A Late Merry Christmas and Update from Urbana 06

Greetings from St. Louis!

This week I’m attending Urbana International Missions Convention in St. Louis, Missouri. After red-eye flying from Portland last night, I’d have to say I’m doing a lot better than I thought I would be at this point. And while I can’t say I have anything interesting to say (or that it will be grammatically correct), I would like to write about the convention thus far and pretend like you care.

I never thought going as a “leader” would bring about sweet benefits like free books, magazines, videos, and other sources for absolutely no price, but then again I also can’t believe I’m in St. Louis’s St. Marks Hotel with a view of the Gateway Arch out my window for absolutely no price. Thank you Rolling Hills faithful!

The convention is pretty incredible. Full of wisdom and the excitement for this ambitious generation I am a part of (whether I like it or not). I’ve gotta say, the worship band led by Daryl Black is blowing me away every session. With a gospel-ethno beat and thick harmonies, the place gets rockin’.

Just attended a seminar on the history of Africa…very thick stuff that still needs digesting. “The Gift of the Poor in the North American Church” is the title of my next seminar and should probably leave for that about now. God is good.

P.S. I forgot about the Cardinals…already…am I still American?

P.P.S: Funniest Christian Shirt I’ve seen = Text across the chest of a woman’s tee: Jesus Own’s These. I think she thought it was funny too…but seriously.

Normal

I am not weird. There’s no way that I’m weird. Look at me. I’m a touch skinny -- maybe my hair is too long -- but I look normal. I am normal. At least I’m not that guy. Yeah, him. He’s not normal. I glance at my teenage face reflected through the glass at the bus stop. Yeah…normal.

I stare.

Oh crap there’s a woman on the other side of the glass. She’s starting back at me. I kind of shake my head in a cute way that says, “I’m sorry,” smile at her and turn away pretending to look for the bus. I love bus stops. I would probably stay here for a while if I didn’t find the actual bus ride more enjoyable. Ah, there it is. The 19 to Woodstock, my refuge, my rock, my ride. I approach the entrance but let the not normal guy go before because he’s, well, not normal. I do this in order to reassure myself that I am normal. I am no freak, no outcast. I am John Doe! I am a serf! A maidservant! Nothing exceptional! I am not fantastic, I am normal.

Praise God, the bus is not full. It rarely is at 3:30 – which is my normal time to come home. I sit in my normal spot (second row on the right side in the back section, window seat bitch) and put my bag on the seat to my right in a way that says, not today, this one’s taken.

In my backpack lies an assortment of supplies: A notebook, random hip book, change of shirt, iPod, and my Bible. I search through the items to see what toy I want to play with on my ride home. The notebook would make me look like a creep, people would most likely think I was writing about them, selfish bastards. And while most of them would be right, I would be taking notes on them, how dare they think that all I do is write about the odd people and situations I run in to. Exnay on the change of shirt because – although I have thought about this many times – there is no good way to play with a shirt on the bus. It wouldn’t be…normal. I don’t want to listen to music. So cliché, white ear buds on the bus with a backpack…so cliché, so expected of my generation and me. A big Negative on the iPod. My Bible? How upfront. How imposing. Look at me, fellow bus riders, I am righteous, full of compassion for you lowly sinners! I am Moses! Joshua! Follow me and attain the promise land! I settle for the random hip book. That is unexpected of the new, iPod, nonliterary generation in which I was thrown into like a piece of a recipe. Yes, a book.

As I open my novel, I notice a man in the front with sunglasses. He’s holding a stick with a green tip on it. Blind. This dude is blind. To be perfectly honest I’ve always wanted a blind friend. I want his name to be Jefferson. He could be black, or white, I mean not like that matters or anything. Just a blind friend named Jefferson. I have always wanted to know what their life is like. There’s that great question: “Chris, would you rather be deaf or blind?” I always opt for being blind. I think it is because I just love music, and even more so, singing. I guess I just simply love sounds. The train outside my window at night, the trees in the wind, the voice of a young woman. But me and Jefferson would go downtown and I would walk him through the streets and funny things would happen to us. Like I wouldn’t see an oncoming vehicle about to strike us, but he would hear it, grab my arm, and I would gasp. Oh! He would say something becoming like, - well I don’t know what he would say but it would always be clever and new, fresh like something I would never have thought of.

