Do it for Phil Coulson!

OK, so I was a couple weeks late seeing The Avengers, but as soon as school was out, my 11 year old and I hit the theater.  We saw the movie in IMAX 3D, a splurge for making the the A honor roll--him, not me.  So that made the movie even more awesomer (yeah, I know it's not a word).

There were plenty of good lines, too.  Here are a couple of my favorites:
"Target: angry!"
"You might want to clench up there, Legolas."  (With all due respect to the A honor roll types sitting near me, I think I was the only one in the theater who laughed at that one.)

Now here's the one that I had to think about for a second.  Loki has mortally wounded Agent Coulson, the Les Nessman of the Avengers Initiative.  As he lay there dying, Nick Fury gives him the "please don't go, please don't die" stuff, and Coulson, with his last breath says, "This has to happen.  Without it what will they have to..." and then he dies.

"What will they have to" what?  I thought it a second before A Honor Roll asked me.  AVENGE!  Oh! Avenge!  What will the Avengers have to avenge!!

Cool move.  If Loki had killed Nick Fury, Iron Man or even Captain America it wouldn't have united the heroes against their enemy.  But go picking in the every-man, and you're in some deep trouble, my friend.  That's what makes heroes.  It's not the suit or the powers or the multi-billion dollar flying aircraft carrier.  It's the determination to stand up and fight for the innocent, to speak up for those without a voice, to fly for all of us who seem to be stuck on the ground.

You know what, people?  We each can be a hero, and we all can work together to make a difference in our world.  It really is possible.  Make the determination that we are going to see the end of suffering--the hungry fed, oppressed set free, good news preached to the poor, and so on.  Make that determination to do something about it.  With God's help we can.  It's hero time.

@ the Graduate Luncheon

On Friday, May 4,  I was invited to speak at Charleston Southern University's graduate luncheon.  The following is what I remember saying.

When I asked my wife for a some advice on what to say to folks who were about to graduate from college, she said, "Tell them not to do it. The economy's a wreck.   There's no jobs.  They might do better to go to graduate school."  Well, you could defer your loans for a few years I guess.

20 years from now I hope you have a handfull of friends from your college days on the Alumni board and they want to hear you speak at this event.  I do mean that as a blessing, but today I also blame Facebook.

I wondered what sort of speech to give today.  You don't need a commencement address.  You'll get one of those tomorrow.  My challege to you is to remember something the speaker says.

I have daydreamed about being a commencement speaker.  That daydream started 20 years ago about 5 minutes after I graduated.  Generally there are two criteria for being a commencement speaker.  A) You can be famous for something.  B) You could have accomplished something.  Oh, well.

I'm a pastor, but I'm not here to preach, though I probably will.  Having attended this Baptist univeristy for a while, you have probably already heard a lot of preaching.  On top of that, I am a BAPTIST pastor, so hearing from the likes of me is about as rare as seeing a mallard duck out there on the reflection pond.

I did read that there was a rare bird spotted on the reflection pond, a greater white fronted goose.  OK, it was more unusual than rare.  A little bit lost and off-course.  Today, I hope to be that kind of rare bird for you.

I'm not here to preach.  I'm not here to offer a commecement address.  The reason I'm here is because I am a Buccaneer.

For my junior and senior years in college I was THE Buccaneer (the college mascot, the man in the suit), so I might know a thing or two about being a Buccaneer.  First, being the mascot was great!  Being the mascot gives you access to cheerleaders, and that's great!  It certainly helped me retire my previous pick-up line, "Hey who wants to hug the editor of the campus newspaper?"

Mascots, especially if they've got imaginations, don't really need to practice.  I'd go to cheerleading practice, and spot the cheerleaders as they practiced partner stunts.  So, not only did I have access to cheerleaders, but they were literally falling out of the sky.

Yes, it was fun, too.  After a basketball game, the cheerleading team went out to eat.  The referees from the game came to the same restaurant.  They recognized the cheerleaders and came over to introduce themselves.  They got to me, and one referee inquired, "Who are you?"  I smiled and said, "I'm the Buccaneer."  Karl Hess told me, "I hate your guts!" Proof I was doing my job well.

I was also in great shape.  I remember being at the counter at the business office.  I was leaning on the counter writing a check.  I overheard two women across the room behind me.  One of them caught her breath and said, "That guy's the Buccaneer."  The other woman asked, "How do you know?"  OK, to keep this a family show, let's just say that she explained that from her vantage point she could identify me anywhere.  Seems those pants for the Buc costume were a little tight--but I guess not in a bad way.

Are you a Buccaneer?  It's from the French root word boucan which had to do with cooking over a fire.  The first pirates called buccaneers were hold up on uncharted Carribbean islands catching and cooking wild hogs over a pit.  If you can cook on the grill, you're a Buccaneer!

