hi

Post-Africa

2012-01-15T06:34:00.004-06:00

Feeling very Ecclesiastical.

...

What is Art?

2011-12-29T09:37:00.003-06:00

Let's do this.

What is art?

It ain't that.

Yes it is.

Okay.

...

Socks

2011-12-28T16:22:00.001-06:00

I've decided that life is too short to wear boring socks. The remainder of my wardrobe is boring enough for the whole of me.

...

Shopping Local, Part the Second

2011-12-28T13:25:00.008-06:00

Just went to my local Thing Store to buy a couple of cables because I'm in a hurry to hook up my new Thing. Salesteen says, "Here they are. Only $24.99 each." I say, "You must have some that cost less." Salesteen informs me that, to the contrary, that is what things like this cost. I inform Salesteen that I can get them much cheaper online (have done so in the past). Salesteen replies, "That's why they are online." I guess he meant that they must be inferior if they are online. Salesteens are so smart.

So I leave the Thing Store and go home to order online. One-tenth the price, free shipping to my door in two days. I can wait two days.

Come on. It's wire.

See: Audiophiles can't tell the difference between Monster Cable and Coat Hangers.

...

Shopping Local

2011-10-20T08:35:00.013-05:00

Someone suggested via text that I buy a thing I wanted at a local store.

My pre-deletion reply:

You mean like researching the thing I want online without clicking "Buy with one click," then getting in a car and driving to my local Thing Store through traffic and construction and then parking in a very tight space (exiting very carefully so as not to ding the little red sports car next to me) and walking (!) inside and looking for the thing for twenty minutes and then trying to find a sales-teen and then, once found, teaching the sales-teen what the thing is and what it does and why I don't want that one I want this one, and then standing in a line while the sales-teen talks to somebody about beer for twenty minutes and then waiting another twenty minutes while he learns how to use the check-out machine and gets help from another sales-teen and asks me a bunch of personal questions so the store can send me a bunch of junky emails about buying more things and then getting back in my car (now nicely dinged by little red sports car) and driving through traffic and construction and then parking and getting out of my dinged car and walking back in and finding out the thing doesn't work and having to get back in my dinged car and go back to the Thing Store to ask for a working thing and being told, "We're all out of that thing, but you can get one at Thing Store Online."

Love shopping local.

My post-deletion reply:

Cool.

...

Underground

2011-09-29T08:18:00.001-05:00

Jonas lit the candle.

They had been meeting secretly, of course, two floors beneath the city's mangled streets. Since religion was outlawed several decades before the Last War, there were no open churches, and "Christians" were something you read about in storybooks (if you could find one) or laughed at in the old movies (back when there was electricity to power video equipment - most people couldn't remember that far back).

The remnant remained determined, and had developed an active, underground network that helped believers find others within or near their camps. To talk about God publicly was to invite instant execution by the camp's Watchers, the only thing resembling what used to be called police or military. They were pretty much self-appointed, having brutally fought their way to the top of the heap. They were the only "law" that remained, and religion was punishable by death in most camps.

In spite of the Watchers, Christians gathered regularly. They had devised a warning system should there be any danger, but most groups had found relatively safe places.

This night was like most others. They were together, gathered around a single candle, but fear was a fog that hovered heavily, never lifting.

Jonas usually spoke first. He often would tell of the days when Christians could meet in the open, when church meetings could be seen on television and on a thing called the Internet. Back then, everyone owned several Bibles, and the worst that could happen if you mentioned Christ at work was a light reprimand. That was before. He was the only one in the camp who could remember that time. He even had to explain for some what "going to work" meant.

This night, someone wanted to sing a song. There were few songs still intact, as written. Amazing Grace, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross, but only the first and last stanzas, usually. There were a couple of tunes that the middle-aged could recall, but the words had been twisted and re-crafted so many ways that they would be unrecognizable to the composers.

"Can you believe," Jonas said, "that there was a time when people chose churches by the kind of music they sang?" Gasps of disbelief, gazes of incredulity.

"'Chose' churches? What do you mean, 'chose?'" a teenager asked, as though he were asking how to fly.

"It's true," Jonas answered. "Churches were everywhere when I was a kid. I remember one couple that told my dad that they were looking for a church that had a pipe organ. Those were hard to find back in the Thirties." Jonas explained what a pipe organ was and why some people thought they were important.

A man spoke up, "Yeah, and when guitars went out of fashion, some of us were pretty upset, too, as I recall. Man, it was crazy then. Of course, after the Last War, well, you all know."

He explained guitars for the kids, but they were more interested in getting back to the street to play before the Watchers made their late rounds.

Someone said, "Well, at least we still have our voices. Let's sing."

"How about 'How Big is our God.'"

The middle-ager frowned. "Isn't it 'How Good is our God?'"

"Either works." Let's just sing and you can say whatever you want."

"Quiet!" Jonas whispered, raising a hand. "I think I hear something."

He blew out the candle.

...

More from the Annals of Modern-Day Business Practices

2011-05-10T13:06:00.015-05:00

Fellowship One is the company through whom our church contracts member management. Remember that name: Fellowship One.

Here's an e-mail I sent requesting help from Fellowship One (by the way, in the support ticket section of their site, I clicked their option, "I have an Enhancement Suggestion" Remember that.):

To Fellowship One:

I have received the request for a Typical Worship Attendance (TWA) update several times. It tells me to REPLY to send my report, but when I reply, it bounces back. Every time.

ENHANCEMENT SUGGESTION [remember, that's the button I clicked]: Is there a possibility of F1 establishing a weekly report for worship attendance? We don't check-in every adult, but we do count, and would love it if there were a place we could report that number weekly (by service -- we have four) so that there is a running tally and a reportable number. If you did that, you wouldn't need a yearly report (TWA) from us. You would have it automatically (though I know it would need to be optional).

Please tell me what I need to do about this year's TWA.

Thanks so much,

Tim

Here's the reply I received from Fellowship One:

Hi Tim,

Try this email address for the TWA: FTTWAAdmin@activenetwork.com. [Tim says: THAT WORKED]

As for the enhancement suggestion, we are working on a new website where you can add these types of suggestions!

Would you be so kind as to watch for the announcement and then post your suggestion there?

Please let me know if you need anything else.

Best regards,

******** ******, Client Application Specialist

Fellowship Technologies part of Active Network
6363 N State Hwy 161, Suite 200
Irving, TX 75038 USA
Tel 866.383.2437

My (venting) response to Fellowship One (I DID NOT REALLY SEND THIS, BUT I WAS VERY TEMPTED):

Dear ******** ******, Fellowship One Client Application Specialist:

Hope this gets back to you, but I know that's a long shot! Haha!

I ran your response to my request through my DBLSPEEK Translation Program. Here's the result: INTERPRETATION: "SHUT UP AND LEAVE US ALONE!"

Concerning your suggestion that I watch for a new website on which I can make suggestions to your suggestion department (you), I have a suggestion:

We have a website in the works to which you can post answers that don't help us. Please go there when it's ready (I'm not going to tell you when that will be, just watch for it). The address is: www.WhyWeAreGoingToStopUsingFellowshipOneAsSoonAsPossible.com. I know the web traffic will be heavy for that site, so please keep trying if it doesn't load quickly.

Sorry to be less than charitable, but this is typical of F1's responses and the kind of "help" you offer.

Tim Logan
Grace Point Church
Bentonville, Arkansas

P.S. (I added this to my TF1R Report (Typical Fellowship One Response)).

AGAIN, I DID NOT SEND IT. BUT I MAY RECONSIDER.

BUT I DID SEND THIS:

Your message said: "As for the enhancement suggestion, we are working on a new website where you can add these types of suggestions! Would you be so kind as to watch for the announcement and then post your suggestion there?"

?????

That's a joke, right? Haha — I get it. You guys are hilarious! I'm a web guy, so I can read between those lines!

TL

And this is what came back:

Your reply did not process correctly. Please REPLY to this message and enter the text between the specified lines. Your message has been attached.

[===> Please enter your reply below this line <===]

[===> Please enter your reply above this line <===]

I did as they asked. Got the following in return:

Delivery has failed to these recipients or groups:

FTCustomerSupport@activenetwork.com
There's a problem with the recipient's mailbox. Please try resending the message. If the problem continues, please contact your helpdesk.