I continue to examine this blind youth sitting at the forefront of the bus. He looks my age. He’s white, with blond hair and skinny arms. He looks like a Jefferson. No that’s absur—

Oh crap he caught me staring at him like the lady at the bus sto—waaait. Ha. Damn, that’s something I never took into consideration when being asked the question. I would never know if some wacko was staring at me, I think that would bother me. Yeah, that would bother me. But that’s a small price to pay to be able to continue to hear a G major chord. Oh Jefferson. I need to stop thinking this guy is my buddy because if I don’t I will end up walking off the bus with him. I love this guy. I should read my book. What am I doing? I am not normal. I should ask the man in front of me. Excuse me sir, but do you think I’m normal? I mean, do I look all right to you? I haven’t done anything strange or out of—
I’m going to read my book. I’m not normal. No normal person would have an imaginary blind friend named—forget it.

A Ton of Bricks

It's funny when ideas come to you. You're sitting late at night watching the street and late night TV when a barrage of words hit the back of your head. Certain ideas of sounds. You know your voicemail is full of these sorts of things - that I have piles of scratch paper piled in my basement - but all of a sudden there is so much movement. Run to find paper and a pen while humming (not singing to wake anyone up) and rummaging through the household.

Now I'm up listening back to this idea I will most likely hate tomorrow morning. Such is life.

Good Day, Mr. Kubrick...

In 1984, Director Stanley Kubrick posted ads for young actors to send in tapes for the lead in Full Metal Jacket...just watch this please.

I Did Not Know I Missed This...

Got back to Portland today...so happy to be done with the quarter and to move on from classes like psychology taught by Dr. Les Parrott. Buuuutttt....I found out something when I was driving home/at home.

I totally missed driving to music.

I think it is my favorite thing to do. Ever. I drove back from Beaverton tonight at like 1:30am just listening to Tom Waits' The Heart of a Saturday Night and figured out how much I took that for granted.

Interesting note: I was sitting at my desk on my last night talking to a friend and I witnessed a mouse climbing around in the tree outside my window. A mouse. Climbing a tree. Does that happen? More on this later...

Happy Birthday Larry Bird

He showed the world that white men could not just jump, but shoot, pass, and talk trash. He's considered basketball's greatest white man to play the game and holds records in both college and professional levels of basketball. But his legacy is not his statistics or his attitude, it was the way he viewed the game of basketball.

In the late 1970s and early 1980s, the National Basketball Association was in its greatest downfall. "I wouldn't have been surprised if the league were to fold," said Erving Johnson, a guard for the Philadelphia 76ers in the late 70s. Due to excessive fighting and bad language by the players, games began to be run with tape delay of almost five minutes. Articles were being written about the racial side of the game, saying the league was "too black" and had lost its since of competition. Teams were becoming readily available and incredibly cheap.

Larry Bird was drafted by the Boston Celtics in 1979 from the Indiana State University. He was considered "the great white hope for basketball." His rookie year brought him mounds of media attention for his rough attitude and country looks. "But this guy could play the game," said William Nack, a writer for Sports Illustrated. Bird had a gift.

But for every Ali, there is a Frazer, and Bird met his match in 1984 when he played Magic Johnson. This rivalry would save the NBA because of its fierce competitive nature. The Lakers hated the Celtics and every Celtic hated the Lakers. The two men brought a rich sense of competition to a dying game. The 1980s and early 90s were considered the NBA golden years. You could watch these highlights for days; Bird vs. Magic, Jordan vs. pretty much everyone. Larry Legend is credited to sparking this type of game play, and is something that you rarely see in a sport.

When I look at those tapes with the Boston Garden packed to the nosebleeds even on a pre-season game, I wonder about the state of the NBA now. Who's saving the game? It should be realized that it has gone through an immense depression with drug use and egotism. The NBA needs a savior, and I'm not saying he's not there yet. But the game is played completely different than it was in the golden years. With hardly any defense, some games are in the 120s. Everyone wants to hold a record and go for personal achievement instead of great competition and a good team.

So cheer's to Larry Bird today on his 50th birthday, the man deserves everything he has.