Are you a Buccaneer?  Do you know your history?  Do you know the story behind why we're called Buccaneers (bad news here, no one knew the story)?  In 1964, the school's first basketball game was played downtown against Anderson College.  The rumor going around was that Baptist College's sports teams were going to be referred to as the Christian Knights or Crusaders.  Well, the students showed up at that first basketball game wearing bandanas, eye patches, ear rings and sashes, brandishing swords, and they unrolled a banner that said BUCCANEERS.  The nickname stuck.

Being a Buccaneer is about boldness, standing up and being heard. Being a Buccaneer is about daring to be different, about not being satisfied with the status quo, and if going against the status quo should cost you, at least you can stll cook on your grill!

Are you a Buccaneer?  The most important characteristic about being a Buccaneer is about seeking treasure.  I would say that was a great lesson I learned at Charleston Southern.  I didn't even know I was looking for treasure.

Seeking treasure is a lesson about friendship.  I am grateful for the many friends I made while I was a student here.  I know in my heart that I have friends who love me and care about me.  A lot of those are folks I haven't seen in 20 years, but I bet if we got together we could pick up where we left off--in either doing good or a little mayhem.

Seeking treasure is about fellowship.  We each have talents to share.  We each have gifts to bring to the table that we can use to work together and accomplish great things.

Seeking treasure is about faith.  Jesus said, "Ask and you shall receive.  Seek and you will find.  Knock and the door will be opened to you."  Seek is a word that implies an earnestness about your search.  It's about not being satisfied until you have found what you're looking for.  Apply what we know about seeking to somehting Jesus said earlier in the Sermon on the Mount, "Seek first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all these things will be added unto you."

The greatest thing about seeking the treasure of the kingdom of God is that when you do that the treasure finds you.

Was it Something I Ate?

OK, so here’s the dream.  One reason I’m sharing this is because I usually don’t remember dreams.   Sometimes in the middle of a dream I’ll remind myself to try and remember it, but once I begin to wake up, I can feel it slipping away and out of reach.  When it’s gone, it’s gone.

Another reason to share the dream is that you might have some insight about what this dream means, if it has any meaning at all.  Probably a better reason is that it was kind of funny. 

Some dreams are just flat out weird and have more basis in Doritos Locos Tacos consumed after a certain hour.  The older you get, the earlier this deadline arrives each night.

Every now and then, I have a dream that stays with me.  Usually they fall into one of two categories: weird or scary.  Wednesday night/early Thursday morning, it was a weird one that stuck with me.  The one contributing factor I know of is that I watched the South Carolina v. Wofford baseball game which went 11 innings.

That saturation was present.  I was at a baseball game in my dream.  Quickly, the coach told me I could play left field (I’m already out there in my mind, so what’s new).  Well I jumped at the chance to move from spectator to participant, but instead of playing left field, I began to walk around the field and talk to other players.

I was over by the visitors’ dugout.  A player from the other team informed me that he had brought a softball to leave inside the statue of Jesus.  I said, “Huh?”  He explained that there was a statue of Jesus nearby that had a hole at the base where folks passing by would leave softballs (some kind of pilgrimage, I guess).  I took all this information as matter of fact.

Well, I began to walk back over toward left while enjoying a pack of Lance crackers (Malt) and a Sprite in a clear Solo cup.  Of course, my repast and stroll across the outfield grass would be interrupted by a batter who rudely hit a fly ball to left field.  I fumbled to put the crackers in my back pocket, noting to myself that this was not good for the crackers, and stashed my soda behind a bush by the outfield wall.  There were two outs, and this would end the inning.  I hustled into position to catch the ball.  I settled under the ball, but there were some tree branches in my way. 

I need to add here that this baseball field was the narrow strip of yard next to Reevesville Baptist Church—before the fellowship hall was built.  I was standing where that little wall used to be, about where the covered walkway is now.  The cemetery fence was the outfield wall.  My guess is that this detail might lend more insight than others—maybe not.

The ball cleared the branches, but I had come forward one too many steps.  The ball cleared my glove and tipped the bill of my cap before hitting the ground behind me and rolling toward the wall.  I ran back to retrieve it, and the center fielder was running over to back me up.  Before we could get there the ball rolled into an open 4” drain pipe in the ground.  I held up two hands to signal to the umpire that the ball was lost and the situation merited a ground rule double.

The coach started yelling at us and marched out to left field to confront us.  I explained that the ball went in the pipe.   The coach hollered, “Yeah, well that’s a drain pipe!  It goes out of the stadium!  That ball’s halfway to Miami.  It’s a home run, and there were two runners on.  We’re down by three!”

To make matters worse, my Sprite had tipped over.  The coach walked past me on his way to the locker room.  “Don’t worry about it,” he said, “It’s halftime, and all those guys from the other team want to put a ball in the Jesus statue.”

