I Have a Brilliant Idea

I got another political phone call last night. I listened for a few minutes… to see if I could tell whether it was a recording or a real person. I think it was a recording, but I couldn’t really tell because people in politics, even those who work for politicians, sound like automatons. In the short time that I listened, I was bored… it’s not that I’m anti-political. It’s just that this is information overload. I am so tired of hearing about the election. For crying out loud, the campaigning starts a year-and-a-half before the election and then it’s everyday… all day long… until eighteen months later when we finally get to cast our ballots.

With nineteen presidential debates so far, daily mail-outs, newspaper advertising, billboards, constant talking heads on the news channels telling us what the candidates really said, and now phone calls to my home, I’m getting weary.

Why is it that everybody with an opinion thinks that everyone needs to hear their opinion?  In the Republican debate held in Tampa, those who were coming into the arena to watch could hardly get through the doors because of the picketers. I’m against picketing but I’m not sure how to show my distaste for it other than to picket.

There has to be a better system. In the suspected recording, I listened, but not hard enough or long enough to figure out which Presidential candidate they were pushing. The whole system is confusing. Everything is confusing. For example, Gingrich is a Catholic with three wives and Romney is a Mormon with one. Figure that. Gingrich’s wives keep getting younger. His first wife (his high school Geometry teacher) was nine years older than he was. The second one was nine years younger than him. The third and present wife is twenty-three years younger than him. Who’s next for Newt, Hannah Montana?

Romney and the rest have their issues too. But who doesn’t? I feel sorry for anyone who runs for any office. From the time they make public their intentions, every nook and cranny of their life, past and present, will be scrutinized and investigated. No one wants that to happen? That’s why we are so limited in the quality of those who run for office. It’s because their whole life will be exposed and what the media doesn’t know, they invent.

I have a better system. Why not let every state nominate someone to be their candidate and these fifty candidates can run against each other in a three-hour prime time special called the “Presidential Pageant”… sort of like the Miss America Pageant. I mean every year that works for us, doesn’t it? We always get an articulate, intelligent, pretty girl who represents our nation adequately. Hey, don’t dismiss this idea. It has potential. We could operate it like a beauty pageant without the swimsuit competition, of course. Ever candidate could parade around trying to look good for the cameras… sort of like they do now but without all the pretense.

And the candidates could answer tough questions. Why not ask them the same confusing and utterly ridiculously difficult question they asked Miss South Carolina a few years ago:

“Recent polls have shown a fifth of Americans can’t locate the U.S. on a world map. Why do you think this is?”

I thought Miss South Carolina gave a brilliant response:

“I personally believe that U.S. Americans are unable to do so because, uh, some . . . people out there in our nation don’t have maps and, uh, I believe that our, uh, education like such as in South Africa and, uh, the Iraq, everywhere like such as, and, I believe that they should, our education over HERE in the U.S. should help the U.S., uh, or, uh, should help South Africa and should help the Iraq and the Asian countries, so we will be able to build up our future, for our children.”

I mean when she got through, we all knew that she was confused and it was obvious. When our candidates give a response, they have to give one that doesn’t even remotely address the question and an answer that is so politically correct that no one, or group, or nationality, or ethnic background, or persuasion, or religious affiliation could even remotely think that the answer was derogatory towards them.

By the time they’re done… the candidates and the listeners are equally confused. Someone once said, “Vague language is a tool for concealing the truth.” I believe that. In fact, I believe that the only one in America who could possibly understand the politician’s rhetoric would be Miss South Carolina. Maybe she should be hired as one of those talking heads who could tell us what the candidates really meant after every response.

I got another idea. Instead of using judges like they do in beauty pageants… judges that no one ever heard of, but everyone applauds when they’re introduced, acting like they have heard of them. Why not use average Americans? I mean, if juries are good enough to give out verdicts in life and death cases, then why not chose twelve citizens and let them come up with three finalists?