PS. I found this great Larry Bird montage set to John Mellencamp's "Smalltown"...absolutely fantastic. Oh children this is basketball.

Free Mochas and American Flags

I am here. Here. Right now, here. The American flag waves outside of the window with a sort of ashamed grace. I came here to study, and to redeem my free Starbucks beverage. The coupon was given to me back in Portland on Thanksgiving Day.

“Oh, here you are, sorry,” said the barista apologetically.
“What?” I snapped back.
“Here, take this,” she said as she handed me a free beverage coupon.
“Are you just handing these out today?” I said in confusion.
“No, just when we screw up a drink,” she replied.
“But you didn’t screw up my drink, er, I mean, I don’t know if you did yet.”
“Oh no, I just took too long, I’m sorry.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah”
“Ok”
“Yes”
“Great, I will leave now, out this um, door.”

Yeah, so rock ‘n’ roll for Starbucks and their pledge to make your drink with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy. Now I’m downing this mocha, and I can’t decide if it tastes good because it was made with incredible speed and astonishing accuracy or just because I didn’t pay a dime for it. But that’s beside the point. Frick, what is the point?

Whatever.

I’m looking at this flag outside - it’s the American flag - and it waves in the foreground of the Emerald City, which is currently framed by thin, dark clouds. I did come here to study. My books are in my bag right now and sort of looking at me like I’m crazy. Writing about free mochas and American flags? You need to think about Skinner and Piaget, or Greene and Lewis, people that are above you – you dirtbag. Dirtbag? What the hell? That’s not even one word…it’s dirt (space) bag. Dirt bag. I know I should study. It’s really quiet right now in Starbucks, and that’s rare. Usually a good assortment of neo-jazz and old Christmas songs about this time. But the city looked way too good today. I’m living what I’ve been wanting to live right now, and while all I want to do is return to Portland, I’m finding comfort in becoming lost in such a big city. I’m on the outskirts of Seattle now, by Union Bay, watching ships rock back and forth, young business women’s hair fly in the wind.

We sort of like to be lost, to be unheard of for a while. Community stresses people out, annoys our conscience, but sometimes we love to return to the garden and hide from ourselves, and Someone Else. No one knows me here. I could go talk to that guy over by the door and tell him I’m about to leave for Iraq, scared to death and deeply saddened that I can’t spend Christmas with my family. I could cry in his arms and freak this whole place out, maybe pull out a small handkerchief and wave in the air dramatically while I yelped for the country.

Or not.

I think I’ll just hide. I’ll look at that flag wave in the air, stare at the city, and keep talking to my textbooks. This is just a part of all of us. We love to belong, but hiding who we are and starting as a new person is something we sometimes wish for. Lead a dramatically different lifestyle somewhere far away. But the same thing always runs across my mind when I look at cities from far away: Since when is it about me?

Awesome and The Long Winters

"I'm feeling a left," I say as if they were both listening. Ben pipes up from the back:
"Yea, um, left seems good."

This was the talk that went on once we reached the University of Washington, which is practically its own city. The problem with the campus (and i love the campus, don't get me wrong) is that there is no central point. The moment you feel as though you in the middle of the campus, turns out you're actually on the outskirts or in some strange campus suburb.

Needless to say, we were lost on our way to see The Long Winters play the Union Building at UW. After asking five people where the place was we found parking and headed in. The room was like an old gym, and the hardly anyone was there at 7:50, ten minutes before the show was to start. I got a strange feeling in my gut like this would be one of the worst concerts I would ever go to, and my last at this Union Building.

It was a diverse crowd, not all students. Adults and even children slowly filled the room. We were right up at the front and got excited once the lights went down. An ensemble of seven young men in business suits gathered on the stage and grabbed their instruments.

A Native American looking guy with hair down to the middle of his back said the first words into a microphone to the left of the stage:

"Hey thanks for coming for the opening band, we're Awesome."