An open letter to the Family Y

Dear Family Y of Greater Augusta,
I am so glad that my family has a membership the Y.  My sons have enjoyed playing basketball this season--boy, it sure is crowded on Saturdays!  They have also done very well in their swimming lessons.  We do have a good time at the pool.

I was happy to see the Y represented at the Riverhawks game this past Saturday night.  Thanks for being there on Scout Safety Night and providing good information about swimming and sports safety.

My sons were excited to see "Y Guy".  I thought he was pretty cool, too, but there was one problem.  "Y Guy" accompanied the Riverhawks mascots onto the ice for the second intermission.  Music began to play, and the mascots began to dance to the Village People's "YMCA".  When they reached the chorus and performed the iconic motions that go along with it, "Y Guy" DID THE "C" WRONG!

I do realize I am being picky about this.  It might be one of those things I am unable to let go.  From youth camp dances to wedding receptions, I've been helping folks turn in the right direction.  I have even taught my own children to make the "C" so other people can read it.

Please understand.  It's not just you.  I also have a problem with male cheerleaders running with flags that spell out their school's initials.  Unless they run from right to left as the audience reads it, the letters are presented in opposite order--please pay attention, CSU and USC.  Watch how the letters scroll across the bottom of the TV and copy that.

So, I'm a little heartbroken that an ambassador for the Y misses an opportunity to shine.  "Y Guy", I only want to help.  Please get better.

What Do We Call Him? Part 3: The Rise of Rev. Chip

Let's see now, where were we?  Oh, yeah, I was 22 and my hair fell out because a 7th grader called me "mister" and then she said "yes sir" to me.

Eight years later, I was ordained at Briarcliff Baptist Church in Atlanta.  At the end of the service, I was presented with a certificate of ordination and a Bible.  It was a huge, leather bound, New Oxford Annotated, New Revised Standard Version with Apocrypha, and was imprinted with REV. CHIP REEVES in gold foil on the bottom right corner.  Goliath offered to let me borrow his shield bearer when I needed to carry it anywhere.

On August 1, 1999, I became an official reverend.  There was also a reception following the service.  How much more official did things need to get?

Shortly after my being ordained, Trisha and I packed everything up and I headed to Maryland for my first "real" ministry job after seminary.  I was Baptist Campus Minister at the University of Maryland-College Park.  I enjoyed a ministry with students which was still collegial like youth ministry, but in this case everyone was in college (trying real hard not to say "literally" here).  My point here is that I was in a ministry position where it was still cool for parishoners to call me Chip.  If the voice on the office phone referred to me as Reverend Reeves, I knew it was the Dean of Students' secretary.

The college students didn't have a problem calling me Chip, neither did my fellow ministers and lots of folks who worked at Maryland.  But there was one student who changed my name.

Hieu was from Vietnam.  She came to me one day with a problem.  "I don't know what to call you," she told me.  I replied, "You can call me Chip."
"No, I can't"
"Yes, you can.  It's OK with me."
"No, I can't.  It would be embarrassing."
"Look, I have had this nickname all my life.  It's really is OK to call me Chip."

The point my new friend was trying to make with me was that in her culture it was impolite to be on a first name--nay, nickname basis with your minister.  She then emphasized this truth in a way that a boy from down South would completely understand, "My mother won't let me."  We set the differences in our cultural mores aside and walked on common ground.  I knew what she was talking about.  Some manners and the way we learn our manners are universal.  I knew my Momma would be disappointed in me if I allowed anyone to be embarrassed because of me.

I still felt like I wasn't old enough to be referred to as Reverend Reeves.  I'd only been ordained a few weeks; it might not have "took".  Besides, if everyone started calling me that, how was I supposed to filter the calls from the dean's office?

So it was that over lunch at a Vietnamese restaurant somewhere in the greater College Park/Langley Park/Silver Spring area, I acquired one of my favorite appellations.  It was a merger of the realm of formal titles and the world of striving to be yourself, "Reverend Chip".  Thanks to Hieu I have really enjoyed finding out who this guy is.

RE: Little Drummer Boy

First a confession: I have little to no tolerance for the radio stations that play Christmas music all day starting November 1.  You could at least wait until after Thanksgiving, and why not wait a little longer?

Well there is a benefit.  In their desperate attempts to boast about the variety in their programming, we are treated to several different versions of Christmas songs.  You can hear Johnny Mathis AND Andy Williams sing all of them.

One song I've heard in diversity is "The Little Drummer Boy".  The classic version is the one done by Bing Crosby and David Bowie. You can also hear it performed by Whitney Houston.  I think I heard a Toby Keith rendition this morning.  Growing up we had a ceramic music box which played the tune.

