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Our Own Private Eden

July 5, 2009 — 18 Comments

Our church does this thing that is fairly popular with Evangelicals. They facilitate the process for regular attenders to form “small groups”. We meet once a week, usually 3-4 weeks in a row and then we take a week off each month. You’re matched up by age, location, and stage of life.

In our group we do bible studies and read books together. Often, we choose topics related to marriage and child-raising. It’s pretty laid back and it has added tremendous value to our marital relationship and our parenting ability.

One of the unexpected delights (and disappointments) is that we are encouraged to break up every year and a half or so and form a new group. This is usually a sad time at first, but it keeps the cast of characters in our lives fresh and unique. You end up befriending people who have the very basics in common with you, and sometimes little else. If it wasn’t for small group you never would have met.

Our good friends Jody, Jennifer and baby Makenna, who we met via small group, are an excellent example. I don’t golf. I’m not “outdoorsy”. I don’t have a green thumb. On the surface, Jody and I don’t have a great deal in common. Needless to say, we don’t run in the same social circles. But we’re friends now. And we have way more in common that I ever would have imagined in the beginning. He’s the kind of guy you do not want to be around if you have a weak bladder because he is so funny he will make you pee your pants. His dedication to his family and wife is an example to me.

One of the benefits we’ve enjoyed from being his friend is that on the 4th of July we get an all access pass to a well-manicured private golf course. We relax. We let the kids run as fast and (almost) as far as they want. It’s refreshing and beautiful.

While all the well-to-do rich folk are enjoying perfectly grilled filet mignon and salmon on the deck of the clubhouse, we’re lounging about on the back nine, sipping sweet tea and chewing on the Colonel’s extra crispy fried chicken, in our own private Eden.

It’s a tradition I hope we keep for many years to come.

In General
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Liquor Me Up With Some Religion Already

June 28, 2009 — 36 Comments

Lately I’ve been wondering what the big, hairy deal is with Christians and profanity. I was reading Church Marketing Sucks and I was taken aback by a recent post. Pastor Ed from Texas is discouraged by modern day cussing pastors. He used examples of the offending vulgarities and they were words like “pissed off” and “crap” and “sucks” and frankly I don’t get it.

First of all, someone needs to teach that dude how to cuss all right and proper like. I know profanity and that isn’t it! I mean, didn’t God himself have some strong feelings about “He that pisseth against the wall“?

I know I haven’t been in the club very long, but I’m still mystified. I’m assuming if he doesn’t like crap, he certainly doesn’t approve of real profanity. I read the bible roughly 5 or 6 times a week. I actually enjoy it and look forward to it. So I would think that the concerns with cussing would be, you know, obvious to me. So far they are not.

I grew up in a military family from the northern U.S. so I don’t even notice profanity half the time. It was always just a part of the scenery. It’s not even considered profane by the speaker or the recipient in most cases. It’s common dialog.

Ironically, however, I have made it a personal goal not to use profanity and for the most part, I don’t. I have my moments where I slip into old habits, but largely my language is church-appropriate on a daily basis. Here’s the thing though, I don’t do it for Jesus or for any religious conviction. My reasoning is that I want people to understand me and consider my points of view. I want to be seen as credible (don’t we all?). I don’t want my choice of words to interfere with what I have to say. In light of this, I took a look at all people and I realized the following:

A. People who cuss are tolerant of people who do not. For the most part they are understanding and respectful of the culture of the non-profane.

B. People who don’t cuss are not tolerant of people who do. For the most part if you use profanity, they will stop listening to you and avoid you entirely.

Therefore:

C. The path of most effective communication is one without cussing.

I commented in response to the “cussing pastor” post and now I’m wondering if it’s a valid perspective.

Ed has Southern Baptist tunnel vision. And I’m not talking about his theology, I’m talking about his culture. To the majority of the U.S., it’s only the reached people who are offended by “bad language”.

So if you want to save the saved, keep on wasting time on this topic. If you want to introduce unreached people to Jesus, speak to them plainly, in their vernacular.

I’m a hypocrite. I know this. Not only am I wasting more time on this, I’ve invited you to do the same. If I’d have known I was going to write this post, I can assure you I wouldn’t have written that :-) .