That could have been the best introduction to any live music event I've ever been to (yeah, I've been around). The bands name was, in fact, "Awesome," and yes, they were in fact, awesome. The band consisted of so many instruments I don't feel like naming but included the banjo, mandolin, guitar, drums, and saxophone. If you've ever been in a choir, you could tell these guys were choir boys. The way they looked, acted, sang, and wrote, they were choir boys. They busted in with their first song which was an array of key and tempo changes with complex riffs on every note that fit so well together. They never took themselves seriously, always laughing and having a good time. The entire band was so relaxed, yet professional it was incredible. I just put my hand over my mouth and looked at Sean. The key to these guys was the fact that they made everything look so easy. While making incredibly complex chords changes and movements they would smile, laugh, and even dance quite a bit. Their melodies and harmonies are reminecent of a mixture of The Beatles and Tally Hall (winner of the 2005 John Lennon Songwriters Contest). If you want to see a great live show, see if "Awesome" is around.

After my face was done melting, The Long Winters took the stage in a very nonchalaunt and comfortable way. They didn't act like rockstars, but more like your friend. I love this. The front man for the group, John Roderick showed such ease with the crowd. When he got on stange he made a solid rock stance yelling, "Hello Husky Union Building!" as if he were greeting Cleveland. They opened with a fat version of, "Carparts" thick with Les Paul distortion and round Fender Bass. Throughout the show, Roderick gave the greatest stage banter I've heard in a while.




"I went to the University of Washington you know...didn't granduate...thanks for asking. But I never knew this existed. I had heard of it, but never came here. I went downstairs, of course, because...I like tacos."

He was very relaxed and just talked to you. Never tried to impress anyone. At one point during a guitar solo, Roderick's guitar came unplugged and went quiet. He went on scatting the entire solo, and low a behold, right as the pre-chorus was building, his amp rushed in with immense feedback and he struck a huge A chord to come into the chorus pumping the song back into life.

A very "college" like show all in all. The crowd bopped to tunes off their latest record "Putting the Days to Bed" as well as some classics from old records. The band left the stage with Roderick again saying in a "rockstar-like" tone, "Goodnight University of Washington!"

Marc Cohn is a Name You've Never Heard

Am I right?

It may be that you have never heard the name Marc Cohn. He wrote a song by the name of "Walking in Memphis." Now you know him. Well you don't know him, but you know of him. Or perhaps just heard about him.

Anywhore.

What you need to do is purchase his self-titled album. If you like 70s singer songwriters (Elton John, Jackson Browne, etc.) you'll dig this guy. A very American sound with some deep roots. I encourage you to at least listen to the rest of this guys stuff. Don't you love when the supposed "one-hit wonders" end up having absolutely fantastic careers? (cough Hanson cough yes cough I said cough Hanson and yes cough I can back it up cough)

I'm going to The Long Winters show here in Seattle at UW tomorrow and will most likely write here about it. I'll say this much about The Long Winters: if there's any modern band doin' the pop/rock thang (yea, thAng) correctly, it's these guys.

Thanksgiving

She sort of shuffled in unannounced with her hair tucked under a beanie. The family was gathered in the kitchen either helping or watching all of the cooking happen.

"There are too many people in this kitchen," said Grandma with disgust. "I can't focus on my gravy!" The room quietly filtered a bit as people moved slowly into the small dining area adjacent to the kitchen. She entered the kitchen removing her beanie but after the bellowing cry of Grandma, inched away. Her blond, almost white hair fell on to her shoulders as her innocent childish eyes focused toward the food. She was holding something in her palm gently. Mom had given her a savvy death glare that spoke loud and clear telling the little girl to back up. Aunt Lily was working her spells on the mashed potatoes as Uncle Larry carved the turkey with ultimate care. From across the room Grandpa looked on in disgust.

"Oh now how do you expect us to even eat that, you've cut it in to shreds."

Uncle Larry held in his ultimate anger for Grandpa, but thought the most ugly thoughts in his mind. How 'bout your brains in shreds Gramps? He knew he was an awful person, but no one else really did. Uncle Larry continued on the turkey taking his sinful thoughts out on the bird. He wasn't really angry, he just was tired, and badly wanted to eat. Yeah, he was starving, that's all. But Uncle Larry knew deep down in his heart that the reason he held so much angst against poor Grandpa was because Grandpa had beaten him in an arm wrestling match four Thanksgiving's ago. Uncle Larry took the challenge as a way to have fun with his Father-in-law, until mid way through the match when the competitive spirits of both of the men got the best of them. Grandpa won the match in the end and hardly ever mentions it because he knows Larry is very aware he lost to an eighty two year old man.