It's safe to say that, like many of its holiday compatriots, "The Little Drummer Boy" has been done ad infinitum by multifarious artists with multifarious takes on the song.  But there's something missing.  In every version I've heard, there isn't a whole lot of drumming.  OK, some do better than others (tip 'o the cap, TK and Jars of Clay), but come on!  The song's about a little drummer boy who played his drum for Jesus and the Incarnate Word smiled at him.

I need a hero!

Here's what I want.  Immediately after the line, "I played by best for him, pa-rum-pa-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum, rum-pa-pum-pum", just bring it!  Give me a Tommy Lee drum solo (you still read this, Tommy?).  How about the cast of Drumline?  Take a minute or two and throw down!

I want to see the innkeeper freak out about the noise, and Mary begin to ponder what she had done by allowing the little drummer boy to play.  It would be great foreshadowing for the entire ministry of Jesus which shook things up and turned the world upside down.  A most appropriate herald no doubt!

Then he smiled at me, and there was something about that grin.

Rev. Chip to the Rescue

I need some outlet for what I'm feeling.  I realize going public with this could elicit too much sympathy or too much ire--or both.  My first experience in the office this morning was a call to rescue damsels in distress.  Our preschool director and one of the mothers discovered a mouse in the ladies room.  OK, there wasn't any stereotypical screaming, but I did hear some female voice agreeing that they each were not going to touch it.

The director came to my door and asked if I would get the mouse out of the ladies room.  I was reassured it was a baby--what's reassuring about that?

I picked up a dish towel and was fully expecting to be removing a dead mouse.  My surprise was that he was alive and as cute as could be.  I scooped him up and headed to the door.  He weighed nothing.  He was "this big", yet I could feel his body heat through two layers of fluffy dish towel.

My heart was breaking!  I knew I had to expel this little critter from the office area, but I also knew that meant putting him out in the cold.  Where's Ellie Mae Clampett when you need her?

What Do We Call Him? Part 2

Way back in 1991, I entered the world of congregational ministry.  My first role in following my calling was as a 22 year old summer youth minister.  Yes, I led Bible studies, chaperoned youth camp and managed to live through a few lock-ins.  Much of my ministry was accomplished as a Christian older brother at best, and on some days as just another big kid (I do mean that in the best possible terms).

Then came that fateful Sunday morning.  A seventh grader came to Sunday School with some questions about the upcoming trip we were going to take.  It wasn't her fault.  She was raised right and only doing what she was supposed to do.  She began, "Mr. Chip, I have a question..."

I answered her question, and then I told her, "You don't have to call me 'mister'.  I'm not really that much older than you, and the way I like to do youth ministry is as friends, do you understand?"

She nodded and replied, "Yes, sir."

And so the curse began.  Ever since that day I have been a thousand years old.

What do we call him? Part 1
Ever since I was a couple days old, the question has been asked, "What do we call him?"  I was the first baby boy in our family.  Because of that, I inherited my given name Emory Luther Reeves, Jr.  You can call me any of those if you like--I might not answer to "Junior" unless you're my dad.

Well, there in good ol' Roper Hospital in Charleston, a friend asked my mother, "What will you call him?"  I guess the prevailing logic was that should Momma need assistance and yell, "Emory!" that neither my dad or I would come running believing she meant the other one.  A few nicknames were batted about.  I was this close to being Em.  Finally the friend suggested, "Call him Chip."

In 1969, "Chip" was the proper nickname to give a youngster in order say a little more about the boy's parents relationship to "the man".  To put this in perspective, my wife's middle name is Lalena (la-lay-nya), which is the title of a Deep Purple song, ya dig?

I have had fun all my life being Chip.  The good thing about having the nickname is that I have enjoyed getting to define who Chip is without a lot of worry about being Emory.  Of course, as a teenager, he would always remind me, "Remember whose son you are."  Wasn't hard to forget.  It's on my driver's license and Social Security card.

There was that short period of time when I contemplated a name change.  I had reached one of those rites of passage moments in life and I felt that as a more mature individual I wanted to go by a name that would welcome people to take me more seriously.  "Call me Emory," I requested--the day I graduated from kindergarten.

I probably don't have to tell you that "Chip" quite often finds too many prefixes and suffixes easily attached.  I don't mind.  There are listeners who don't hear and they call me Skip or Jim, and there are readers who don't look closely and they call me Chris.  I have devious plans for these folks.  I even hope for the opportunity to butcher their names over a loudspeaker one day.  "It's a pleasure to introduce you to Mr. Juh-hon Su-mitt-huh!"  Oh yeah, John Smith, you're on my list.

A Basket Case
In the summer of 2000 I spent 6 weeks on mission in Moldova.  There are a lot of stories I can tell about that trip, but one of them actually happened today.

One of the presents I brought back for my wife was a bread basket.  It was one of those rare occasions when a husband actually gets ir right.  Trisha loved the basket and we used it at many meals, especially when we would have company over.  Then, I could tell mission trip stories, and we could both talk about being apart for 6 weeks and how good it is to be together.  Anyways, the bread basket became one of those go-to symbols of hospitality in our home.

