One Saxon Morn' (Part III)

The “Atomic Age”, brought us a mixed harvest of both promise and plague. We were provided with the possibility for clean, inexhaustible sources of energy that could power our nation for the far foreseeable future. For all its promise, the age also opened a Pandora’s Box of sorts. By far, the most frightening specter of the “Atomic Age” was an intercontinental ballistic missile bristling with multiple warheads. These hellish devices became the boogeyman for an entire generation. Peaceniks, science fiction authors and even Bill Moyer managed to keep the threats posed by these awesome devices in the forefront of our collective consciences. Hollywood too, did its best to scare us stupid with movies like “Failsafe” and “The Day After”. Though many before me have stopped to ponder the Atomic Age, I wonder just how much similar thought has been directed towards our present “Information Age”.

Where the atomic age provided nations the wherewithal to level cities, denude continents and evaporate entire populations, the information age has provided individuals with the ability to shred individuals, destroy relationships and erase reputations… all from the relative comfort of one’s den or local WiFi Hotspot. This information age has demonstrated time and again that the keyboard and mouse are every as devastating as the sword (or the Sig Sauer for that matter).

I pointed towards the words of St. James’ Epistle in part II, in speaking about the awesome power of the tongue and the words it produces. It would be convenient to take the purely wooden stand that Jesus’ kid stepbrother Jim was limiting his line of logic to speech. I’m confident that we can reasonably apply this line of logic to other forms of human communication, both verbal and nonverbal. I mean think about it; if it’s unlawful to rob another using a gun or knife, you won’t receive a pass if you rob someone using a ball peen hammer. Destructive and demeaning communication is just that, irrespective of its mode of delivery, be it verbal or not. I would even propose that destructive written or electronic communication is even more insidious than caustic verbal communications.

Slamming or flaming another via e-mail is akin to shooting someone in the back. The sender need only to build up a toxic level of bitterness, vomit up their spleen onto the desktop, and click the send icon. Like the lieutenant in the missile silo, the devastating dispatch is sent without breaking a bead of sweat or shedding a drop of blood. For their recipient however, it’s another matter altogether. The victim of this electronic salvo is often left with a gaping gash across their spirit.

Again, we hear the worlds of St. James ring clearly: "Brothers, this should not be".

One Saxon Morn' (Part II)

The following was originally told by radio commentator Paul Harvey in an installment of “The Rest of the Story”. (It has been liberally paraphrased for this post...)

Four journalists from Denver happened to meet while on assignment in China in the closing months of the Nineteenth Century. Over a few rounds of beer, the men concocted a story that would be sure to sell papers. In their story, the Chinese People had agreed to undertake a major project as an act of goodwill towards the west. China, the story went, would demolish their Great Wall as a gesture demonstrating their willingness to welcome the west into their ancestral lands. The story went to print and was treated as bunk back in the states. In China however, the story caught the attention of a secretive band of ultranationalists who were already plenty pissed off about the barbarians in their ancient lands. The group, known for their prowess in the martial arts, wouldn’t let this outrage go unanswered.

This seemingly preposterous story was the match that ignited the Boxer Rebellion, a bloodbath that took the lives of countless Chinese followers of Christ, along with numerous Christian Missionaries.

I’m not yet sure why, but I’ve been thinking about “words” for the last week or so. In the past year, I’ve become very sensitive to my own speech, and the words of others, and the various effects these words may have on their hearers. Add to this the fact that in our present age, we rely heavily on written digital communications. In this our e-mails, text messages, et al add to the sum of our communicated language. Our language and our words have the potential to either comfort or cull. And with that, our tongues have the potential to be either salve or a scythe to those who hear or read our words.

How many times have our words, whether written or spoken, hit another like a wrecking ball? Have verbal asides or terse e-mails left others wounded in their wake? Or how often have we, when wounded by words, returned withering words in the direction of our offender?

James, the stepbrother of our Savior spilled a good deal of ink concerning the tongue in his relatively short epistle. If words are arrows, then the tongue is the crossbow that launches them. He rhetorically observes that the same tongue that that lifts gentle blessings is capable of firing lethal salvos of curses. And in his plainspoken way, he reminds his readers that this shouldn’t happen.

Possessing a machete tongue may be typical, but it certainly shouldn’t be normal for followers of the way.

One Saxon Morn' (Part I)

There was a time when I was a fan of Fleetwood Mac.

In was on one bitter Saxon morning in 1987, when I dropped my copy of “Rumors” into the cassette player on my desk, expecting to hear the smoky voice of Christine McVie. I pushed the play button, only to hear the sound of the tape turning on the spindles. Nonplussed, I grumbled believing that the cassette player had bought the farm. It would be sounds of the British Forces Broadcasting System for the rest of the day.