Are you getting excited yet? My hands are sweaty with anticipation. Also, we have to connect with the old and the young, so let me suggest that Ryan Seacrest be the host and Gary Puckett, if he is still alive, to sing right before the finalists are announced. Holy moley… I’m getting really amped up. Then all Americans would get a chance to cast their votes. And, we could vote like they do on American Idol, by phone or text or email or twitter or whatever new means of communication that might be invented in the next twelve hours. No hanging chads… no recounts… we would know who won in a matter of minutes. There would be no Democratic, Republican, or Independent candidates… just three Americans to vote for. The winner would be President, the runner-up Vice-President, and third place would be the Secretary of State.

I’m getting more excited by the millisecond. Almost giddy. It’s a brilliant plan. There are some kinks that I haven’t worked out yet, but it sure beats the system we have now.

The God of Obesity?

I weighed between Christmas and New Year’s Day, and the scale said 199. Thank God! I thought I was going to weigh at least 200. Anyway, I should have expected as much. Between Halloween and New Year’s Day each year I forage and graze until reality sets in and I am no longer able to wear my jeans without stretching them on the rack (not the clothing rack) but the one that they used for torture… dislodging of joints, etc.

Food is such a part of our lives. It is what we do. As Christians, it’s an even greater part of our lives. We don’t drink, do drugs, smoke, chew or run around with girls that do. So, the only addictive vice left is food. In any extended conversation… one that lasts more than 45 seconds… the subject gets around to food. We talk about what we just ate, where we’re going to eat the next meal… we even go to restaurants and while we eat, we talk about other restaurants we have eaten at. We argue over which food is the worst or the best. It’s ridiculous.

On December 30, 2011, two people pulled up at a McDonald’s drive-thru in Galesburg, Illinois completely naked (must have ordered Happy Meals). Police in Galesburg say a 19-year-old man and a 21-year-old woman were charged with indecent exposure. They were released from Knox County Jail (after numerous mug shots) and ordered to appear in court to face the charges.

See what I mean? We’re so out of control we can’t even take the time to put on our clothes.

Someone told me once, that it’s God’s fault. “If God would have made food taste bad and we had to force ourselves to eat in order to survive, then none of us would be overweight. But instead,” he said with dried twinkie crumbs in the corners of his lips, “God made food taste so good, that it’s hard to control yourself.”

Once again, God gets the blame. The God of obesity? To the Romans, the god of obesity was named Frito-lay, in Greek mythology he was Keebler. For us, there is only one God and He told us to have control, refrain from gluttony… and man up! Admit that the problem is ours alone.

We are selfish and love to satisfy our appetites. But since overeating and obesity can lead to a variety of health problems like heart disease, high blood pressure, stairs-a-phobia, scales-a-phobia, and mirrors-a-phobia, we therefore should take action. I have a few suggestions for those who lack self-control.

1. Take a hammer and break your jaw. People who have their jaws wired shut generally lose weight quickly.
2. Ask your doctor to place you in a comatose condition. Restrict IV consumption to two bags a day.
3. Swallow bottle of tapeworm larvae.
4. Place lapband tightly around pursed lips.
Or
5. Eat healthy and exercise more.

Our bodies are God’s temple and should be treated as such. Foraging and grazing are not permitted. I promise to do better.

Success

I was watching television last week and as hard as it may be for you to believe, it was not a show in which someone was examining a corpse. There are so many of those shows and they’re all alike. Someone is dead… no one knows why… they arrest a suspect… that suspect is not the real killer… finally, they find a clue in one of the organs of the corpse that points the finger at the real killer… someone says, “It’s as if he (the dead person) solved the mystery of his own death”… they arrest the real killer… the killer is not a scumbag but is usually a relative… what a shock!… it’s someone that we suspected from the very beginning. The storyline is always the same except the organ that holds the mystery rotates from week to week.