A few years ago, we were about to have friends over for lunch and Trisha asked, "Where's The Basket?"  We own plenty of baskets, but I knew which one she was talking about. We searched all over the house and couldn't find it.  We gave up, resigning that this basket had been lost in transit over a few years.  It was somewhere between Maryland, Savannah, Atlanta and Allendale, SC.

This week, Trisha and I are apart for a few days, while I start working at First Baptist Church of Evans, GA, and she oversees packing and moving. We won't have lots of stories to tell, but there will be a few.  For instance, the refrigerator in the parsonage in Allendale died two nights ago.  Trisha woke up to puddles of water in the kitchen and the chore of throwing away the food in the refrigerator and freezer.  She let the church know about the broken appliance, and a repairman was dispatched.  He arrived on Wednesday and gave the bad news about the passing of the compressor.  I think a new refrigerator is in the works for the next pastor in Allendale--you're welcome, buddy!

Here's the story.  The repairman had to pull the refrigerator out from the wall to work on it.  Behind the refrigerator was a red cup and some magnetic letters perhaps belonging to the previous family.  Also back there, probably for our whole term in Allendale, was The Basket.  Poor thing was caked in dust.  It was lost, but now it's found, dare I say.

Moving and starting a new job comes with a fair amount of stress I hear.  Transition can be a word that scares people.  In the middle of some anxiety, are stories about lost treasure being found: God's consistency even when life is in flux, my wife's phone call with a joyful story to share, and even the basket we'll use again to welcome friends old and new.

Don't Knock It...
Last summer I had one of the most harrowing experiences of my lifetime.  If you're new here, you need to know I'm exaggerating.  I could have written the same words about the blood drive band aid I just peeled off my gotta-be-kin-to-Chewbacca elbow joint.

Now back to the situation at hand (thank you Snoop), last summer, the boys and I were at the produce market where I set out to choose a watermelon.  I thumped and knocked a few of them.  I settled on the winner, and we headed home.  We set this baby in the refrigerator for a cooling (colding?) spell.  When the time came to carve it up, we discovered the watermelon was nowhere close to being ripe.  I mean the inside was more white than pink and nowhere close to being red--ooh! I believe I have also just aptly described my pre-sunburn complexion!

I was immediately dismayed.  Growing up in my daddy's grocery store and making a part-time college career out of running a roadside produce stand, I was ashamed of myself.  I felt bad.  I worried.  Had I lost my "ear"?  The rest of the summer, when we wanted watermelon, my mantra was, "Quit being so prideful and trust the pros."  I asked for help, and I would ask, "Can I eat this one today?"

This Saturday, we brought home the first watermelon of the summer.  The previous watermelon does not count since it was the last watermelon of late, late spring, and, yes, it was an unripened disaster, thank you very much.  The former was also selected without professional help, but it only made it to the car after lots (LOTS!) of thumping and knocking.  I still don't trust myself.  To prove a point, I made the command  decision once we got home to let it sit on the porch for one more day.  This proved an effective strategy, and good things did come to those who waited.  Sunday afternoon gave us a sweet, mid-afternoon snack well worth the wait.  24 more hours would have proven even nicer, but who's got that kind of patience!

I'm holding off on crowing about success with an "I'm back, baby!"  The jury is still out.  Maybe I was going through something of a rough patch last summer.  Maybe I was distracted.  I did feel like someone from the South Carolina Department of Agriculture was going to show up and have me exiled as a sous chef on the set of March of the Penguins 2.

What I do know is this:  I have found a good illustration for the next time the lectionary deals me "Whoever has ears to hear, let them hear."  No, it will not replace my reference to White Men Can't Jump's "You can't hear Jimi!" And shame on you, spellcheck, for highlighting "Jimi".  Really??

That's In The Bible???
(more than likely a title you will see here again)

Last week I had one of those encounters with the real, live Bible.  I was reading a familiar passage in Luke 1, Mary's visit to Elizabeth.  There, I read a verse which I had never seen or heard in my life--of course, I'm exaggerating...  I think...

Every time I read this passage before, the story stopped with Elizabeth telling Mary she was special and qualifying that quality in her by saying, "Even the baby in my womb jumped for joy" (Yes, I'm paraphrasing).  This has always been the cue for the soloist to start singing the Magnificat.  In my latest reading, however, Someone had inserted a new verse for me to read before we could commence with all the magnifying.  It said...
     And blessed is she who believed that there would
     be a fulfilment of what was spoken to her by the Lord.

Yes, it really is there.  Luke 1:45.  Really, I'm not kidding!

