Howdy all!
I write this message not from the comfortable confines of my Austin abode, but rather from the exotic locale of Geneva. Switzerland. That's right- as in home of the Rolex watch, the Swiss Bank Account, the Von Trapps, the cheese. We're staying at a conference center that is a mere 1/2 mile from the U.N.. Yea. Not too shabby, especially for a little gal from West Texas.
Anyway, the trip is going well and I have far too many insights, revelations, and stories to cram into one blog. So here is a quick note to say "hi" and that I miss my friends and family in the states.
Wish ya'll were here!
Monday, January 22, 2007
Friday, December 15, 2006
One More to Go
As of 8:04 A.M. this morning, the eschaton has not occurred.
Looks like I will be writing my ethics paper afterall...I'm so tired, I could die!
Looks like I will be writing my ethics paper afterall...I'm so tired, I could die!
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Haiku? No, Youku!
In my pre-seminary existence, I was an employee at the Hastings "Hard-Back Cafe" in Canyon, Texas. And as much as that job sucked, I enjoyed getting paid to serve people my favorite legalized drug.
For a period of time, I would compose coffee-inspired haikus and tape them to the wall of our Cafe storage room. Scrawled on stolen bits of receipt paper, the poems fluttered when the door would open. I was pretty proud of their extemporaneous character and perhaps a bit smug at my own cleverness.
Sadly, my boss, who was less than appreciative of the art of verse, made us take the poems down. But they were rescued by a fellow coworker who sent me a few of the poems via MySpace. Here are some of the better ones; I particulary like haiku #3.
Well trained barista
Works magic with espresso
Voila! a Mocha!
Work in the cafe
So many drinks to make
Tall, grande, venti?
Sweet nectar of life:
We worship the caffeine god-
Make mine a venti!
I miss my my job...at least when I was serving coffee to the huddled masses, I did not have to write final papers. Four days left, 2 papers to go. Come, Lord Jesus!
For a period of time, I would compose coffee-inspired haikus and tape them to the wall of our Cafe storage room. Scrawled on stolen bits of receipt paper, the poems fluttered when the door would open. I was pretty proud of their extemporaneous character and perhaps a bit smug at my own cleverness.
Sadly, my boss, who was less than appreciative of the art of verse, made us take the poems down. But they were rescued by a fellow coworker who sent me a few of the poems via MySpace. Here are some of the better ones; I particulary like haiku #3.
Well trained barista
Works magic with espresso
Voila! a Mocha!
Work in the cafe
So many drinks to make
Tall, grande, venti?
Sweet nectar of life:
We worship the caffeine god-
Make mine a venti!
I miss my my job...at least when I was serving coffee to the huddled masses, I did not have to write final papers. Four days left, 2 papers to go. Come, Lord Jesus!
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Put a Sock in it
Shutterbug!
"Three Little Maids from School Are We..."
So I finally broke down and purchased a digital camera-a miraculous feat since I'm not exactly the type of person to spend hundreds of dollars on whim. Ryan had to hold my hand while we were in the checkout line, just to make sure I didn't hyperventilate.
However, it seems the camera has been a sound investment thus far and I've morphed into the quintessential "shutterbug." My apologies for the deluge of picture that will soon flood this blog.
Case in point: the above picture is of myself and my two very good friends, Kendra and Renee. I feel like a giant...
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Not Another Cute Tuesday!
Submitted for your perusal: the impossibly cute picture of the week!
Sit back, relax, and enjoy this warm, fuzzy moment...AWWWWW!
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Cute Tuesdays
Taking a cue from Ryan P., I've decided to add a few "weekly features" to my blog.
Today is "Impossibly Cute Tuesday:" designed to add some much-needed cuteness in our lives.
Is this kitten not the most impossibly cute picture you've seen today? Awwww...
Monday, October 02, 2006
Please Christmas, Don't Be Late
Please forgive me, Stan Hall and other protectors of the purity of the liturgical year, but I wish it was Christmastime rather than Ordinary time.
I'd even settle for Advent.
Maybe it's because school is pure drudgery right now and, with all apologies to my professors, classes are not exactly firing my engines. I don't think it's the classes themselves, but I am having difficulty engaging myself with my course materials.