Anyway, the show I was watching that had nothing to do with corpses, was actually an infomercial. It spoke about focusing for success. Success is what we all desire, isn’t it? No one sets out to be a failure. No one sets their goal at the point of mediocrity. But as Christians, we define success as “the continual achievement of being all that God has called you to be.” That’s a great definition, and it’s what we all should try to attain. It’s not the world’s definition, but it’s how God sees success for us. So let me ask, “Are you focused for success?” If not, then chances are you are out of God’s will. That is a dangerous place to be… even more dangerous than being the relative of the corpse.

Al Kaline

Several years ago, a friend of mine named Johnnie, was sent to the home of the Hall of Fame baseball player, Al Kaline, to conduct one of those energy evaluations. Kaline lives in Lakeland, only a 10 minute drive from our town of Plant City, or a 50 minute drive if you depart at 5 PM when everyone invades the interstate at the same time after work.

Johnnie worked for the electric company. It was his job that day to make recommendations concerning energy conservation after touring the home. I hope I’m telling this story right. I have a problem remembering details.

Anyway, at the end of his evaluation, Johnnie gave Kaline some recommendations. It was then, that the Hall of Famer asked him, “Son, you don’t know who I am, do you?’

Johnnie responded, “No, sir.”

Kaline said, “Son, you really don’t know who I am?”

“No sir,” Johnnie said, realizing that Kaline must have some notoriety. But my friend was still clueless.

“Son, look at my name, if that will help you,” Kaline urged him, hoping to give Johnnie a clue.

So, Johnnie looked at the name and read the letters out loud, “A…L…K…A…L…I N…E…. alkaline,” Johnnie exclaimed, “are you the guy who invented the battery?”

Following Kaline’s belly laugh, he took Johnnie into a room that he referred to as Kaline’s Hall of Fame room. The room was filled with awards, trophies, baseballs, and other mementos that were evidences of Al Kaline’s storied career… a Hall of Fame career. Johnnie was impressed and a little embarrassed.

The next time they met, Kaline, said to Johnnie, “Son, I’ve told that story all over the country. It just goes to show you that fame only lasts one generation. The most important things in life are not fame, because the next generation won’t even remember who you are. The most important things are family and friends.”

As a messenger of God’s Word, I remind people all the time that our lives are brief… temporal… fleeting. Only those things that we do for Christ will last. The priorities of our life therefore, ought to be Christ and the people most likely to attend our funeral.

Unfortunately, some people spend the majority of time with people who don’t care about them performing trivial activities that have little meaning. Especially, when they are viewed from the perspective of eternity.

The Definition of Grace

The Definition of Grace

Although I’ve been the pastor of a well established church for 33 years, and am plenty busy, I also have a few other things that I love to do in my spare time. One of my pleasures is being the sports writer for the Focus Magazine each month. Here’s the problem. It’s me. Every month, I have a deadline for the three stories that I write. The deadline is the same every month- the first day of the month. All month, I know the deadline. But, for some reason, I can’t get the stories there until the second day of the month. If the first lands on a Saturday, I am thrilled because I get an extra day of grace and the stories are emailed to the editor on the third. This problem isn’t new for me. I have always struggled with a deadline.

Growing up, even my library books were always a day late. I admit it. I am a lazy good-for-nothing sloth, unworthy of breathing the same air as on-time people. Feeling sorry for me yet?

Through the years, I have somewhat got a handle on my one-day lateness due to a wife that is like an appointment book… no even better… an alarm clock. She is a constant reminder when things are due. But even with her around, I still struggle. I’m sorry. I feel so ashamed! I need to go to one of those anonymous meeting for people who suffer from this same malady.

“Hello. My name is Joe and I’m a one-day-late-aholic. Oh, sorry, the meeting was yesterday, you say?”

I struggle now, but I was worse was as a kid. In the first grading period of the 11^th grade, one of my favorite teachers assigned a project and gave us the deadline. As usual, I proudly brought my project in a day late. I did a masterful job on the project and tried to explain the project’s tardiness in a rambling rhetoric with the theme of “please forgive me and pour out some grace, man.  I’m late, but ain’t it great?”