I’m not advocating that people who do not use cuss words start using them in order to artificially impress others. Unless of course someone has a video camera rolling because as that scene plays out in my mind it is awkward and hilarious. What I am advocating, or at least questioning, is whether or not we should be judging Christians who already use cuss words as a natural part of their vocabulary. If I am a Christian and I’m hanging out with my friends who use cuss words as a part of everyday language, and I am fluent in the same vernacular, is it right or wrong for me to speak the common tongue?

And so, a paradox. On the one hand, I don’t want my girls to grow up with potty-mouths. On the other, I don’t want them to feel awkward or uncomfortable around people that choose to be different than them.

It seems to me that we Christians are artisan wall-builders. And the tragedy is that all of the walls we erect just so happen to be strategically positioned between nonbelievers and Jesus.

Is it only the reached people that are offended by profanity? If so, does that say something? Is profanity in the ear of the beholder? I’m searching, here. So bust out your bibles and liquor me up with some religion already. Clearly, I need it.

In General
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Rerun: God and Darwin and Me on One Knee

June 17, 2009 — 9 Comments

In honor of our 11th wedding anniversary, I am rerunning this post. I have been playing with some creative writing techniques and as an exercise I rewrote this in the present tense to give it a more intimate feel.

Happy Anniversary my love! You’re my favorite!

I am sitting in a large, comfortable bus as we take a day-long tour of London. It’s December now and the contrast of the cold outside upon the heat inside has created a perpetually thick matte of condensation on my window. I reach up and write with large, friendly letters the words “Stupid American” into the fog, followed by an arrow that points down and ends where my face begins. The words are written backwards inside the bus so that spectators outside the bus can read them in the right direction. My girlfriend of 4 years is sitting beside me and my family, who lives here in England, is with us taking in the sights and history of the city. My Mom shares with me, “In England a hundred miles is a long distance, but in America a hundred years is a long time.” It is my love’s first trip here, but not mine, and I am beside myself with excitement to show it to her.

I should stop here and say that it has been no secret through most of our courtship that we are going to be married. As we have made our way through college, dating and living separately, we have passed the time by planning our future life together. I have made it a point to tell my love throughout this courtship that she will never know when I am about to ask for her hand in marriage. On several occasions I have told her, “You are going to think you will know when I am about to ask you, but you will be wrong. I promise you will never see it coming.” I am hoping that this will be my brilliantly played victory in psychological warfare.

And so it is not by accident that today is a few days after Christmas, but not quite New Years Eve, and that we are traveling London. My love does not notice one of my hands spending an unscrupulous amount of time in its corresponding pocket. She is far too distracted with everything to suspect that I am guarding a secret in the shape of a diamond engagement ring. She should be curious as to why, as we approach Westminster Abbey, my family has decided to sit outside the historic church instead of accompany us inside, but just as I planned, she is not taking notice.

Together we drink our fill of the 1400 year old abbey which is shaped like a giant cross. This, we learn, is a place where kings were crowned, royal families were sewn together, and national treasures were laid to rest. We meander through the hallways marveling at the names of historic figures entombed in the very floors and walls around us. The anticipation of the impending moment is circling the rim of my heart like a twister circles the chain-link fence of a trailer park, just before leveling it completely. This grand Gothic masterpiece is the final resting place to monarchs and scientists and poets. From Henry V to Elizabeth I. From Geoffrey Chaucer to Charles Dickens. From Sir Isaac Newton to Charles Darwin. We stand in awe, again and again, that surely one hundred years is a mere drop in the bucket of time for a place such as this.

My love and I have reached the center of the abbey, in front of the altar. I looked around, breath in the moment through all my senses, and say…

“This place is beautiful.”

“Yes,” she replies.

“This is the place where kings have been crowned and royalty has been married for hundreds and hundreds of years,” I remark with purpose.

She doesn’t respond.

“This would be a romantic place for someone to propose, don’t you think?” I offer casually.

“Yes,” she agrees softly, admiring something off in the distance.

And then, in the heart of Westminster Abbey, with my would-be wife half distracted and not paying me much attention, I get down on one knee, in front of God and Charles Darwin’s bones, and I cast an anchor into to sea of time that will be ours forever.

In Marriage
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