So as I labor at my trusty laptop, attempting to finish SPM paperwork, I find my mind wandering to the sounds and sights of the Holiday season. I especially find myself yearning to listen to old holiday albums, though I try not to listen to any Christmas music out of season. My family has a distinct repertoire of holiday albums that we bring out every year. Listening to these Christmas albums is like visiting old friends and it is a joyous reunion when Dad whips out the Kingston Trio and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas. Though life may evolve and change through the years, the familiar harmonizations of the Riders in the Sky singing "Silent Night" will remain ever the same.
Perhaps this is why Christmas albums are an integral part of my family's holiday traditions; traditions, after all, are actions and customs perfomed routinely through the course of time. So when we listen to Patrick Stewart read a A Christmas Carol (as is our custom), we are not simply partaking in a Christmas cliche, but rather, we are tapping into a tradition that has molded my family for numerous Christmas Pasts and will continue to mold many of Christmases Yet to Come.
Perhaps I am simply homesick.
Regardless, it is many weeks until Advent, so I will wait patiently, though I may download the White Christmas soundtrack while I do so...
I'd even settle for Advent.
Maybe it's because school is pure drudgery right now and, with all apologies to my professors, classes are not exactly firing my engines. I don't think it's the classes themselves, but I am having difficulty engaging myself with my course materials.
So as I labor at my trusty laptop, attempting to finish SPM paperwork, I find my mind wandering to the sounds and sights of the Holiday season. I especially find myself yearning to listen to old holiday albums, though I try not to listen to any Christmas music out of season. My family has a distinct repertoire of holiday albums that we bring out every year. Listening to these Christmas albums is like visiting old friends and it is a joyous reunion when Dad whips out the Kingston Trio and the soundtrack to A Charlie Brown Christmas. Though life may evolve and change through the years, the familiar harmonizations of the Riders in the Sky singing "Silent Night" will remain ever the same.
Perhaps this is why Christmas albums are an integral part of my family's holiday traditions; traditions, after all, are actions and customs perfomed routinely through the course of time. So when we listen to Patrick Stewart read a A Christmas Carol (as is our custom), we are not simply partaking in a Christmas cliche, but rather, we are tapping into a tradition that has molded my family for numerous Christmas Pasts and will continue to mold many of Christmases Yet to Come.
Perhaps I am simply homesick.
Regardless, it is many weeks until Advent, so I will wait patiently, though I may download the White Christmas soundtrack while I do so...
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
Poor, Neglected Blog
Ack!
It has come to my attention that I have not updated my blog in over a month. OVER A MONTH! Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Where has my youthful exuberance for cyber-journaling ventured?
Actually, I know exactly where it has gone: the mistress that woos me from my blogging duties is the Kairos, the "official publication for the students of Austin Presbyterian Seminary." Don't let the fancy Greek fool you--it's a weekly newsletter, for which I get moderately compensated. I'm the editor in chief, sole-photographer, and sole-columnist, all rolled into one package. Some days I feel like Lois Lane's and Peter Parker's love child, minus the good looks and superpowers. [Though I supposse I could one day be bitten by a radioactive spider, but my domicile lacks spiders, radioactive or otherwise. I did catch this ginormous cockroach this morning--roughly the size of a Buick, to borrow a phrase from Woody Allen. Totally gross, but I digress]
Anyway, please don't misunderstand me: I love my job, even though I have lovingly nick-named the newsletter "Bane," as in, for two days a week, it's the "Bane" of my existence. And as I will be travelling to Germany this winter, the spending money is needed desperately. But its sucking my creative energy, my usual rapier wit, and otherwise above-average mastery of the English language.
So sorry I haven't posted lately.
In addition to editing what may be the finest Presbyterian student publication this side of the Mason-Dixon line, my time has been consumed by the following pursuits:
1) Deciphering Christian ethics. Can somebody please succinctly explain Kant's categorical imperative? And why I should give a flying fuck? [just kidding...that sounded a little harsh]
2)Deciphering Greek, which I have decided is less futile than attempting to decipher Hebrew.
3) Knitting up a storm, beginning a quest to learn how to knit socks.
4)Trying not to have a complete nervous breakdown...harder than it sounds. (see number 1, 2, and "the Bane.")
I leave you with yet another quote from my personal poet laureate, Paul Simon:
"I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way
And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again"
-- Mother and Child Reunion
It has come to my attention that I have not updated my blog in over a month. OVER A MONTH! Oh, how the mighty have fallen! Where has my youthful exuberance for cyber-journaling ventured?