I was hoping for exoneration… was expecting a minor grade cut… would have settled for a letter-grade knockdown, but never what he offered.

“I’m not accepting any late projects,” he said.

I reasoned with him. Didn’t work.  I begged unashamedly. To no avail.

I told him, “If you don’t accept my project, I’ll commit suicide and leave a note saying you’re responsible.”

He didn’t flinch. I threatened to call his mother and tell her what a hardnosed son she had. He said he was an orphan. I suggested I might spread ugly rumors about his protruding ear hairs. He wasn’t fazed.

I was sunk. I made an “F” that grading period. I was mad… how dare he?

After college, I became a teacher myself. I taught high school, too. I always accepted projects that were late, with a penalty, of course. I believe in grace. But, I completely understand my high school teacher. And, I understand the definition of grace- undeserved favor. I deserved no favor… I was late. It was my own fault. By the way, I got the message. From then on, everything was on time.

I Guess We Were Poor

Growing up, I guess we were poor. I didn’t know it at the time. I reckon I didn’t notice because everybody around us was also struggling (another word for dirt poor.) I recently looked at my first grade class picture. You know the one… everybody’s sitting at those oak tables with those tall twenty-five year old oak chairs. Nobody’s feet are long enough to touch the floor. Mismatched clothes. Scuffed up shoes. Knee patches. Homemade haircuts. A bunch of rag-a-muffins.

Because of our economic condition (another phrase for dirt poor), my parents made a strategic decision. Not a decision that they talked about or prayed about. Just a logical choice that saved grocery money. They took us to any function that offered a free meal. We went to political rallies and cheered for candidates we didn’t even know. Why? Free chicken and rice dinners. We went to openings of subdivisions for a free hot dog meal. When car dealership introduced their new models, we were there with a fork in our pocket. Grand openings? We ate to our heart’s delight. Church socials? Yep! Bluegrass sings? You bet! We were referred to as plate lickers. That was us.

Were there benefits to these outings? I can’t think of any offhand, other than a swollen gut. But we went to these excursions with anticipation. Why? Well, it was someplace to go. It was better than staying home and adjusting the aluminum foil and coat hangers connected to our TV antennae trying to get a good reception on the two channels we could sometimes get. Sometimes we made my little sister Vickie hold on to the antennae for the best reception. We assumed everyone did the same.

Everything that you have read so far is introduction. I just wanted you to understand what life was like in Plant City in the late ‘50’s – early ‘60’s (another reference to a decade of being dirt poor.) Anyway, at one of these grand openings, daddy entered a contest and won a brand new TV. The screen was the size of a pocket watch but we didn’t care. It was new!

Our old TV still had a good picture, but the sound went out on it. Daddy watched it for a week, before he realized he wasn’t going deaf. When daddy brought the new TV home, it was small but new! He put it on top of an old nightstand in the living room. He was going to put it on the head of a pin but he couldn’t get it balanced. The picture was excellent and the sound was crystal-clear. Dad even threw away the hearing aids he won the week before at a feed store opening.

We watched that TV for the next five years until one day the picture died. For a week, dad thought he was going blind. One afternoon when I got home from fifth grade, I opened the door to the living room… the little TV was sitting on top of the old TV with the aluminum foil and coat hangers. For the next 5 years, we turned on both TVs. Got a good picture from the old one and a crystal-clear sound from the new one. All was good.

Spider Bites

My daughter is afraid of spiders. I don’t mean that she would run screaming down the middle of I-4 like my son-in-law (arachnophobia), but she has periodically refused to sleep in her room downstairs because of the threat of spiders.

Upstairs, we don’t have spider problems. Apparently, spiders don’t climb stairs very well. Anyway, we have tried several extermination methods to rid ourselves of these pests. Sprays and poisons don’t work. Stomping them with your foot or hitting them with a folded-up newspaper are the best methods, but most of us walk barefoot at home and I can’t see wasting a perfectly good newspaper on an insect that is so stupid he can’t climb stairs.