All "not kidding" aside, this verse turned out to be a word that I really needed to hear.  For me, it spoke to me about the reason I was reading the Bible that day in the first place.  I read the Bible a lot, but as a pastor, there are many times when I do so for the sake of Sunday's sermon or Wednesday night's study.  This time, I was reading for me, and I got a blessing that tells me God is going to do what God promised.  Was Paul paraphrasing Elizabeth when he said:
    I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. (Philippians 1:6)?

That good work has been started in all of us.  Hail, friend, you are blessed, and it makes us all jump for joy!

People Who Pray

Have you ever underestimated the power of prayer? Here’s a shocker: I have! I imagine I have too many such occasions to name. I realize that part of my testimony now has to include many people, both known and unknown, who have prayed for me.

20 years ago when I finally got up the courage to talk with my dad about my calling to ministry, it was another moment to discover the prayers offered up by the children of God. After asking several questions about what I was feeling and understanding about being called, Daddy told me, "Son, you don’t know this, but this is something I have been praying about for you for a long time." Today, I am still finding out what that means.

Recently, at the KAIROS weekend at Allendale Correctional Institution, I was blessed again to pray for others and pray with others. While the KAIROS ministry was happening inside the prison, countless volunteers on the outside were lifting us up in prayer. People signed up to pray around the clock to cover every moment of our ministry with prayer.

On Friday morning of KAIROS, I was on the program to give a talk about this very subject, a word of encouragement to the residents that they were not alone–people were praying for them. To make this matter a little intriguing, I had forgotten that I was on the schedule. Fellow KAIROS team members greeting me first thing that morning offering to assist with the talk, to which I replied, "What talk?" Once we got that settled, I had plenty of time to get ready, and still plenty of willing helpers in my colleagues.

The time for the talk came around, and I walked toward the community room. Just before I got to the door, a friend named John caught me and asked, "You wanna pray?" I thought he said, "You gonna pray?" I replied, "Yeah, the talk outline says I’m supposed to lead the group in the prayer on page 11 in the prayer book." John was confused for a couple seconds, then he replied, "That’s good, and would you like to pray with me before you go in and do the talk?"

John and I prayed together before the talk. I am glad we did. It was a spiritual help to me. While I was speaking, I could feel the presence of the Holy Spirit in the room with us. I was able to see the faces of a number of prisoners who were being blessed by what I had to say. When I finished the talk, guess what? John and I prayed together again. We offered up a lot of thanksgivings and prayed for more of the outpouring of God’s spirit while we ministered together with our fellow team members and the residents at the prison.

I am certain that I will have more stories to tell about being surprised by answered prayers and the hearts of the people who have offered them. Some very powerful words of ministry which we can give each other are, "May I pray with you?" and "Will you pray for me?". Amen.

Peace to you,
Chip

Important Instructions for Appreciative Gourmets

Today’s conversations about my girlfriend—Little Debbie—brought to mind a memory of what I believe is the proper way to consume a Swiss Cake Roll. For the record, it is not the egg roll of snack foods. The Swiss Cake Roll is to be experienced. In order to appreciate it to the fullest degree of sweet goodness… it must be dismantled.

This might not be a “how to” course for everyone. It is probably more of a refresher. For some it will simply put to prose what they accomplish daily (even bi- or tri-daily?).

There is some debate among the pros about what should be Step One. Perhaps some healthy discussion will yield a strong opinion one way or the other.

Step One. Eat the chocolate coating off of the outside of the roll. This must be done without damaging the chocolate cake beneath the coating. Should the cake be damaged, eat that one and start over with Roll #2. More points are given relative to how much chocolate you can get to come off in a single sheet.

Step One. Find the “seam” at the bottom of the roll. This is where a thick caulking of chocolate holds the whole she-bang together. Uncaulking the seam seems to be where some folks start and then move on the thinner chocolate sheet removal (see Step One).

Step Two. Unroll the roll. Should this result in damage to the cake, eat the damaged roll and begin again with Roll #2.

Step Three. Cremesumption. Eat the filling without doing damage to the cake, of course. Should damage occur—well, you oughta know the process by now.

Step Four. Return what remains to roll shape avoiding damage to the delicacy. Keep in mind what you should do if damage occurs. Eat the re-rolled roll.

Step Five. Repeat steps One, One, Two, Three and Four with Roll #2.

Step Six. What do I mean Step Six? Haven’t I already eaten both cakes in the package? Well, that is true, but there is still work to be done. There is the matter of scraping clean that white cardboard square found below your rolls. There. You will find chocolate coating, cake and perhaps stray filling that have anchored your Swiss Cake Rolls in the packaging. Hasting unwrapping can also result in a coating stick to the cellophane. All of this can be extricated with a few quick scrapes across the bottom teeth.

Lunchroom attendees take heed! The white square from beneath Swiss Cake Rolls is almost as valuable a piece of currency as the top off a chocolate Snack Pack. Some kid will always “trade ya” for it.

P.S. I rolled the dice taking a great risk the littledebbie.com was the right URL. Whew!