Actually, I know exactly where it has gone: the mistress that woos me from my blogging duties is the Kairos, the "official publication for the students of Austin Presbyterian Seminary." Don't let the fancy Greek fool you--it's a weekly newsletter, for which I get moderately compensated. I'm the editor in chief, sole-photographer, and sole-columnist, all rolled into one package. Some days I feel like Lois Lane's and Peter Parker's love child, minus the good looks and superpowers. [Though I supposse I could one day be bitten by a radioactive spider, but my domicile lacks spiders, radioactive or otherwise. I did catch this ginormous cockroach this morning--roughly the size of a Buick, to borrow a phrase from Woody Allen. Totally gross, but I digress]
Anyway, please don't misunderstand me: I love my job, even though I have lovingly nick-named the newsletter "Bane," as in, for two days a week, it's the "Bane" of my existence. And as I will be travelling to Germany this winter, the spending money is needed desperately. But its sucking my creative energy, my usual rapier wit, and otherwise above-average mastery of the English language.
So sorry I haven't posted lately.
In addition to editing what may be the finest Presbyterian student publication this side of the Mason-Dixon line, my time has been consumed by the following pursuits:
1) Deciphering Christian ethics. Can somebody please succinctly explain Kant's categorical imperative? And why I should give a flying fuck? [just kidding...that sounded a little harsh]
2)Deciphering Greek, which I have decided is less futile than attempting to decipher Hebrew.
3) Knitting up a storm, beginning a quest to learn how to knit socks.
4)Trying not to have a complete nervous breakdown...harder than it sounds. (see number 1, 2, and "the Bane.")
I leave you with yet another quote from my personal poet laureate, Paul Simon:
"I know they say let it be
But it just don't work out that way
And the course of a lifetime runs
Over and over again"
-- Mother and Child Reunion
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Paul Simon Lyrics du Jour
A little Paul Simon for you folks on this beautiful evening:
This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain.
-- Under African Skies
This is the story of how we begin to remember
This is the powerful pulsing of love in the vein
After the dream of falling and calling your name out
These are the roots of rhythm
And the roots of rhythm remain.
-- Under African Skies
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
525,600 Minutes
Paul Simon Quote du Jour:
“But I think it’s going to be alright
Yeah, the worst is over now—
The morning sun is shining like a red-rubber ball.”
-- from Red Rubber Ball
***
Exactly 365 days ago (or 525,600 minutes, if you care to measure a year), I loaded what few, precious belongings a 23 year-old can claim in this world into my trusty Chevy Cavalier, hugged my two best friends, and, between sobs, managed a hoarse “goodbye” to life as I knew it. Into the passenger seat I slumped, crying, grieving, and basically experiencing a good, old-fashioned conniption as my mother—God bless her—assumed the driver’s seat and accompanying responsibilities.
Like my pioneer ancestors before me, I, too, was embarking on an excursion across the scrubby Panhandle plains, but instead of heading towards the expanses of the West, my journey would take me eastward. On that fateful day, my unbearably hot, non-air-conditioned vehicle would lead me down from the Llano Estacado into the rolling, verdant cradle of the Central Texas Hill Country. . The majestic city of Austin, beguiling with her river, lakes, and off-beat, cosmopolitan lifestyle had beckoned, whispering in my ear in the way a mother might coax a slumbering child out of bed. The whisper blossomed into a cacophony of voices and I knew that I must obey these voices, lest I forever be haunted by a destiny unfulfilled.
The reason I was moving to Austin—the REAL reason—was to attend Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. A call to seminary was (and still is, to a certain extent) a bit of a shock to my family and friends, a life-choice out of left field and a true existential non-sequitur. Granted, I wasn’t moving to New York to join the Rockettes, or selling all my worldly possessions and following Phish around (even more impossible, since, alas! the group has disbanded), but for some, my desire to attend seminary seems bizarre. Hell, there are mornings when I wake up and ask God, “Seriously, what the fuck?” But God always whispers in my ear that everything is going to be alright. Surely I have not been led into Central Austin just to die...
One year. 365 days. 525,600 minutes. Is that all? Dear Jesus, how time has slipped through the proverbial hourglass! When I think back to my first days as a neophyte Austinite, I can do nothing else but smile at my naïveté and thank God for the grace that led me “safe thus far,” and the grace that will ultimately “lead me home.” Thank God for friends. For patience. For grace. For the encompassing womb that is the Crown & Anchor Pub.