We thought they were coming in under the front door. We nailed two different door sweeps on the bottom of the front door, but they still found a way inside. We installed a security alarm. That didn’t help either. Besides, the spiders that we have are small, almost microscopic. I have ‘old man’s sight” and I can’t focus on anything smaller than a hamburger (I compare everything to food), so I can’t see them without my dollar store glasses.

Our spider infestation (two were sighted last month) came about after the four hurricanes came through here in 2004. Apparently, the hurricanes sucked spider eggs up from some tropical island and deposited them in our front yard.

I shouldn’t kid about theses microscopic pests, because they pack a wallop of a bite. My oldest daughter was bitten first, in late 2004. The spider got her while she was sleeping at my in-laws next door. She spent hours at the ER on two occasions while they pumped her full of antibiotics through an IV.

I have suspected that through the years others in our home have also been bitten. But, most suspected bites turned out to be really ugly pimples or oozing cold sores. That is, until a few months ago, when Bailey, the previously unnamed daughter in paragraph one was bitten too. She knew right away that it was a spider. She  drew circles around the suspected bite and everyday as the infection spread, the circles got bigger. Finally when the circle was the size of a double fried egg sunny side up (another food reference), she went to the doctor and was  treated and released before having to make a statement to authorities.

The antibiotics she took were in pill form. They seemed to work pretty fast and she was back to work in five weeks. Unfortunately, the bite left a scar, physical and otherwise. My oldest daughter Brittany, the other previously unnamed daughter mentioned in paragraph five also has a scar from her spider bite.

I haven’t seen any spiders lately, at least none bigger than a hamburger. Seriously, without antibiotics, these creatures can be deadly. I am doing my best to eradicate these menaces from the face of the earth. Late at night when everyone’s asleep, I stomp around downstairs in my boots, flailing away with a newspaper roll singing hymns and chanting rebukes in the name of Jesus.

I thought my efforts were working when I spotted Bailey downstairs… and in her bedroom. When I asked why? She said she saw a spider upstairs. Obviously, a new variety of stair-climbing spiders.

CHANGING MY WORLD

You knew that eventually it would have to happen. That somewhere along the line, my random thoughts would by design or by accident actually have some substance to them. So there! I hope you’re satisfied!

A couple of years ago, I went to the theatre to watch the movie, “Evan Almighty.” Evan was a modern day Noah who built an ark for an upcoming flood, much to the dismay of his family, friends and business associates. Surprisingly, it was not the normal Hollywood movie whose aim is to make all Christians look like dopes. It was a movie about faith and trying to change the world with single “Acts of Random Kindness. Hence the acronym “ARK” that serves as the centerpiece of the movie.

Watching that movie came at a critical moment in my life. You see, on the drive to the theatre, I discussed with my wife that I wanted my life to make a difference. I didn’t want to feel at the end of my life that the world was still the same. I wanted to be able to say that my life had some significance. If I couldn’t change the whole world, at least, I wanted to change my world.

The movie, subtly taught that world changers are people, not committees, not corporations, not even ideas. People change the world… real people… individuals who have a vision to initiate change.

Think about it, we deal in a world full of impossibilities that men have turned into realities when they have decided that the only reason that most things have been called impossible is because they have never been done before.

For some, the promise found in Philippians 4:13 is true; “I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me.” For others they believe this promise to be false. They think, “It applies to others … surely not me.”

We must remember that we have a God who deals in the impossible. With a vision, a desire to change the world, and with God’s help, we can do the seemingly impossible.

A leader must set the pace like a captain of an army. If we are too far ahead of our troops, we might be mistaken for the enemy. And, if we’re not leading at all, there will be no followers. When the vision is given, we must lead. No war has ever been won without someone leading the charge. No impossibility has ever become a reality without a person of vision leading the way. Why not say this to yourself, “That person will be me.”