Like so many days on the mountaintop at Schwelentrup, the weather steadily deteriorated from an otherwise promising day. By workday’s end, a persistent ice fog engulfed the summit, coating everything with a glassy glaze of ice. I would have to chisel the Ford out of this crystal cocoon. Twenty minutes later, I removed my iced parka and slid into the slid into the driver’s seat. As the engine warmed, I popped “Rumors” into the tape deck and waited for Mrs. McVie. The voice I heard was far smokier…

“@#%$!! What is the MATTER with this $&@#* tape deck NOW?” the voice growled. Alone, the words were caustic. The delivering voice added the ferocity of a searing hot sandblaster. I was alone in the car, yet I can still feel the blush sweeping across my face. The voice hissing through the car stereo was my own and hearing it was like a well-placed punch in the stomach.

Have you ever heard yourself in an unguarded moment, in a moment when you weren’t aware that the “microphone was on?” It may surprise some to learn that the mic is always on. The tape that catches our voices lifted in hymnody also captures it lowered in less edifying lyrics.

Saints and Children, we are gathered here...

The "Holy King of Israel" loves His children here, or wherever they may be. Regardless of our geolocation, the Father is taking us to a new and undiscovered country. Its a place outside the rule of time and tide; a place where the kings and priests of the Most High will serve Him in the epochs of eternity to come.

Come quickly LORD Jesus, come and make all things new...

Is it just me, or do you see it too?

When I first saw the photo of Phil Spector in court, I was gobsmacked by his wildman hairdo. I knew that I'd seen it before but coundn't place it. Then it hit me like a cold water balloon... I'd seen that 'do while eating many a bowls of Captain Crunch on Saturday mornings in front of the TV. Hair Bear and Uncle Phil were sporting the same 'do.

Enjoy the Day!

On the Continent's Edge

When one walks with God, there is really no such thing as "uncharted territory". Though we seem to be walking in an undiscovered country, the Almighty One who walks ahead of us has already been here. The One who has seen the end from the beginning knows every turn of the trail.

Granite

It’s 7:05 A.M. and I’m sitting at a Starbucks on the corner of Jones and Jefferson on a chilly morning. The fog is obscuring the top the Transamerica building and is diffusing the morning sunshine. To my right up the hill is this grand stone tower. To my left are the restaurants of Fisherman’s Wharf. The low rumble of a city coming to life is punctuated by a laughing seagull and is accentuated by strains of Bob Marley pouring out of the coffee shop speakers.

I’m thinking of a conversation I had with Father Tob yesterday. Another Bishop has been elected by our brothers in Africa. This is the second election in as many weeks. Some reasserters are troubled by what seems to be more division within the American Anglican reawakening. A few reappraisers have seen this as a weakness, or even a fundamental flaw of the orthodox. One priest from Delaware has even insinuated on his blog that this is a sign that CANA, NAAC, et al will be little more than isolated malcontents within the next few years. In the midst of this, the Lord gave me a mental image of Granite.

Indulge me if I wax pedantic for a moment as we consider granite. There are igneous and metamorphic varies of granite; I’ll speak to the latter. This strain of granite is composed primarily of quartz, mica and feldspar. All three of these minerals are igneous rocks, forged in the fires of the Lord’s creation opus. Somewhere in the process, these minerals were cast back into the fire and emerged as granite.

There’s much to be observed concerning granite besides its fiery origins. Unlike sedimentary rocks that bend and fold to the assaults of time, tide and weather, granite stands unmoved as if in defiance to these factors. But this same granite will yield to the hands of the sculptor as it is shaped into works of beauty. The rock that laughs at the maelstrom, submits to the master.

Perhaps the Lord in his providence is taking various churches, each forged in some level of tribulation, and bringing them together into something that is greater than the sum of its parts. Only time will tell.

I just flew into 'Frisco and boy are my arms tired...

I'm in the "City by the Bay" this week, hosting a conference along with my coworkers. It's been over fifteen years since I visited the city of Saint Francis, and I'm happy to say the the things that make the city great are still here. Unfortunately, the things that are a stench in the nostrils of the Almighty are still here as well. San Francisco doesn't hold the monopoly on vice (as Father Tob reminded me this morning), so we in the "red states" need not take Schadenfreude in the state of this city.

The morning has given me a thought... The seeds of the post-reformation/post-modern TEC seemed to have been sown in San Francisco. Think about it; a number of unwashed flower children represented in this video are now wearing Mitres and the academic robes of the Theologian.

Remedial Christianity 101

It would seem that some seminary grads in the Diocese of Olympia could use some "continuing education" to follow up on their MDiv's. To facilitate this lifelong learning process, I've asked Professor Richard Mullins to lecture us all on the topic of Christianity 101.