selection. In addition, membership required me to purchase at least one more regularly priced selection in the span of one year, which doesn't sound so bad--if I could remember to do it. But I wouldn't remember, so I didn't join the club (and I didn't get my free music).

The experience got me thinking, however, that people might view a commitment to Jesus in the same way as they view my CD club. The introductory offer looks great, so they sign up to get the free "My life was a mess until I met Jesus" t-shirt and matching ink pen with the name of the church emblazoned on the side, along with a promise that they will live forever in a "mansion" at 777 Gold Avenue, Heaven. And everyone celebrates, because another person has become a Christian and has been saved from the jaws of certain doom. Let all the earth rejoice.

But wait. There's more to the offer, and sadly, churches don't communicate it to people when they "come to receive Christ." The difference between Jesus and my CD club, however, is that Jesus didn't hide our obligations in fine print--he proclaimed them loudly and boldly for all to hear: "If any want to become my followers, let them deny themselves, and take up their cross daily and follow me. For those who want to save their life will lose it and those who lose their life for my sake will save it. What does it profit them if they gain the whole world but lose or forfeit themselves?" Oh, my--following Jesus requires something of us. It's not about the t-shirt, pen, and keys to the mansion. Following Jesus is about losing everything--everything--for the sake of Christ. It's about forfeiting our lives now so that we can save them later. It's about sacrifice, putting others first, laying down our grudges, and walking the path of self-sacrifice that Jesus marked with his blood.

How many of us sign up for the fringe benefits, and forget our obligations? When will we learn that Christian faith just isn't about us? It's time, I think, for us to let our petty differences go and get to the business of the Kingdom--you know, stuff like loving our enemies, blessing those who curse us, feeding the hungry, providing for the poor, defending the oppressed, and offering forgiveness to those who have wronged us. It's hard to carry a cross with a chip on our shoulders, so maybe we should let the little things go.

Oh, and one more thing:

Jesus is not a CD club.

The Church of....who, again?

2007-03-28T12:12:00.000-07:00

Let me start by saying simply: I love Jesus. To be honest, I'm crazy about the guy. I'm down with the whole "love your enemies","bless those who curse you", "forgive seventy times seven" vibe, and I think it's just swell that Jesus cared so much for the downtrodden and oppressed. I mean, we only have a record of about three years' worth of Jesus' life, and most us can agree, I think, that Jesus did more in those three years than we ourselves could do in a lifetime.

Here's the deal, though...Jesus left. He went to be with his Father, and he passed the business of loving our enemies, blessing those who curse us, forgiving those who hurt us, and caring for the downtrodden and oppressed onto those who had committed to following his program. Jesus picked twelve men (and several women) to carry on in his physical absence. Later, scores of people were added, and even later, scores upon scores of people were added to that. Eventually, the whole thing got pretty huge, and some guys in a town called Antioch thought it would be HI-larious to call them Christians (which, roughly translated , means "little Christs").

The name stuck.

And so, nearly 2,000 years later, we still wear that moniker. Christians, we call ourselves...little Christs. Put us all into a room, shake us until well blended, and you get this interesting hodgepodge mixture we call "the church of Jesus Christ."

Here's the deal, though...if we are the church of Jesus Christ--the Christians who are called to carry on Jesus' business--why are we doing such a lousy job?

I submit to you that if the church truly is the church of Jesus Christ, it ought to look, sound, smell, taste, and feel like Jesus in the world. But as I look around at some of the churches in America, I don't see, hear, smell, taste, or feel Jesus at all. No, much of the behavior I see among Christians reminds me of another figure whose story appears in the hallowed pages of our New Testament. His name?

Judas Iscariot.

Think about this for just a second. How many times does the New Testament say something positive about Judas Iscariot? I'll give you a hint: the number starts with "z" and ends in "ero." That's right, sports fans...zero. Nada. Zilch. Not one positive reference to Judas Iscariot in the entire New Testament. Almost every time his name is mentioned, it is followed by some form of "who betrayed him." On the few occasions when that last little descriptor is omitted, Judas is either described in other unfavorable terms, or found actually committing the aforementioned act of betrayal. And so the picture we get of Judas is that of a thief, who carried Jesus' money bag (per John's Gospel) and helped himself to a portion of the proceeds. In other words, he ripped Jesus off. A lot. Judas is pictured as a schemer, meeting with powerful men behind closed doors, working out deals that would benefit everyone involved. Except Jesus, of course, who was never invited to such meetings. Worse, when Judas finally commits the act of betrayal, he does it under the auspices of love and friendship. It is by means of a kiss that Judas reveals the identity of his rabbi to the chief priests. With one hand, Judas reaches out in friendship; with the other, he plunges a figurative dagger into the heart of his teacher and friend.

Sound familiar? Sadly, it probably does.

So let me close with a question...do the Christians you know look more like Jesus (forgiving, loving, caring for the poor and oppressed, blessing even those who curse them, and working to live into the life of Jesus)? Or do they look more like Judas (political, scheming, agenda-driven, and hypocritical)? Whom do you more closely resemble?

May all of us who bear the name of Christ also seek to bear his image to the world.