Whatever, he thought. Doesn't matter, it was a long time ago and I would take him now since I started playing handball at Bally's. Yea, handball is demanding. C'mon Gramps. He caught himself staring at Grandpa for an irregular amount of time and went back to the turkey. His concentration was broken when the little girl in the beanie, his daughter May, made this announcement:

"I want to give a gift to everyone because I am so thankful." Her child-like words filled the family with pleasure. This is something you want to happen on Thanksgiving. The children always tell the truth, they are so honest and loving. Yes, this is beautiful, we should capture this moment. Dad reached for his camera in a very sly, but quick fashion.

"Everyone in this family have been so sweet to me, and I want to give everyone this gift before we eat." She was such a sweetie. Mom whispered something like, "how precious," to Grandma as Grandma stirred the gravy. Before anyone could say anything to her, the child's hands opened and an enormous frog leapt from her palm and on to the counter. Aunt Lily let out a shriek as the young boys laughed and little May ran for the living room. The adventurous reptile took bounds from the turkey to the cranberries and over to the salad making his final leap into the gravy Grandma had been stirring so tenderly.

"Kill it!" screamed Grandma, and Uncle Larry ran over with the electronic knife. He stuck the knife in the gravy which sent an electrical shock through his body causing the frog to make a sort of supernatural jump into Grandma's cleavage. Uncle Larry hit the floor with such immense power that little cousin Alexia levitated just for a moment. Grandma threw her shirt off screaming for help and ordering Mom to call 911. The entire room flew in to a panic except for Grandpa who was laughing hysterically. He was the only one who found humor in the situation and couldn't do anything because of his surrender to his laughter.

The frog was now on the ground and it was May who came back in to the room after hearing the thud of Uncle Larry. She scooped up the frog and began to head for the door. But on her way out she slipped, there was a small leaf that made its way in the house and her feet flew out from under her. The surprise of the fall loosened her grip and the frog was once again loose. It was Dad who decided to take charge of this situation. He had never been one for heroic acts, but seemed to be the only man left for the job of killing this beast. He ran for the frog and chased it toward the door. It was beginning to escape but thought, he must kill it, and took off his slipper. It all happened in slow motion in his memory: taking off the slipper, throwing it over-hand like a baseball or a hatchet straight for the reptile which was hopping away. It was a perfect shot. except for the fact that little May was just getting up at the time of his release. The slipper pummeled her in the back of the head causing her to fall once again to the floor as the frog leapt out the front door and down the steps.

They wouldn't let the frog ruin their Thanksgiving. It couldn't happen. And once the family literally came to, it was Dad who said grace. His first Thanksgiving grace, awarded to him for his valiant efforts of saving the meal. They threw out the gravy and the potatoes, but decided to keep the turkey and the cranberries because it was all they had of it. As Dad prayed Grandpa caught the eye of little May who was smiling from ear to ear. He winked at her and then shut his eyes slowly. She knew she had done something special, and even after the spankings she was about to get, she decided that it was worth it. Her childish mind told her so, and came to the conclusion that Thanksgiving maybe wasn't so bad after all.

The House in Irvine and the End of the World

When my family lived in the house in Irvine, my brother Scott and I would spend the majority of our summer in the backyard playing basketball or baseball. My earliest memories were created here. We were living in a very small house, a humble home with two bedrooms and one bath. Our “backyard” was more just like a massive pile of rocks and dust. The dry California summers would murder the ground we played on. After basketball got old, Scotty and I would make up different games to play. Being so young, our imaginations were wild, but our creativity was limited.

There was a large wall that ended our “yard.” Scott and I had no idea what was on the other side of the wall, and to be honest, I never remember wanting to know. One day, we made up a game where we just chucked rocks over this wall and listened to the sound they made as they hit the other side. This was our way of finding out what was over the wall. I remember Scott telling me that nothing was on the other side of the wall, that if we were to look over, we would see nothing. “The world ends on the other side,” he would say with authority. I wanted only to believe him. I tested his hypothesis by throwing one of the dry rocks over the cusp. A quick thud ended the life of Scott’s misinformed theory. Ah ha. I looked over at Scott. He looked back at me in pure, childish astonishment. “I have no idea what that was,” he said slowly. This surprised me and I became suspicious. I bent down and grasped another hot stone from the ground of our property. I gave it a good throw, this time farther – to make sure I didn’t just hit the other side of the wall.