(Me again) I thought that was the end of the story. BUT NO! I actually received a reply! Here it is:

I wasn't kidding! We are doing that!

So I replied:

Oh! Well, there you go. But it was still funny. : )

In the meantime, is there a person to whom you could forward the suggestion? Do you think it's a good idea (My Enhancement Suggestion)? Is there anyone else I could contact now? Do you have anyone there who takes suggestions? I think I started all this by clicking your option "Enhancement Suggestions," but if I didn't, maybe you might know who would normally get those (Enhancement Suggestions). If that's impossible (forwarding to the correct person), I might have some more suggestions.

But I guess I'll have to wait for the new site.

Cheers!

TL

So far, no response. Because I didn't send that one either. Sometimes my fingers need to vent, then I get over it.

...

What you can't get at Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits

2010-04-29T02:01:00.007-05:00

"I would like a chicken and biscuit, please."

"We ain't got no chicken and biscuit."

"This is Popeye's Chicken & Biscuits, isn't it?"

"Yeh."

"I would like a chicken and biscuit."

"We ain't got no chicken and biscuit."

"Have you got chicken?"

"Yeh."

"Have you got biscuits?"

"Yeh."

"Then I would like a chicken and biscuit, please."

"We ain't got no chicken and biscuit."

...

Blackmail!

2010-04-11T12:07:00.012-05:00

I told you. Somebody saw me and here are the photos to prove it. They arrived in a plain, white envelope last Wednesday.

They are demanding a payoff, but I contend that since I confessed fully via this blog before he sent the photos, I'm safe. So there.

But I found out who's to blame: Sara Lou, who cut my hair that day, told her husband, Mike, who rushed out to document this incriminating episode before I managed to move Cece safely home.

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Pickles

2010-04-07T23:42:00.002-05:00

I hope that God nudges my Mom and tells her when I gush about her pickles.

...

High Visibility

2010-04-02T08:10:00.022-05:00

I'm compelled to write this in case any of you saw me. I need to clarify.

Everybody knows my car. There's only one like it our town, maybe the state. Maybe the nation.

And there are a number of people who know the ugly, scarred, somewhat odd 1976 Mercedes 280 CE belongs to an ugly, scarred, somewhat odd minister named Tim Logan. I'm not a preaching minister, I'm a behind-the-scenes minister. But I'm still a minister, and everybody who knows me in any way, or who attends our church, knows that car.

So I have to be careful. I was thinking that just yesterday on my way to work (while rudely nosing my way into the stream of morning traffic and experimenting with the subtle hues of instructive vocabulary) that I really should be careful how I drive, since odds are that the person I'm nosing in front of knows full-well who's behind that ostentatious hood ornament doing mouth exercises.

The car is a bit unusual in that it is a European model (meaning, not the typical import model that is a bit more usual in the U.S. - different bumpers, for one thing, plus a rather bohemian European trailer hitch that many people find repulsive). She was brought to the States by a former Mercedes mechanic who came here to buy old American autos to ship back to Germany. We want little German cars, they want big American cars. Go figure. I bought her from the guy several years ago, aware that she needed a bit of body work and some TLC. I haven't done any body work, however, and certainly wouldn't say I've given her much TLC, which is evident not only in her deteriorating shell, but by the fact that her mechanical integrity has slipped steadily, kilometer by kilometer.

I suppose it's a good thing that the odometer doesn't work. Cece (her pet name) will be forever young by that standard, boasting a mere 41,750 clicks. I'll never have to change the oil because she will never reach the elusive 44,750 kilometers printed on the oil maintenance sticker. That's how smart I am about cars.

I conjured a brilliant plan a few years ago, but never had the gall to act on it. I said I was going to take my mangled mess of antique car bones down to the local Mercedes dealer and propose that if they would give her a good spiffing up, I would let them put their dealership logo across my back window and then drive around town as a mobile advert for their company. And if they refused, I would then promise to put their dealership logo on my back window and drive around town as a mobile advert for their company.

If you are a Mercedes dealer, my offer stands. Lacking a taker, the plan is to drive her as-is until she refuses to go another inch (if you are not a Mercedes dealer, I'll make you a great deal right now: $500 and you can take her away. $500 is my limit. I won't give you a penny more).

But Cece is close to her final inch, I'm afraid. I know her limits, and I'm pretty sure the end is near. I've learned she'll only go as far as Schlotzky's ("funny name, serious sandwiches") in Rogers. I'm fairly comfortable heading off to a lunch meeting there or anywhere this side of there, but any farther, and we're in high-risk territory.

Cece is weather-sensitive, you see. She doesn't like cold days. Or hot days. Or rainy days. Or snowy days. Or any of the other days that have weather. Truth be known, she would prefer to remain all comfy and cozy in her nice, warm garage until her last rusty spark plug drops to the cement. My mile-and-a-half commute to work isn't much of a problem, but if I have farther to travel, I venture out cautiously. These are my best prayer times.

She's still fun to drive, though, when she's in the mood. With her four-forward manual transmission and low-slung, two-door body style, I enjoy putting the gas to her on the short interstate route I sometimes take for all those important lunch meetings. It's advantageous to put the gas to her, because she doesn't rattle and shimmy quite as much at exactly 73 kilometers per hour. But there's a downside. After peaking at her no-shimmy zone, I have to coast. That's when Cece asserts her authority by konking. "That's it," she says, "no more." And she konks. Thankfully, I'm usually able to coax her to start again with a gentle turn of the ignition key, and I'm merrily on my way.

Most times. That wasn't the case yesterday.

I hadn't had a haircut for a long time. Spring was on its way, and I was feeling youthful and free, and I thought I could pull off my old Seventies shaggy-do. Cece was born in 1976, after all, and she likes it that way.

The problem is that my locks tend to curl and billow extensively with growth and I look more like an aging bingo matron than a middle-aged behind-the-scenes minister. I knew the tresses had to go when I caught a glimpse of myself in a reflective window at church and yelled out "Mom!"

So I made an appointment.

It was one of the good days. Beautiful weather, not a cloud, perfect temperature, but I got cocky. The hair parlor happens to be a good two miles past Schlotzky's. In my spring feverish reverie, I forgot Cece's limits. She balked just as I passed the deli and its serious sandwiches, which probably broke character and giggled their buns off as Cece sputtered by and konked.

Traffic was fairly heavy, and I felt a slight panic a-welling. I gave the ignition a twist. Nothing. Another twist (and a prayer). Nothing.

She was mad. You've gone too far, this time, buddy.

Thankfully, I had been moving fast enough to siphon a good coast out of her. I was in the right lane, heading toward a series of storefronts lined close to the street with plenty of nose-in parking available. I took the first entrance and rolled to a stop, landing perpendicular across three vacant spaces. Out of harm's way, I gave Cece a pat, stroked the dashboard a couple of times, and said, "Okay, Dear, I know I pushed it. I'm sorry. Yes, I know you like my hair curly, but I was getting winks from the geezer bench at Walmart."

But she wasn't having it. No response to my pleadings, not a hint of fire as I massaged the key. I was getting the full-on silent treatment.

My wife answered her cell and promised to be there shortly to pick me up and chauffeur me to my waiting hair artist. We would deal with Cece after my shearing.

"Where are you," she asked.

"I'm in a parking lot on Walnut, just past Schlotzky's." Duh.

She knew the area. "Are you in front of the fabric store? They're having a sale on trim and maybe you could go in and..."

I cut her off. "No, dear, I'm not in front of the fabric store." I didn't know that for sure, but if I was in front of the fabric store I would push the car down a few spaces. Truthfully, I hadn't even looked to see.

So I looked. "I'm in front of...let's see. Some place called 'Salome.'"

"Salome?"

"Yes, Salome. The place with the..." I hesitated as my eye caught the store's display window. "Um, the place with the very scantily-clad female mannequins in the window."

My very recognizable 1976 bronzey-gold Mercedes 280 CE with it's repulsive trailer hitch had come to rest in front of the only adult novelty store in town. Which is right next door to AAA Tattoo, by the way.

I contemplated pushing Cece back down to the fabric store and shopping for trim. I didn't, because the lady who apparently owned and/or operated Salome Adult Emporium was standing out front, enjoying a Winston and grinning as though thinking, "I really like that trailer hitch."

So I stayed. I certainly didn't want her to think I was embarrassed to be there. By no means. Haven't I seen her at church?