Breaking Up is Hard To Do

I need a new phone! It’s time for something different, new, better, younger. I feel like Liz Taylor shortly after her fifth vow.

My phone… my dear phone! I don’t know why it had to end this way. I knew we had some problems communicating but I thought we could work it out. Maybe it’s the realization that age was setting in. Your face is faded and lines are everywhere. But I can’t blame you for all our troubles. Most of the blame was mine. My unwillingness to take care of you. My tendency to leave you outside in the rain. The lonely hours in the rice bag. The numerous spills from my lap as I exited the driver’s seat. The countless beatings you took as you slipped through my fingers. I feel so bad… but nobody’s perfect.

Really, it’s not you, it’s me. I admit it… I didn’t appreciate you like I should. Sure, we had our fun, but lately you’ve become slower, and slightly disabled. You aren’t capable of doing the things that I want to do. Besides, our conversations don’t always end well, and you don’t always listen to what I say. I know that everything changes, but I thought you were the one… the one who would grow old with me. It’s not you, it’s me… I’m just going through a hard time.

But alas, in spite of the years we’ve spent together, I’ve decided to call it quits. I know that separation can be expensive, but I know that the cost will be worth it, if I can be happy again. Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Okay, I confess. I was looking at another phone the other day. I feel so dirty! But so what! Can’t I think about me for just once? The new model had it all… everything a man could want. It was sleek, contoured, smart. When we talked, I seemed to know all the right buttons to push.

I know you think you know me, but you don’t. I’ve had wandering eyes for a long time… but I thought if I just ignored those feelings, they’d go away, but they haven’t.  I think that we should stop kidding ourselves. It’s over! You deserve better! Can we just be friends?

Besides, if you really cared, wouldn’t you want me to be happy? I thought so. It’s so good of you to understand. I won’t forget you… I promise.  I’ll put you in my sock drawer, next to my 8-track tapes, my mood ring, my pet rock, and my lava lamp.

When Jesus Looks Back at You

I‘ve often kidded about the fact that every time I go to Wal-Mart, I get to see half of our church membership, along with a high school classmate that I haven’t laid eyes on in 41 years, a relative that I didn’t know I had, and someone who inquires of me where to find the foot powder (that happened last week). Apparently, I look like most store clerks. Now, however, not only will I be able to see my friends when I go shopping, but also I have the potential to see Jesus, as well, or at least His image.

Yesterday in Anderson, South Carolina, WYFF TV reported that a couple made an astonishing discovery when they got home from a trip to their local Wal-Mart. What did they discover, you ask? Shut up and I’ll tell you. Or, maybe I’ll let Jacob Simmons and his fiancee, Gentry Lee Sutherland recount their story of an image that appeared on their Wal-Mart receipt.

“I was leaving the kitchen and I just looked on the floor (of Sutherland’s apartment), and it was like it was looking at me… A dark gray mark on the receipt had two eyes, a nose and a mouth in a thickly bearded face…Then the more you looked at it, the more it looked like Jesus, and it was just shocking, breathtaking,” Simmons said.

Seriously? Whenever I look at a receipt, Jesus is never looking back at me… I do see poverty staring back occasionally, but never the Savior. I feel that I have been cheated out of one of those rare appearances of Christ. Why can’t I see Him too? Maybe those appearances aren’t really that rare. His face has also appeared in a potato chip, a gourd, a frying pan, toast, and a pancake. What’s wrong with me? Am I not eating enough? But a receipt from Wal-Mart? Shocking! Breathtaking!

“Save Money, Live Better” has been Wal-Mart’s slogan for years, for Simmons and Sutherland, that didn’t resonate before, but Sutherland said the image seemed to answer a question about “living better” they had just been asked at church.

“We had a message on knowing God, abiding in him. The preacher asked, ‘If you know God, would you recognize him if you saw him?’”

On the positive side, she believes that the appearance was a blessing that God had given to open their eyes. I hope that’s true. I also hope that people start seeking to locate the face of Christ through their spirit rather than a receipt… or a potato chip.