Earth-Shakin' Stuff
First, I do need to apologize for not updating the blog for a while. Been in kind of a funk, but good friends have helped me see things more clearly/dearly etc. Sing that song to yourself now, and I promise [sic] it'll never happen again. It probably is redundant for me to ever use "[sic]", since you already know I'm going to be sarcastic. I simply feel like my bracket keys are very underused. But now I'm rambling.

OK, on to the most devastating news you may ever hear from me. Last week I discovered something about me, that I myself would not have believed only moments before it happened. This would be a good time to say, "Okey dokey, pards, see ya next time!" and leave you hanging for 8 more weeks when I decide to blog again. That would be wrong. Many of you are too good to me, you need to hear this now.

Here's the disclaimer. What you are about to read could prove so shocking that it could harm our friendships. If you read it that way, know that I am alread begging for your forgiveness, but I will understand if you want to drop me. Prepare youself, this is a doozie.

Monday evening, while I was on the way back from hospital visits in Augusta, I spotted the neon glow of the Krispy Kreme sign. It beckoned me, "Hot doughnuts now." Folks, Jason and the Argonauts had an easier time with temptation--and they're a rock band!! Well, for some strange reason my car turned into Krispy Kreme. I got a cup of coffee and a dozen "hot ones".

While I ate the first one, I caught my self commenting, "I don't see what the big deal is." What the heck was that?? I ate two more to test my earlier hypothesis rendering very similar results. What you are about to read may hurt your feelings, but I do not particularly care for hot Krispy Kreme dougnnuts.

It sounds. . . um . . . it sounds . . . unAmerican! Don't get me wrong, I love Krispy Kreme dougnuts, but a chocolte cream filled or a sour cream or the doughnut of the month sounds more fun to me. Why not hot? I guess it goes back to my first exposure to the treats via school fundraisers. I think I'd prefer that variety to one just picked off the line. I know some of y'all are screaming right now. All I can say is, "It's not you. It's me." Maybe I just got hold of a bad batch. We can try it again some time.

Ahh… Good ‘ol NPR
I woke up this morning learning of Major League Baseball’s awarding of American League Manager of the Year to Joe Maddon. This was not unexpected since he led the Tampa Bay Rays to the World Series.
I was hearing this report on NPR. This always makes me laugh a little. I don’t know if they are trying to prove that they are “with it” at NPR with their slight tips of the cap to the world of sports, but it comes across rather comical . . . “In Major League Baseball last night, the Atlanta Braves won a contest against the Metropolitans of New York, 3 runs to 2.”
This morning’s laugh was not from the Joe Maddon announcement. The voice on the radio also informed me of the new National League Manager of the Year with that public radio flair of one who knew noting about sports: “Lou Piniella (pronounced PEEN-yay-la) of the Chicago Cubs.”
I wonder if they asked Ken Burns how to pronounce it and he’s the one laughing more this morning. I also hope Lou heard it, because I would like to flashback to 1991 and again hear, “Get off me, Lou!” but this time it’s in that monotone, lullaby voice that tries to wake me up each morning.

Two Painting Projects

First, I've gotta lay in a little interior latex around the new door (I want to thank my neighbor James for painting the door and frame). Then I have to go upstairs to the "studio" to do some watercolor work. Of course, I am delaying getting started on both. I haven't had enough coffee yet--yeah, that's a good excuse.

The new door in the parsonage has to do with our adoption process. The old door was great, but buried under a few decades of paint was a layer of lead paint. To remove the lead paint the "legal way" would have been more involved and more expensive than replacing the door. Besides it always looks cooler when you're rolling out of Lowes with the big cart and a helper.

Last Saturday, I started taking a water color--wait, what? You're not interested in that right now? Well, what do you want me to talk about? The A-word in the above paragraph? Ohhh...

Way back in December, Trisha and I decided, after talking about it for years, that we would adopt some children. Yes, that's right, I said "some"! We felt like we are able to take on more than one and catch up with our brothers and sisters in one fell swoop. We contacted the Department of Social Services, and got the ball rolling on adopting children. We have filled out tons of paper work. We have been to classes. Our home has been inspected by DHEC, the fire marshal, and the lead risk assessment inspector (hence the new door). Now our file is complete and we are waiting to hear that we are approved. Then we'll start the process of having children placed in our home.

Why "some"? There are several children in foster care and other situations who are siblings. Many times the processes do not work out in favor of keeping them together as brothers and sisters. We want to help at least one bunch stay together. Did I just say "bunch"? It's getting scary now.

Pray for us. We'll always need that. We are looking forward to being parents. We want to rush the process, but we know it might move at a glacier's pace.

Maybe by the time the children do get here, I'll have a few masterpieces from my watercolor class that I can hang in their rooms. There might even be a mixed media work of off-white interior latex and cat hair. First, I need some more coffee.