As I waited for Leslie in full-on embarrassment, I tried my best to keep my face turned away from the street, but that brought the scantily-clad mannequins directly into view. I imagined church members driving by, pointing to my car, and commenting, "Isn't that Tim Logan's car sitting in front of the adult novelty store?" Yes, I believe it is. "But who is that old woman with the curly hair sitting in the driver's seat, staring at those scantily-clad mannequins?"

Leslie arrived after what seemed like half a day, but was actually only fifteen minutes. We tried to jump-start Cece, but no go. Lady Salome flicked her ashes and offered to help us push Cece out of the main path a bit, closer to the storefront. Certainly. I for-sure want everyone to think I'm inside shopping instead of just stalled.

So on we trekked to the hair parlor. I received my shearing, and then we went to dinner. We didn't talk much about the car. We've volleyed the subject of what-are-we-going-to-do-about-Cece ad nauseum since about three months after I bought her. After dinner, we gave the jump another shot, and this time it took. Lady Salome was still out front, Winston in hand. She waved and coughed as we puttered into the street.

About a mile from home, Cece started konking again, but I managed to caress her back into action until we finally came to rest at home, where I immediately connected the battery charger and sang her a nice little song. Everything would be better in the morning.

It wasn't. She refused to start. Her headlights seemed to be sagging a bit. I believe the end is near. As her final inch truly approaches, I mull over the options: take her to the auto repair shop and hope for the best, consign her to the want ads and await a sucker --um, I mean savvy and dashing Car Collector who has the time and money to restore her to her (imagined) former glory, or put her up on blocks in my side yard as a monument to my ever-expanding stupidity. Right now, the third option seems most likely.

We'll see. Maybe Lady Salome would like her as an ornament for her store. She could pose scantily-clad mannequins... Well, the imagination goes wild.

...

NLT

2009-12-11T12:09:00.004-06:00

I'm NLT: No Longer Tweeting.

...

Always More

2009-12-09T21:37:00.008-06:00

I needed a great ending shot for a video I was shooting to accompany the song, "God of This City." My son, Evan, had done a similar video for his church, and I was anxious to feature Northwest Arkansas in my project, as he had featured Memphis in his.

He ended his edit with a super shot of the sun setting over the Hernando DeSoto Bridge, which spans the Mississippi River between downtown Memphis and the Arkansas delta to the west.

"Great shot," I remember thinking as I watched his finished project. "I'm sure I can catch something similar." I'm not embarrassed to steal a great idea now and then. Besides, it's not like no one's done it before. But it was a particularly good shot.

Wasn't as easy as I thought. I shot footage for about three weeks, heading out at various times of day, from early morning to late evening. I caught a wide array of shots around Bentonville and Rogers, people on the road, at work, at play; or just beautiful landscapes that I felt illustrated the dichotomy that is Northwest Arkansas, such as a shot featuring a sturdy old barn juxtaposed with the multi-story Embassy Suites Hotel just beyond, nestled among the upscale Pinnacle Hills office and retail area.

There was certainly no lack of subject matter. I could have shot for months and never told the full story, but I had a deadline and it was time to start editing. I would have plenty to work with.

But I had no sunset. The sky hadn't cooperated for the last several days. When I began shooting, there were some spectacular sunsets, but they appeared on evenings when I didn't have my camera with me, or when I had pressing appointments pulling me on.

This was my final day of shooting. I had no sunset shot, and the sky didn't look promising. I determined to get a shot, anyway, so I called Leslie and told her I wouldn't be home for supper, that I was heading out to the lake to attempt a sunset shot before I came home. I had looked online to see when the sun was to set -- 5:18, and add an hour for daylight savings time -- so I checked my watch and headed out. Plenty of time to make the sunset at 6:18.

Halfway to my destination, I looked over my shoulder to the west and noticed that the sun was much farther down than I thought it should be. It was only 5:00. I should have another hour and eighteen minutes. Then it hit me: we weren't in daylight savings time yet. I didn't need to add that hour.

There was a golf cart business just ahead, so I turned in, screeched into a parking place, and pulled out my camera. I noticed someone inside the store watching me, so I jogged over to ask permission to shoot from his lot before he could start selling me a golf cart I certainly didn't need.

The man told me to shoot away, so I propped my camera on his business sign and started shooting. I wanted a pretty long shot that I could speed up to show the sun setting quickly. The flag would add a nice dimension, as well as the cupola atop the bank next door. Decent, though not the shot I had envisioned. It would have to do.

My plans don't work out very often, it would seem. My life is a long story of multiple instances of Tim's plan vs. God's, and it takes me a long time and many repetitions to learn that His way is always best. Just like the Israelites wandering in the desert. Many lessons, little learning.

Eighteen minutes later, the sun finished its daily run, and I turned off the camera, disappointed in the lack of a wispy display of clouds and atmospheric dust that would have made for a much more pleasing shot.

My plan, once again, just didn't work out. Instead of a spectacular sunset, I had an indistinct, yellow glow fading in a bland, characterless sky. Not a great way to end a video.

Dave, the man in the store to whom I had spoken earlier, made his way out as I was loading my gear to leave. "How did it go," he asked.

"Oh, just fine," I answered, trying not to sound too dejected. "I appreciate you letting my shoot here." I hopped into the van and prepared to leave.

He spoke again. "I've seen some great sunsets out here during the last week or so. Made me wish I had a camera."

I nodded and thought, yeah, wish I had been here then instead of now.

"You know," he said, "if you stick around a while and point your camera the other way, a great big, pie-faced moon will rise up over in the east. Beautiful sight!"

Not the way I wanted my video to end. I didn't need a moon, I needed a gorgeous, God-painted sunset and another day to shoot it. "Well, thanks again," I offered, and closed my door, started the van and drove away.

I couldn't bring myself to head home just yet, so I drove around a bit more, hoping for a brilliant shot to jump in front of me. I shot a few more traffic shots, a brightly lit shopping area, the hospital. Nothing exciting. I was done.

Nearly home, I decided to pull onto a short road that parallels the interstate before it dead ends into an empty field ridged by trees. I got yet another shot of headlights streaming by, still uneasy about not getting that perfect ending shot for my video. There was a large, brightly lit billboard over my right shoulder, so I angled my camera this way, then that, trying to get an artsy frame or two. It was then that I saw it: a big, pie-faced moon peeking over the treetops to the east.

Why not, I thought. I positioned my lens to capture the moon. This big, boring moon. I'll get a few frames, then head home.

But as I focused the lens and set my iris for the best exposure, I was overwhelmed by beauty and majesty, by the power of a barren sphere floating in a black sky, crossing the plane of my lens.

Crossing my lens: that's what amazed me most. I've never stared down the moon long enough to see it track across the sky. Prior to that moment, I've only caught quick glimpses of the moon, snapshots at most. It's here. Now it's there. Big deal.

Watching the moon track is a whole different experience. I let the video roll. I knew my battery was getting low, so I prayed it would last until the moon moved out of the frame, and my prayer was answered.

I had my shot. My mediocre sunset wasn't the end, after all.

There's always more.

God of This City: Northwest Arkansas from GRACE POINT CHURCH on Vimeo.

...

A Leader and His Sword

2009-08-27T12:06:00.007-05:00

A leader who would have success in battle must be willing to take up the same sword that he asks his soldiers to bear.

The Great Commission Resurgence Task Force meeting started with a lament that we had scores of missionaries ready to go to the mission field, but we could not send them due to a lack of Cooperative Program funds. We would assume then, that the goal of this meeting and the purpose of the Great Commission Resurgence is to get more soldiers on the field. That takes more money, without debate.

The meeting ended with task force members (once again) having to defend their church's Cooperative Program contribution percentages.

The unfortunate take-away is: "Don't do as I do, do as I say." Once again. Whether they like it or not.

Imagine a pastor trying to get his people to tithe in this fashion:

"My dear people, I know that tithing is not specifically prescribed in Scripture as a requirement for church membership, but we all believe it is a God-ordained practice and a good starting point for giving, so I am asking you to do it. I'm unashamedly asking you to set aside 10% of your gross income each week to give to this church, and thus to the work of God, and I want you to trust me and the other leaders in our church to handle that money once given.