This time, the sound that came from the opposite side was different. It was more defined and real. What…? I looked over again at Scott. He just gazed ahead with massive intensity, as if to be looking though the wall. While continuing to stare at the wall, Scott knelt down and picked up a good-sized rock. He threw the rock over with grace and maturity. The sound that echoed into the sky and over the wall to our ears was all too familiar. Just as the sound before it, he threw it about the same distance as I did. I was happy with myself. There is no greater joy than being equal to an older brother. I kept looking at him, waiting for him to explain everything – it was as if he knew what was going on and not filling me in just for his own enjoyment of suspense.

We began throwing rocks one after another with each hand and with no accuracy just to hear the different sounds. One sound was quite clear and poignant, but we had no idea what it was hitting. I thought for the longest time that I was hitting some sort of spacecraft or UFO, the sound was like some sort of tin or thin metal. I truly believed every word my brother said, and was developing a complete trust in the fact that this is where the world ended.

Then, a voice. It was loud, booming and god-like. Our parade of throwing was ceased as the voice grew louder and before we knew it a man hoisted himself above the barrier! He was Hercules! Adam! God Himself! His face was stern and our two small bodies became stiff and still. As he spoke, he warned us of what we were doing, asking us if we knew what we were hitting. “No,” we both said almost simultaneously. “You’re hitting my truck,” he said frankly. I was a ghost, completely frigid. My bones seemed to freeze as my blood halted inside my body. He has a flying truck...The only thing that moved was my mind – wild with curiosity and wonder. He must be able to fly too. Hercules sat hoisted on the ledge of the cliff to the end of the world like he was just out for a day trip. I can’t remember a single word he said after that. Something about telling our parents if we were to throw rocks off the edge of the earth again. When he finally let off, there was no sound after that. No shoes hitting the gravel, no shutting of a truck door, no sound. As my brother and I walked back in to the house I had so many questions. My little mind began pulsing.

“Do you think – ?”
“Shut up.”

Wii are the Champions

So if you thought I had enough with the play on words, you were wrong. I've decided that "Wii" is just a great word to say all the time.

College is all about finding free fun, and when your friends are die hard Nintendo fans and wish to camp outside of a Target to get the 16th and 17th systems...well, you really don't have to search very far.

After staying up the whole night listening to the young and old of the Target line talk about Nintendo and how much Play Station 3 sucks, I realize that I don't regret going along. Sean and Daniel proved to be the best partners to urban camp with, and I guess if I had to put the night into one word it would be intense.

After about four hours of sitting in the cold up against the white grate, I thought I should check out Target to see if I could spend my $30 gift card. Thank you Uncle Dave. Immediately upon walking in, my Target lighting allergies began acting up. I pressed on into the electronics section which was strangely in the front of the store. That's weird. Don't they usually put that in the back? Maybe in the corner. But not in the fr - Yes. Decemberists new disc. I had to snag it. Yes, it was ten dollars. So I slowly make my way over to the gaming section to get a preview as to what this whole Wii thing was about. This is because about two hours into our urban camping adventure I realized I had no idea what the Wii was all about.

I watched a woman on a flat screen tell me that the Wii was a "family opportunity" and got lost in her words. Before I knew it there was a voice behind me:

"No controllers yet huh?"
"What?"
"They don't have controllers released yet, do they?" said the voice.

I turned around to catch the glimpse of who I would be later introduced to as Jason. He had conglomerated light-blue dyed hair stuffed under a Batman eared beanie. He was smiling at me while he said this and I got a very clear look at the gaps in between his teeth and his stiff, fixated glasses.

"No," I said plainly. "I don't think they come out until tomorrow, you know, with the system."
"Oh, right, totally."
There was a small silence. Until he said:
"I think I'm going to check out around the ba - Oh. my."
He paused and sort of looked past me, behind my back. He was gazing in the distance as if hypnotized, completely still. I turned to see what he was entranced with. The Wii stood encased in a glass square, lit with a blue ember beneath it. The system looked god-like. It seemed to stand taller, mightier, and almost projected a sort of aura. Jason was pulled immediately to it, reaching his hands out towards the mighty Wii. Bat-ears J embraced it, breathing heavily as he rubbed the glass. I looked at my shoes.