Home Cookin?
Poor CC Sabathia. He came "this close" to throwing a no-hitter yesterday against the Pirates. The media outcry this morning is that Pittsburgh's official scorer should have given CC an error in the bottom of the 5th inning. The Brewers' pitcher failed to cleanly field an Andy LaRoche dribbler off of the third base side of the mound. LaRoche was safe and Pirates' official scorer Bob Webb gave him an infield hit.

Here's Webb's explanation of the moment:

"It was a spinning ball," official scorer Bob Webb said immediately after
the conclusion of the game. "It's to the right of a left-handed pitcher. In my
view from the beginning of the play, it's not an ordinary play to make.

"It is difficult both because of the spin and because he has to make the
play and turn completely around, and the runner was well down the line. It would
have been a very difficult play to make. In my view, it was a hit as a result of
those factors."

When the game was over, there was some crying from Brewers payers and their manager that CC got robbed of a no-hitter. There is even talk this morning that Major League Baseball might try to convince Webb to change his ruling.

Change the scoring? This should not happen. If you want to throw a no hitter, it really has a lot to do with every batter, so apparently this was not on CC's mind in the FIFTH INNING! Had it been, perhaps he should have booted the ball into the duggout, though you would never, ever convince me that a Major League player would commit an error on purpose.

But what if Bob Webb is convinced to change what he put down on his score card? What would happen?

First, I imagine Nolan Ryan would have some "lovely" things to say about this. I think I would prefer to see CC have to fight Nolan Ryan to get his no hitter. As proven by Robin Ventura, though, to charge a mound occupied by Nolan Ryan is indeed an error in itself--so Webb would have to change the score and give CC 2 errors.

Maybe the Brewers would have CC throw out the first pitch tonight against the Mets and then have the entire team dogpile him to celebrate the rarity. Well, every player but Ben Sheets, who starts tonight and needs to stay healthy enough to no-hit the Mets--how hard could that be?

I hope the score doesn't change. I have to say something righteous here. The integrity of the game is at stake! Ooohh, yeah, that oughta do it. Of course the present regime, pardon me, commissioner's office is well known for looking after the integrity of the game.

Radiant Cross
Last week at Prayer Meetin', I handed out a copy of a piece of Mexican folk art that was in Christian Century last month. The drawing was based on the radiant cross. I am thankful that in seminary I had a professor who liked to show us lots of pictures. We learned that in a lot of Christian art work depicting the cross that it can be a source of light in the painting. That is, people in the painting are not illuminated by the sun or a lamp. The "light" in the painting would come from the cross or Jesus' body.

In other traditions, the radiant cross is used for a symbol in first communion celebrations. You can even buy a lot of party supplies for your after-church shindigs.
Here's what I gave my folks.

Suggestion: open this in another window.

http://www.flickr.com/photos/27726669@N05/2775965605/

At first glance it does look a little ordinary. If you focus on the cross in the center, though, those concentric circles and the dots have something of a pulse to it. This flat, black and white drawing becomes what I like to call optical theology.

Give it a try. You might want to enlarge and print out this picture for yourself (jury's still out on what staring at a computer screen too long will do to you). See what I mean? This drawing has a lot of movement.

OK, now pray with that. Lend you imagination to the movement a little. The artist probably did not have only one right answer in mind. My general explanation is this: the cross is often seen as a rather flat symbol, you know, death, resurrection, yadda, yadda. In this picture, though, there are a lot of things that are bouncing around with the cross at the center. Remember what was given to give us life--no yadda about it!

Someting else happened to me while I stared at this picture. I got a little too close to it, a theological statement in itself. I ended up unable to focus both eyes to make one target and saw two pictures. I was then staring at two crosses. I had to remember something else important that came right to me. One cross was Jesus' and the other my own.

So long, Skip.

Tonight, the Braves will play their first home game since the death of Skip Caray last week. I am certain there will be a good tribute to him at Turner Field. Here is mine:

The most recent Skip-ism caught me about a little over a month ago. The Braves game was coming on the radio. Skip welcomed the listners to the broadcast with words he'd spoken for a number of years, "Hello again, everybody." I gasped. It finally hit me that Skip used the very same greeting his father employed as he began Chicago Cubs games. It was a subtle tribute every time he was on the air.

Skip very often said "we" when referring to the Braves. He did it win or lose. It makes me a little self-conscious when I catch myself saying "you" in sermons.

Of course, I remember the call in 1995 which concluded the World Series . . .

Skip: There's a drive! Deep left-center! Grissom on the runnnn--yes!

Don Sutton: Yes!

Skip: Yes!

Don: Yes!

Skip: The Atlanta Braves have given you a championship!

Don: Yes!

Being in a line of work where I often struggle to come up with the right things to say, sometimes the best thing to do is let a moment speak for itself.