He continues, "I want you to tithe at least 10%, undesignated, no strings attached. You may think I don't trust you to decide how your money is spent, but you voted for the budget, so now you've got to trust me and our church leaders to spend your tithe wisely. So sign this card and commit to giving as God expects you to do."

But then the pastor says, "Now, mind you, I don't tithe 10%, but I still give a large amount of money, and I want you to look at all the other ways in which I give. I want you look past percentages when it comes to me, because I help so many people in so many ways. You must take all of that into account because I'm your pastor and I not only give money to specific causes, I give so much of my time and effort to this church. That should count for something. Look at how many baptisms we've had this year. Look at our attendance. Look at all the people I tirelessly minister to each week, and understand that my giving should be counted differently from your giving."

Can you imagine a pastor using that approach? Ask that same pastor what he thinks of a member who claims that he is tithing by giving his time to ministry and his money to designated offerings and parachurch organizations. In honesty, is that not what task force members are doing? I wouldn't have said so if they hadn't started out by moaning over the lack of Cooperative Program dollars, but since that was the come-on, I hear them saying, "You need to give more money to CP, but ignore the fact that we don't." They claim they give "large amounts," and that their gifts have increased by "(whatever) percent." That's wonderful, but if I give one dollar this year and two the next, my giving has increased by one-hundred percent. Do I win bragging rights for that?

I prefer to bring the parable of the talents into play: it's not so much how much you give to God, it's how much God has given to you and what you have done with it. To whom much is given...

I fear that many large churches and their pastors are like many wealthy church members for whom, when their income reaches a certain level, tithing is too great a sacrifice. They can't stand to see that amount of money going to any cause over which they have no control. Thus, they still contribute large amounts, but they designate where it is to go. They retain control, so to speak. Many large churches (and many small ones, no doubt) do the same. They can't stand to see such a huge amount of money go to any agency, organization, or ministry over which they don't have complete control. So they designate. They dole out money to the causes they support, causes which most often originate from and reside in their own churches. They are basically giving to themselves so they can ensure the money is "spent well."

Is that bad? Maybe not, as long as those same pastors don't stand in positions of leadership within our denomination and cry about the lack of funding, and that all you people out there need to give more money (but please ignore the fact that we don't).

Here's what this is all about: we heard from the task force that the Southern Baptist pie is shrinking. They said that outright. Beneath the surface is the underlying implication that "we've got to do something to be sure the right people get the biggest slice of the pie in days to come." It's all about who is going to be in charge of dividing up the pie in coming decades.

What else is there to discuss?

So what should the task force be saying? Here's what my dream leader might say in such a situation:

"Dear people, I've been charged to lead a task force on recommiting to the Great Commission. Southern Baptists have traditionally and effectively shown their commitment to this charge by giving sacrificially and generously to our Cooperative Program. Now, I am fully aware that nowhere in Scripture is it mandated that churches give a certain amount to some greater cause, but the beauty of Southern Baptist history is that we have all joined hands to do that very thing, realizing that there is are needs around the world that my church alone cannot meet. My candle alone is too small to light the darkness, but together, as a cooperating fellowship, we can all light our candles and break into that darkness.

"My church has been blessed of God. We have always given substantially to the Cooperative Program, and we feel God has added blessing upon blessing to our church partly due to that. The gratitude we show for that blessing is that we continue to give (5, 6, 7, 10, 15)% to this cooperative effort. Not only do we give it, we give it without strings and without designation. I believe God blesses that kind of giving. It's like what you ask your church members to do when they tithe, even though a church's CP giving is not really a tithe in a strict Biblical sense.

"So why am I standing before you? I can only figure that I've been asked to lead in this effort because my church has set a good example of giving to the Cooperative Program and trusting that God will bless that gift. Sure, we give in other ways. Sure, we support specific mission projects from our own church body. But we consider that to be gravy on top of what we are able to do through the largest, most effective mission-sending organzation the world has ever seen.

"We give without strings and without designation because we are trusting the people God has put in place to lead and structure the agencies involved, that they will use the money wisely and appropriately. It's the same kind of trust your people place in you and your church leadership when you ask them to tithe without strings and without designation. We, as a part of the Southern Baptist Convention, had a voice in placing those leaders and structuring the organization because we gave, so now we continue to give and we trust God with the results.

"Our church is going to increase our Cooperative Program giving as we are able, but today I stand before you with boldness and ask for you to do the same. I can say it with boldness because my church has given with boldness. No one can point a finger at us and accuse us of not putting our money where our mouth is. I'm leading this charge, and I do so with confidence because I'm swinging the same sword that I'm asking you to carry against the enemy."

The Cooperative Program needs more funds. Are they handling their funds appropriately and efficiently? I don't know. Do the IMB and NAMB need restructuring? I don't know. Do the states need to get less of our CP gifts and IMB and NAMB more? I don't know.

But I do know this: if the Southern Baptist Convention is going to launch a study into how to get more missionaries to the field and more dollars to the effort and more people committed to the Great Commission, choose leaders who can be seen as the best examples in each of those areas.

Give me pastors and churches who can say "follow our lead" rather than "listen to our excuses."

We don't have time for excuses any more than we have time for the accusations that prompt them.

...

Of Course

2009-07-08T16:57:00.005-05:00

I'm sounding very "emergent" lately, with all the I may be wrongs and such. That's something to think about.

How do we admit that we don't have all the answers, though? The difference is this: I, Tim Logan, do not have all the answers within myself, my own devices. I do, however, know where the answers are found, and I know beyond doubt that the answers do not change. They are found in Scripture, of course, and Scripture is, by definition, unchanging.

Of course.

That's puts a great onus upon Tim Logan, doesn't it?

...

Cursing and Wrongness

2009-05-19T12:11:00.005-05:00

Two random thoughts.

Cursing isn't the words you say so much as the way you say the words you say.

I hate being wrong, so I spend much of my life in misery. As Charlie Brown once said upon being told that we learn from our mistakes, "That makes me the smartest person in the world."

But I could be wrong.

...

Regrets...I've had a few

2009-05-06T07:51:00.005-05:00

I regret all the things I've done in my life that were intended merely to elevate myself in the eyes of others.

...

God Smiles

2009-05-05T11:08:00.002-05:00

Worship is when God smiles.

I think he sees a deer lapping water and smiles.
I think he sees oxygen pouring from green trees and smiles.
I think he smiles when he sees babies laughing at their daddies making faces.
I think he smiles when he sees a teenager grasping the hand of her great-grandmother.

He smiles when water evaporates into the sky, then gathers in a cloud, just to return to the earth again in a cooling rain.

I think he smiles when a light bulb comes on, because when a man named Tom Edison discovered how to do that it was like God said, "YES!" I've been waiting for someone to figure that out."

I think he smiles when a fifty year-old woman opens her child's memory book and a lock of hair falls out, just as delicate and beautiful as the day she first cut it.

I think he smiles because he loves seeing us do the things he created us to do.

Do you think he smiles a lot? I think He does.

Our job is to find out what we were created to do and do it, so He will smile more.

...

Sacred Pathways, Shining Faces

2009-05-04T17:03:00.009-05:00

Studying with our staff a good book about worship approaches, Sacred Pathways, by Gary Thomas (Zondervan). What I'm grasping is that not only are there different "styles" to worship, but there are various roads of worship that meander throughout our daily existence. I like that. Worship is not just an event (in fact, what we call worship - that hour on Sunday morning - has less to do with a lifestyle of worship than the things we do day to day, moment by moment.

I think that's what I've tried to teach througout a good portion of my adult life and ministry, but perhaps I just didn't have the words to communicate it effectively. Worship is less an event than a lifestyle.

We talked today about not judging others' expressions of worship ("they aren't excited enough," "he isn't raising his hands," "she doesn't look very joyful" and such) and realizing that every person enters corporate worship with a different set of parameters from which they express their love for God.

Sometimes we want to stuff everyone into the same box and if they aren't square like the box, there must be something wrong. Moses' shining face wasn't a prescription and it didn't become an expectation. He didn't require everyone to have shining faces after his holy climb.

The book amplifies the validity of various worship approaches and expressions. It explores each and allows us to score ourselves as to our fit. So are we a naturalist, sensate, traditionalist, ascetic, activist, caregiver, enthusiast, contemplative, or intellectual. Each of those words might carry a pre-set connotation at first mention, but you should dig in and discover the full development of Thomas's terms before reacting. There are pros and cons to each, and the labels might not mean what you think they do.