"Oh wow. Oh. Wow." he breathed.

There was another silence as he paused, slowly looked toward me and whispered;

"You can...almost...taste it..."

My face changed instantly from discomfort to what I can only describe it as, "hella-scared." I can't remember if I responded or just left, but the next thing I remember I was outside of the target and breathing heavily.

Wii are doing it!

If you don't know what they hell that means, let me explain. On Sunday, November 19th Nintendo will release its new creation for gamers, the Wii. On yes, that means a whole new slew of Mario and Zelda. I guess it also means I'm sleeping at Target tonight.


Two gentlemen from my floor here at the university (I feel like a prick for saying that, but I also don't care) want to purchase one of these systems. And since I love adventure, tonight I will be sleeping at the Target at Northgate here in Seattle Washington. But guess what, I have no money! So that means I'm just a moral support and watching my two buddies spend some hard earned cash.

I think I'll pick up some detergent while I'm there.

What We See Created By What We Don't See

Faith is the subject of a new small group I helped start at Seattle Pacific University. It's an incredibly broad subject but gives us a lot of room to play with.

The Bible teaches us that faith is being sure of what we hope for an certain of what we do not see. The book of Hebrews gives us an incredible insight to this subject and leaves us in awe of what we have to do in order to "keep the faith." Hebrews 11:6 says that "without faith it is impossible to please God." If it is impossible to please Him without faith, then shouldn't we discipline ourselves in our faith lives? This is also the most difficult idea in Christianity because it all has to do with what we do not know. While it makes sense theologically, in a practical mindset, it can drive one crazy. The reason it is impossible to please our Creator without faith is because without faith, there is not relationship with Him. You see, he is the unknown, and while he could open the skies and show his face to all of us he wishes not to. This is because he gave man free will in the Garden of Eden (Gen 2, 3). We must realize that our gift of free will is one that is to be taken with extreme care. Free will created faith, giving us the opprotunity to trust or ignore God. The fact that a Creator loved us so much that he would initially let us do whatever the hell we wanted to do on this earth is pretty dang loving. He's not called "abounding in love" for nothing.

This initial act of love he showed to humanity is very telling of His character. I will never understand why He didn't make things easier and just make us robots (like our friends the plants) and have us be God worshipping machines, but I think He really loves you and me.

Faith is all about accepting this reality and then joining it. God is alive - He is present and active - faith lets us adore the unseen.

The ((Unforced)) Rhythms of Grace

Next Jesus let fly on the cities where he had worked the hardest but whose people had responded the least, shrugging their shoulders and going their own way.
"Doom to you, Chorazin! Doom, Bethsaida! If Tyre and Sidon had seen half of the powerful miracles you have seen, they would have been on their knees in a minute. At Judgment Day they'll get off easy compared to you. And Capernaum! With all your peacock strutting, you are going to end up in the abyss. If the people of Sodom had had your chances, the city would still be around. At Judgment Day they'll get off easy compared to you."

Abruptly Jesus broke into prayer: "Thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth. You've concealed your ways from sophisticates and know-it-alls, but spelled them out clearly to ordinary people. Yes, Father, that's the way you like to work."

Jesus resumed talking to the people, but now tenderly. "The Father has given me all these things to do and say. This is a unique Father-Son operation, coming out of Father and Son intimacies and knowledge. No one knows the Son the way the Father does, nor the Father the way the Son does. But I'm not keeping it to myself; I'm ready to go over it line by line with anyone willing to listen.

"Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you'll recover your life. I'll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won't lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you'll learn to live freely and lightly."

~Matthew 11:20-30

Eugene Peterson translated the Bible under the name "The Message." He went back to the original Greek and Hebrew. The man graduated out of Seattle Pacific University with an English major. He's quite the dude and he was a huge influence on me choosing to step into this decorated English program. This translation is fresh and accurate, giving it to us in our vernacular. Thanks Eugene (wow you really can't shorten his name...Gene maybe?...yeah, Gene)