I was quite surprised at some of my scores. So far, my highest is that of caregiver, which I would have never guessed. Interesting, that.

As always, I recoil at pidgeon-holing and test-based determinations, but I'm glad to see Thomas's overall approach to this subject. It's not the end of the discussion concerning worship styles, but it can be a fleshing-out, and might lead us to see that there are many valid pathways via which we can express our worship.

...

Madness Dancing

2009-04-30T17:01:00.002-05:00

Bob Bennett's words:

Let the madness roll on like a hungry beast -
No one will miss me, for a half-an-hour at least.

from Madness Dancing

...

Time's A-wastin'

2009-04-29T11:24:00.000-05:00

Which is why this post is so short.

...

New TV Aspect

2009-03-13T09:15:00.000-05:00

There's a new TV with an aspect ratio of 1 to 7,000,312.

...

Tweet Tweet

2009-03-12T18:57:00.000-05:00

So this Twitter thing is going on.

I said I would never have FaceBook. But I'm Twittering. I guess I'm not so old and uncool after all. Time magazine had an article a couple of weeks ago titled FaceBook is for Old People. It said that FaceBook used to be cool, but it's not cool anymore, and that it's cooler not to have FaceBook.

So I'm double cool because I don't have FB, but I do have Twitter.

...

Yet God

2009-02-16T10:47:00.000-06:00

"Yet God..."

Two little words; one big concept: the dividing point between what is and what can be; the launching pad for grace; the separator of God's way from man's.

Just when we think we have it all figured out, outlined, lined up, and upright, we come across those two little words - yet God - and we see that, after all, He is God and we are not. He has the options, He holds the keys.

Are we surprised by this turn of events? After all, He gave us such intelligence, such creativity, such curiosity - why wouldn't He allow us the privilege of figuring things out on our own? Wouldn't He be proud of us if we did?

Ah, but there's the rub: ever since Adam lurked in Eve's shadow and whispered, "You first," man has sought his own way. He has felt that deadly, gravitational pull toward the center of himself, the easy way. Just let go and "be."

It's a snare from which we can't fight our way free. Our claws are useless.

"For we will surely die and are like water spilled on the ground which cannot be gathered up again Yet God does not take away life, but plans ways so that the banished one will not be cast out from him." - II Samuel 14:14

...

Tua da gloriam

2008-08-01T12:40:00.001-05:00

Non nobis Domine, Domine,
Non nobis Domine,
Sed nomine, sed nomine
tuo da gloriam.

Translation:
Not unto us, O Lord, not unto us, O Lord,
But to thy name, to thy name,
Be all the glory given.

Non Nobis, a Latin hymn written in the 1500's. The text comes from Psalm 115:1.

...

That's the Ticket

2008-07-29T23:34:00.000-05:00

If I could snap my fingers and have a different life, what life would I choose?

I think I would be a big fat black woman gospel singer. With piles of hair and attitude.

Or maybe one of those policemen that stand in intersections in Aruba and direct traffic like orchestra conductors. Or maybe it's Jamaica. Or somewhere.

Or a shepherd in New Guinea.

Or a tie salesman. I like to arrange ties. People mess them up when they look at them, but I like to straighten them again.

Or, perhaps, a gondolier.

...

Funny words

2008-07-29T23:33:00.001-05:00

Miniscule is a funny word.

...

And the Next-to-last Lecture

2008-07-27T23:15:00.001-05:00

Might be something like...

.

Last Lecture

2008-07-27T20:08:00.000-05:00

Let's see. If I were going to give a "last lecture," what would I say?

.

What the deaf man heard

2008-06-09T12:08:00.000-05:00

He comes around often, asking for assistance, a fiver, a ten. The note says, "I am deaf. I need oil for my car." Or something along that line.

Some people hand him a couple of bucks, but we worldy-wise types just send him on his way with a list of assistance agencies. I have to admit, the first time he came to the office (gave him a list and walked him to the door) I couldn't help clapping my hands loudly behind his back to see if he reacted. He didn't and I felt ashamed.

A couple of weeks ago, my son told me about a deaf man that came around on Wednesday evening while the youth were meeting. I said, yeah, he's here a lot. "I think Mark gave him some money." That's fine.

Our financial secretary came into my office one day last week. She leaned toward my ear and whispered, "Tim, the deaf man is out there again."

"Oh, really?"

Still whispering. "Yes. Kay is writing him a note."

"Oh."

She started back to the hallway. I stopped her. "Angela," I spoke, full voice, "why are you whispering?"

"I don't know," she said, full voice. She giggled.

But I don't suppose he heard.

Yeah

2008-05-19T16:14:00.001-05:00

I went back. No sign of the mouse.

But there was this cat...

Mouse High

2008-05-16T20:51:00.000-05:00

It's a dirty city.

There he was, this tiny little mouse, just sitting there in the parking space next to mine, moving so slightly that I thought he might be dead, or dying. I watched. He moved, just barely, raising his miniscule snoot in the air the smallest bit, kind of jerking, eyes just slits, tail as strait as an arrow. His fur was splotchy, mottled, like a mangy dog. Diseased, I thought. Don't touch him, you'll catch something.

I got out of my car and walked toward him, thinking he might suddenly scamper off to the neatly arranged shrubbery that bordered the parking lot, but he ignored me, as though he didn't see or hear. No reaction at all. Deaf and blind. He just sat, sniffing the small, dark spot of grease or antifreeze that lay beneath him. I took a piece of paper and nudged him, scooted him up on it. He came to life just a bit. He skittered about on the paper, then made a flying leap onto the landscaped area. I thought he might have hurt himself on impact, but no, he seemed no worse than before. There, I thought, just go on home. Find your mama. Live another day. You can do better than this.

My curiosity got ahold of me. I came back later to the same spot, and there was the mouse, exactly as before, back in the parking space, directly in line with the front tire of the compact car that shielded him from the evening sun. If the car were to pull out, the mouse would be squashed flat, his life over, done. But that wasn't in his scope of reasoning, it seemed. He was living on the edge, but didn't seem to know it.

There he sat, making his tiny little jittery movements, eyes barely open if at all. Every few seconds, his nose would find its way to the pavement, to the little spot of whatever liquid it was that had dripped from some engine sometime earlier that day, then he would jerk his head back in a kind of ecstatic, burning rush.

Then I knew. He was an addict. He was a sniffer, a huffer, an engine fluid junkie with a monkey on his back so big it covered his eyes, his ears, robbing him of his senses, of everything that made him alive. But he had to have it. He was licked.

So I could put him back in the bushes, or I could just leave him to be squished.

Tough decision.

Call me hard, but I decided it was best to leave him to his own devices. Hey, I tried once. I played the good Samaritan. I saved him, gave him a second chance, but he blew it. He sank right back into the wallow that was his dirty little habit. You're on your own now, kid. Your mangy tail will soon be between the tire treads of a little brown Mazda with a pine-scented Tweety Bird air freshener dangling from the rear-view mirror. The driver won't even see, won't even have the slightest hint that she was the one that closed the door on a life. Yeah, it was a dirty life, it was a sad excuse for an existence, but it was a life, after all. A life that could have made a difference to someone, somehow, somewhere. If only...

I'll go back there again. Will I see the flattened remains of this sad, snivelling little rodent, or will he have somehow managed to avert catastrophe one more day? Even if he does, there's a Firestone with his name on it. Just a matter of time.

Dirty, this city.

Moo Cows

2008-05-13T21:37:00.001-05:00

Two cows are chatting out in the field. Cow One says, "So, whad'ya think about this mad cow disease thing that's goin' around?"

Cow Two says, "Oh, it doesn't really worry me. But then, I'm a horse!"

You see, he wasn't really a horse. See?

That's why it's funny. He really was a cow. Not a horse.

The fact that they are talking makes it funny, too. Cows don't talk. At least, not so we can understand them. They moo. Like, "Mooooo."

So if they can't really talk, it's funny to say "Two cows are chatting out in the field." See?

Why?

2008-05-13T21:35:00.000-05:00

Because life is like a can of tuna.

Basil who?

2008-05-13T20:42:00.000-05:00

Many words. Many many many words. Make for much strife. Much much much strife.

Too many words belie a mind too full of answers. Not enough questions.

Ask ask.
Seek seek.
Knock knock.

Who's there?

Hammer

2008-05-12T12:33:00.000-05:00

Modus Transitoritum.

Is that actual Latin? I know Modus is, but not sure about Transitoritum. Sounds like it, though, and that's fine.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. Turn and face the strange changes.

If I had a hammer. I would fix that loose board on my fence.

Rain

2008-05-12T10:39:00.000-05:00

BP better now. Kinda light-headed at times. Can't get up quickly without getting dizzy. Dizzy.

So the sun is out today. Lots of rain lately. We planted a garden. One tomato (Better Boy), four basil, one dill, one oregano, sprinkled lots of cilantro seeds in various places. Lots of cilantro will come up. But it's rained so much two of the basil plants drowned. Lots of rain.

Tornadoes on Saturday. Lots of tornadoes lately, too.

The hammock is hung by the play set with care, in hopes that our bodies soon will be there. It's a bit cramped, but might be o.k.

Gotta go take Joseph some shoes. He broke one of his sandals and is flip flopping in unatural ways.

Stress

2008-03-06T20:26:00.000-06:00

Test today. Stress. Yes, I'm stressed. I made a very high score. Which means lots of medicine, lots of excercise, and I'll never eat anything good again as long as I live. So do I want to live to 90 eating curds and whey, or do I want to live to 88 eating Coletta's pizza? I'll take 88. Oh well I'm pouting, aren't I? My lip is sticking out farther than my nose right now. To everything there is a season.

Guitar Hero

2008-03-06T20:23:00.000-06:00

He stands there rock-starring his way through another evening.

Bug

2008-03-05T20:09:00.000-06:00

What if a bug walked up to you on his six legs and said, "Good evening [your name here], I think you know more than you're letting on," and then he walked away and you never saw him again? You could have squished him with your big right foot, but you didn't. What if a bug did that and then you never told anyone? Would you think about it a lot? Would you be tempted to write a book about it? You might sell a few. But bugs don't do that, do they? As far as we know, anyway. As far as we know, bugs don't talk, and they don't even think, perhaps. Maybe they don't communicate with each other at all. We think they probably do, but maybe they don't. What about that? What if they are noncommunicative beings who don't really care about us at all? Would you think on that for a long time and let me know?

Because I think you know more than you are letting on.

...

Worshipping worship

2008-03-05T20:04:00.000-06:00

I think I've talked about that before.

I'll shut up.

Fishy wants food

2008-03-05T20:00:00.002-06:00

He's hungry again. Swims round and round. What must we look like from inside that bowl? Huge, hulking Yetis who drop food into the water twice a day, that's us. Goldfish must be crazy. They must be. They go around in circles all day and never get anywhere. They are crazy. If they jumped out, they would die. Then they would be crazy and dead. But they would know.

Vacation

2008-03-05T20:00:00.001-06:00

I don't know about vacations. I really don't.

Shiloh, Come

2008-02-01T16:45:00.000-06:00

[NOTE: I wrote this in 2001, and it was published a couple of places (see bottom) but I'm putting here just so I don't lose it.]

Shiloh, Come

By Tim Logan

Maybe you’ve walked my road.

Once, while visiting our church, an energetic, young evangelist announced to the congregation that I needed an anointing. I did. I do. I wondered how he knew, but then realized it must be my music style. So I changed it. Before that, there was a fellow in my church who made fun of me because my music wasn’t to his tastes. After the metamorphosis, he made fun of me because I was trying to do something I didn’t do very well. And I still needed an anointing. God wasn’t in the music style.

I read everything I could about worship trends - all the magazines, every book on “new worship,” even browsed a number of Web sites. If there were an answer, it would surely be there somewhere. I learned a lot, but still, according to some church members, I wasn’t getting the results Guy Crosstown was getting. God wasn’t in the books, the magazines, or the Web sites.

I went to seminars, observed other churches, studied techniques, bought the latest music, and collected all the electronics. But God wasn’t there, either. I looked.

I cried out, “Where are You, God? What’s Your style? Hymns or choruses? Robes or polo shirts with church logos? Shiloh, come!” I was at the end of myself. I just wanted to worship - it didn’t matter how or where.

Then one day I found myself in the depths of the Zambezi River basin standing under a tree waiting to have church with a small, startup congregation. We waited a while, and then waited some more. Eventually, we had about 20 men, women, and children and one dog. One of the men had an accordion. They sang and spoke in a language I didn’t understand; they danced (which I don’t do at all - Baptist, you know), they shooed flies and rocked back and forth on log benches, and nursed infants. A man in a yellow shirt came and sat outside the perimeter, listened to our songs, then went away. We were there nearly four hours.

But something happened that I couldn’t explain. I worshiped. I didn’t have to speak or sing. It wasn’t the people; it wasn’t the tree or the language or the atmosphere. God was there, and I can’t explain it any other way. Why was He there? I still don’t know.

When we left, we passed another tree-church down the road. We saw the man in the yellow shirt. He was teaching our songs to his congregation. No accordion; they used drums.

The angels didn’t agree over worship way back when; neither did Cain and Abel. Elijah had quite a disagreement with the priests of Baal, and Jesus had a bit of a problem with the sons-of-snakes He ran into in the temple. Turns out there really were right and wrong sides. Shiloh, come.

But are our problems the same? Buzzwords like “seeker-sensitive,” “praise chorus,” and “traditional worship” encircle us like south Arkansas B-2 Stealth mosquitoes, proving almost as aggravating. Is there a solution? Spray them with holy water?

There are some good books and lots of articles out there. Has anyone succeeded in changing any minds? No hard evidence of conversions to date, only rededications. You must be careful to read the right books, after all.

Do we continue debating? Tally baptism and attendance figures and copy whatever the winner does? Ignore each other while pledging to remember each other in our prayers?

So many questions. Shiloh, come.

I can’t enforce worship. I can’t require you to dance my dance or sing my songs. But as my friend Rob says, I can love you enough to sing yours with you. Will you love me enough to sing mine with me? We can love God together.

Dear God,

Everything’s blurred. Why is it that I can’t focus? Do I spend too much time trying to please everyone in the pews, singing the right songs, playing the right instruments, searching for the right “blend?” I fear I could lose my job if I don’t do as well as Guy Crosstown.

We are confused, and we have disobeyed. Jesus prayed that His followers would have one heart, one mind. We have left Your Way and followed our own. Now we have many hearts, many minds. Help us to hear You, to experience You, to follow You – together, as one – as You and Your Son are one.

That must be it: I’m out-of-focus, my lenses are dirty. Help me see You. Wash my eyes with tears of repentance. Help me to live Your life every day so that others will see You, too.

I just want to love You – not talk about it, not argue over it, just love You. You are God!

Amen.

Yes, there are still unanswered questions, but can we talk about them another time? Right now, God is here.

Shiloh has come!

(See Genesis 49:10)

"Shiloh Come," Originally published in the Arkansas Baptist Newsmagazine, June 7, 2001; Also in Church Musician Today, January 2002; All Rights Reserved. Copyright 2001, Tim Logan

...

Snowing Up

2008-02-01T16:36:00.000-06:00

The snow came. The snow lingered. The snow is leaving. Slowly. Don't you wish it would snow up? I mean, after the snow falls, wouldn't it be cool if the snow left the same way it came? Can you picture a blanket of snow slowly drifting back from whence it came, each flake flitting and floating, meandering through the atmosphere until it disappeared into the heavens once again?

Kind of like it were lifting itself in praise of the God who made it...kind of like a soul leaving a body. Kind of like white ash blowing in the wind after escaping a wildfire. Floating, floating, rising...up.

I think it does. Float up. We call it evaporation, but God sees it. We don't. He sees it and smiles, I think. I really do. I think he smiles and says to Himself, "That's one of the coolest things I ever did."

Maybe someday we'll see it, too.

...

Tim Logan admits a ruse

2008-01-25T05:36:00.001-06:00

Okay, I confess. You want to know why that last post was titled as it was? Just so I could put my name in the title. That's all. The rest of the title just happened to be what I was thinking at the moment and it was an excuse to make my fingers tappity-tap. I want to see if our almighty search engines rev to the cause. Timmy is curious about such things. Timmy thinks search engines are the AntiChrist. At least, they are in colusion with same. Do they see us? Are they watching right now? Tim Logan thinks they are. Tim Logan thinks that if it weren't for search engines, ninety-nine per cent of the internet would flit away like a moth. A tiny little moth. Tim Logan thinks so. But you know, what Tim Logan thinks is about as important as three little dots.

...

1001 reasons why Tim Logan doesn't want to get up and pour his coffee

2008-01-25T05:23:00.000-06:00

Because I'm nicely ensconced upon my sofa with a blanket stretched ever so neatly from my left big toe up to my chin and if I move more than 352 centimeters in any direction my comfort will be compromised. But the coffee is smelling so good that I might just have to abandon my position for the relatively more enviable condition of having freshly brewed Community New Orleans Blend trickle down my throat. If I ever overdose on something, I want it to be freshly brewed Community New Orleans Blend. Why do people mess around with anything less? Perfection should not be tampered with. Let's see, I said a thousand other things...so I've got, what, 999 to go? Okay, so numbers two through one thousand and one: 999 hairs on my head (I hope there are at least that many, though the number seems to dwindle daily) would feel the cool morning air much more acutely by my moving through the room to retreive my coffee than they do just sitting still with a warm computer on my lap. And it is warm, trust me. But the coffee argument is on the precipice of a winning leap. Actually, it's more like a free-fall. Yep. Here goes. Sorry I misled you.

...

Told you so

2008-01-24T21:55:00.000-06:00

See, what did I tell you? No sleet tonight. Changed up their minds. Maybe tomorrow, that is, until tomorrow gets here, then it won't be tomorrow anymore and they can change their minds again. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

...

The Book Monster lives behind that door.

2008-01-24T00:24:00.000-06:00

When I can't sleep, I sit here and stare at this computer and think, "I need to work on my book," but if I do, I'll get so engrossed in it that I'll be up all night. So I don't. It scares me. If I open it, it will be like opening a door with a monster behind it - a monster I like and hate at the same time - who will open it's mouth four feet wide and eat me in one gulp, then it will chew and chew and chew all night, rolling me round and round in its mouth, over and through its teeth, bouncing me up and down on its tongue, ricocheting me off of its uvula and tonsils, then suddenly it will spit me out and it will be morning and I won't really have accomplished anything except robbing myself of rest. Because the book monster lives behind that door and won't go away.

...

Pause and think on these things.

2008-01-24T00:06:00.000-06:00

It's going to sleet tomorrow night. So they say.

It changes every day, this forecast. Why? Why?

Can't tell what's going to happen. Forecast - a funny word. Sleet maybe.

Snow maybe. My forecast: stupidity, 100% chance. I think often of stupid things I've said over the years. I end up shaking my head, hard, side to side, trying to fling the memories out through my ears or nostrils, but it never works. They don't leave. Go away, please. No, they won't.

I say to myself, "I'm going to think more carefully before I speak." Maybe I won't say stupid things anymore, but alas, I always do.

I'm trying right now to think of one of those stupid things I've said, and I can't. Isn't that a trip? When I want to think of them, I can't, but they barge in unexpectedly at odd times, and I can't get them out of my head. I think of how I have hurt people by saying stupid things, or how have said things in worship services that I didn't really think through, or how I say things to people trying to sound smart, and end up sounding really dumb. Just like now. I'm sure this sounds dumb.

So I'm pausing to think. Don't say something else stupid, please. Please, please, please.

Pausing.

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No FaceBook for Me

2007-10-14T09:12:00.001-05:00

My daughter, upon seeing my blog, tells me, "Whatever you do, don't get a FaceBook."

I have no intentions of doing that.

I don't know why she doesn't want me to, though. I guess, maybe, because it's too popular - the 21st Century vox populi (aren't you impressed with my Latin? I think Vox Populi is related to Bono).

My daughter is kind of like me, and usually tends to run from whatever is wildly popular at the time. The result (on my part) is the kind of pretentious, cynical snobbery you are about to read, if you keep reading. Sorry, but it's my typical response to coolness. I'm just wired that way. I'm an Otter, if you remember, so you're supposed to understand and accept me and all my otter warts for what we are.

It takes me a long, long time to adapt to new trends. I didn't used to be like that, at least not in every case. When I was in Junior High, I was the first in my class to wear bell bottoms. Really. The other farm boys (I wasn't much of a farm boy, but I did live on a farm) called them "sissy britches," and the cool kids said, "Look at Logan, trying to be cool. Ha."

So I haven't always been slow like I am now.

Maybe I have come to understand, in my feeble-minded way, that fads are temporary, and this too shall pass. Therefore if a fad stays around long enough, I might latch on. As I get older -- not more mature, just older -- I catch myself smiling a lot at fadishness. Call it coolness, because that's what it's all about: The Coolness Factor. All is vanity.

Once upon a time, in the height of the worship wars, when I was moving very slowly in the direction of guitar-driven worship sounds, kicking and screaming all the way (I'll leave it to you to determine what that phrase modifies: "moving very slowly" or "guitar-driven worship"), there were some people making fun of me because I wasn't using enough of the "new" music (I was still using hymns, for heaven's sake (hmmm)). I was in my forties, so I had a lot of ingrained habits. But, in my efforts to be hip and inclusive, I started increasing the mix of choruses (read: newer songs that younger worship leaders were using). I can be cool, I thought, I can be in the mode. But I discovered that that wasn't the answer. Now they made fun of me for trying to be someone other than who I was. "Look at Logan trying to be cool! Ha!"

Then I caught on. I noticed that once I used a cool song, it became no longer cool. These people who were making fun of me led "youth worship" occasionaly, and sang the new songs - over and over and over - but I observed that once I sang one of "their" songs, they no longer sang it. This formerly cool song was now relegated to the ranks of the old and dusty along with He Touched Me and Pass it On.

You know what they did? Yep. They raised the coolness bar on me. Me: "Hey, we're going to sing (latest cool song) Sunday." Them: "Oh, that old thing? Ha ha. You ain't cool. I'm off to get my tutu tattoed."

I'm pretty dense, but I'm starting to learn that I'll never be cool. I guess you have to be born cool, and I wasn't. It's sinking in. I'm getting the message, all you cool dudes out there. So I'll stop trying to be cool. I give up.

If FaceBook is cool, count me out - at least for a few decades.

See, if I had been one of the born-cool kids in Junior High, nobody would have made fun of me, and bell bottoms would have caught on much faster. But since I wasn't one of the born-cool kids, it took a longer time for bell-bottoms to catch on. I slowed the process, at least. Perhaps I should be proud of that.

Current King of Cool, David Crowder, (somewhat) recently recorded the song, I Saw the Light. It's an old, old bluegrass song that's been around for, well, a long, long time, and it's never - until now - been considered cool by the cool crowd. Farm boys love it, but we aren't cool. I helped a little with a bluegrass band when I was in college, and we sang "I Saw the Light," yeah, way back then.

Now, if a born-uncool Christian artist had made (yet another) recording of I Saw the Light, what would have happened? Not much. But since Crowder, the coolest, did it, it is now considered to be a cool song. Therefore, all we have to do to make anything cool is turn it over the the coolest cat around. That's all. If Crowder recorded He Touched Me, it would suddenly become cool, because we've crowned him King of All Coolness, and if he says it's cool, by golly, it's cool. Not that there's anything wrong with that. If I got up and sang He Touched Me, I would receive accolades from the silver crowd, but the rest of the congregation would tilt their heads in sad derision over this poor, uncool old guy who clearly doesn't know anything about "authentic (cool) worship."

Need more proof? How about the new versions of Amazing Grace, Jesus Paid it All, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross? There are many more old hymns that have been brought into the realm of coolness by cool Christian artists. All of us wave our hands and cry, "Praise God," and justly so. I suppose every generation must have its cool cats to lead the pack and determine what is cool and what ain't.

And you know - to carry this theme farther than I ought - those funny glasses that Mr. Vox wears would not be considered cool if they had first been sported by Barry Manilow. Interesting that Mr. Vox, the coolest of the "secular cool" (at least for the time being, though he's clearly headed for the down escalator), chose as a stage moniker an antiquated term from the long-dead Latin meaning "good voice."

I heard two Cool Guys arguing over the pronunciation of Mr. Vox's first name. "It's BAH-noh, idiot, not [long O] BOH-NOH," Cool Guy One said dirisively. "OH," said Cool Guy Two, who clearly was not as cool as Cool Guy One.

"Pardon me for interrupting, Your Coolness," I said, "but, actually, it probably would be "BOH-NOH" (long O sound without the diphtongal "oo," since there are no diphtongs in Latin), because this inauthentic name that the supposedly very authentic Mr. Vox has adopted is a Latin word, and Latin vowel pronunciations, as far as we know, are static, which means they remain the same no matter where or how many times the vowel occurs in a word, so it would either be BAH-NAH or BOH-NOH, but it is generally accepted that the pronunciation of a Latin O is OH. Thus, BOH-NOH."

"OH," said Cool Guy One. "AH," said Cool Guy Two.

But then, I could have been wrong, seeing as how I have no tattoos. Tattoes? Tattohs.

Ta-ta.

...

Ruminations on Tim's Big Mouth

2007-10-12T16:47:00.000-05:00

My wife thinks I talk too much. Not to her, but when I start writing. Like, most men, I don't talk enough for my wife's well-being. When I write, however, I suddenly get verbose, and she saw what I wrote in my first blog post (see below) and thought I probably shouldn't have said some of those things. She's probably right.

I'm not much of a talker, normally. I'm the quiet sort. Some people say it's because I'm a C or a G or an otter, or a GOXIE or things like that. I just think it's because I'm not much of a talker.

Of course, if I get wound up, I can really let loose. Usually I just do that with my wife (venting about something), or perhaps when I'm scolding one of my children (when they push a hotbutton); maybe with my pastor if my righteous indignation flares up over something. Doesn't happen much. I've got plenty indignation, but ain't much of it righteous. So I rant, without justification.

Usually I rant in writing. Like in e-mail messages that I end up not sending. At least, that's the aim: not to send it. One time I did, and I felt so bad. So now I don't put a name in the address box. That way it won't go anywhere if I unconsciously hit the "send" button. So they get saved in my draft folder. I hope nobody ever reads what's in my draft folder. I empty it occasionaly, but it's kind of like losing an old friend. You feel like something's gone that you'll never get back. There were some pretty crafty messages in there, after all.

I'm great at gouging people in writing. I'm not that great at speaking off the cuff. That's another reason I'm a quiet sort. I'm afraid (actually, I'm SURE) that I'll say something really stupid and make someone mad or hurt them, then I'll have to apologize and cower in a corner. I don't like to apologize. I'm a C (that makes it o.k. -- you're supposed to understand such things).

So I craft messages in writing. That way I can read them over and over and get in really good jabs and choose just the right words and arrange phrases for maximum impact. Then I realize that when the message is read (if ever) the reader will know that's what I've done and the impact will actually be less. They'll sit there saying, "he must have spent hours on this," which might just be the truth, "so he's not that clever." Ironically, the hurt might be even deeper because they will know I must be really vindictive and petty to spend that much time trying to hurt them. Which would be true. But I'm a C, so get over it.

You see how I can amble and ramble on about nothing, really? Part of it is that, being new to this blogging thing, I just want to amble and ramble on and on about nothing. That's one way to guarantee nobody will visit very often, so I can just be stupid and nobody will see. See? C.

I feel better now.

Oh, well, if I can't think of anything worthwhile to say, I suppose I should close. Just be glad I didn't say all this to your face.

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Tim's Big Mouth Opens Wide

2007-10-12T09:03:00.001-05:00

I think the screens in our worship room are too big and too high on the wall, and when we project images, they don't fit the white area quite right, and that bothers me. Gosh, how could that have happened?

Gosh. Sorry for the expletive, but I'm really mad.

I do what I don't want to do, and do not do what I want to do. God change my wanter. And my doer.

Watching Rich Mullins videos on YouTube and reading the book about his life for the second time and reading Isaiah and Jeremiah (and, um, the rest of the Bible) have heightened my awareness of our failings in material matters vs. ministry. What would God think about a minister (Christ follower) or a ministry that gives 90% away and keeps 10% rather than the opposite. I mean, Rick Warren says that's what he's doing, but then, his 10% is, like, still millions (very admirable, in any case. Not many people can make that claim). But half the world lives on $2 per day per person, so I think they would probably look at me and say, yeah, but if you gave away 90% of what you have, you've still got thousands.

Think about a church operating on 10% of their receipts and using 90% for ministry and missions. Is that crazy? Is that possible?

When I say they use 90% on themselves (we/ourselves) I mean that 90% of all the funds that most churches take in goes to buildings, staff, programs, worship services, equipment, insurance, burglar alarms, watering flowers, paved parking lots, video projectors and screens, padded seats, fancy lights, huge sound systems, computers out the wazoo, on and on and on. Things we call "ministry," but, really, are they? Then we take our measley 10% and send it to missions or use a paltry sum on "local mission projects" (like .0001%) and call ourselves mission and ministry minded.

[As I'm mouthing here, let me say that when I talk about the church doing that, I also am talking about ME. What would happen if I lived that way. Giving instead of taking. I'm guilty of always wanting the biggest and best. I confess that I have bought shirts just because they have a picture of a little man on a horse. NOT the ones where the little man is holding a LANCE, mind you (oh heavens, what would people think?), but the ones where the little man is holding a POLO STICK. That's a very important point. Justed wanted to make that clear.]

Here are the objections to a church operating that way:
1. We couldn't pay our staff.
2. We couldn't pay for our buildings and property and keep them up.
3. We wouldn't have time to get ready for Sunday services (in the manner to which we are accustomed).
4. We would have all sorts of poor people attending our church as a result of ministry to them, and everyone knows they don't give much (I know of pastors who have lost their jobs over such).
5. Members would complain that the church was not meeting their needs (needs for the coolest worship services and the best entertainment for their kids) and might go somewhere else.

This I believe: churches have slowed to a crawl because they do the very things they tell their members not to do: borrow huge sums of money to build huge builidings and buy huge toys and find themselves so in debt that they can't do the very thing that we are put here to do. Some don't borrow, but they still spend the bulk of their money on themselves. In any case, their focus becomes getting enough people (with money) to give enough (of their money) to pay for the toys and keep them running right (and insured in case someone steals them). And the staff to operate them and clean them, and the secretaries to keep track of the members and the money and the computers to organize things and the electricity to run it all and the decorations to make it all look attractive to all those church shoppers who are trying to decide which church is "best" for them and the advertising to get their attention in the midst of all the other church advertisements.

Jeremiah 2:13: "My people have committed two sins: They have forsaken me, the spring of living water, and have dug their own cisterns, broken cisterns that cannot hold water."

A traveling circus arrived in a small town and set up across a small river from the little downtown area. People would see the tents, they reasoned, and be enticed to cross the little wooden bridge for their performances. But there were some trees along the river, blocking the view, so the circus manager told one of the roustabouts to find some wood to build a tall sign to attract the people's attention. He did so, and soon the excited townspeople were making their way toward the circus for the first show. Much to their dismay, however, they found that there was no bridge across the river. The roustabout had torn it apart to make the sign.

The church has torn down its own bridges so it can use the wood for its buildings and programs, and now there is no path to the people. Or from the people.

How can we refocus on ministry to our community and our world for the purpose of building bridges: making connections that give us a path for communicating the love of Christ?

Is it possible that, as important as worship and discipleship are, we do them too much? "Ever learning, but never coming to a knowledge of the truth" (II Timothy 3:7). Don't throw the alabaster box at me (Matthew 26). Jesus said that it was fine for the woman to pour perfume on him, but I don't think he meant for his disciples to stop everything, ignore the poor, and build perfume factories. That's not worship, that's insanity.

We are planning a "day of ministry" in December. We do a week (five days) of ministry in the spring. Do we perhaps have it backwards? Maybe we should be putting our resources into 359 days of ministry and six days of worship (I promise to think about how that might be accomplished - I'll get back to you).

Maybe if we did 359 days of ministry, we would find people beating the doors down to worship together, and it wouldn't really matter how polished and cool our music and sermons were, after all.

Maybe worship would come from the people instead of to the people.

Maybe they would be so spiritually hungry as a result of expending themselves in ministry that we would have to have waiting lists to get in our doors. Or maybe we would just go sit in the field to worship and learn because there wasn't room in the building. And maybe there wouldn't even be any projection screens.

And maybe people wouldn't mind.

Or, to be completely 21st Century about it, "I could be wrong." I'll get over it tomorrow.