And so, tonight, I offer Traveling Mercies to those who seek a new beginning. May the benevolent hand of the One who created us continue to hold and guide you...
“But I think it’s going to be alright
Yeah, the worst is over now—
The morning sun is shining like a red-rubber ball.”
-- from Red Rubber Ball
***
Exactly 365 days ago (or 525,600 minutes, if you care to measure a year), I loaded what few, precious belongings a 23 year-old can claim in this world into my trusty Chevy Cavalier, hugged my two best friends, and, between sobs, managed a hoarse “goodbye” to life as I knew it. Into the passenger seat I slumped, crying, grieving, and basically experiencing a good, old-fashioned conniption as my mother—God bless her—assumed the driver’s seat and accompanying responsibilities.
Like my pioneer ancestors before me, I, too, was embarking on an excursion across the scrubby Panhandle plains, but instead of heading towards the expanses of the West, my journey would take me eastward. On that fateful day, my unbearably hot, non-air-conditioned vehicle would lead me down from the Llano Estacado into the rolling, verdant cradle of the Central Texas Hill Country. . The majestic city of Austin, beguiling with her river, lakes, and off-beat, cosmopolitan lifestyle had beckoned, whispering in my ear in the way a mother might coax a slumbering child out of bed. The whisper blossomed into a cacophony of voices and I knew that I must obey these voices, lest I forever be haunted by a destiny unfulfilled.
The reason I was moving to Austin—the REAL reason—was to attend Austin Presbyterian Theological Seminary. A call to seminary was (and still is, to a certain extent) a bit of a shock to my family and friends, a life-choice out of left field and a true existential non-sequitur. Granted, I wasn’t moving to New York to join the Rockettes, or selling all my worldly possessions and following Phish around (even more impossible, since, alas! the group has disbanded), but for some, my desire to attend seminary seems bizarre. Hell, there are mornings when I wake up and ask God, “Seriously, what the fuck?” But God always whispers in my ear that everything is going to be alright. Surely I have not been led into Central Austin just to die...
One year. 365 days. 525,600 minutes. Is that all? Dear Jesus, how time has slipped through the proverbial hourglass! When I think back to my first days as a neophyte Austinite, I can do nothing else but smile at my naïveté and thank God for the grace that led me “safe thus far,” and the grace that will ultimately “lead me home.” Thank God for friends. For patience. For grace. For the encompassing womb that is the Crown & Anchor Pub.
And so, tonight, I offer Traveling Mercies to those who seek a new beginning. May the benevolent hand of the One who created us continue to hold and guide you...
Friday, August 11, 2006
Welcome to the World!
Announcing.....drum roll....the newest member of APTS bloggers!
No longer content to sit idly and peruse the ramblings of bloggers such as yours truly, the illustrious Renee has picked up the virtual pen, determined to make some sense of this crazy, often unintelligable world of theology.
Welcome to the web, Renee!
No longer content to sit idly and peruse the ramblings of bloggers such as yours truly, the illustrious Renee has picked up the virtual pen, determined to make some sense of this crazy, often unintelligable world of theology.
Welcome to the web, Renee!
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
On Coffee and Mullets
Coffee is my favorite legalized drug-- in fact, I dare say that I prefer coffee to beer, simply because I do not require beer to wake up in the morning. (Well, not yet anyway…) How should one “get on my good side?” If you are so unfortunate as to have fallen from my good graces, I suggest you buy me a cup of coffee. Much like the Balm in Gilead “soothes the sin-sick soul,” so shall a cup of coffee free you from any and all infractions.
Anyway, I write this from a quiet café table at an Amarillo Starbucks dangerously close to the home of my parental units. Yes—you heard (read) correctly—I am once again in the home of my idyllic childhood upbringing, bored out of my mind and yet, strangely busy. I am currently trying to forge random theological thought into a coherent sermon for Sunday, hence the coffee and Starbucks. The barista gave me a complimentary pastry and upgraded my measly tall Guatemalan to a towering coffee behemoth, simply because I had to wait for my coffee to be brewed. More coffee plus free baked goods just for waiting for freshly brewed caffeinated goodness? Seems a little out of sorts, but hey, who am I to turn down a freebie…
I feared this week might be a little on the dull side, since most of my friends have left this area or are otherwise occupied. Due to the pestering of my somewhat controlling but well meaning mother, I have had an assortment of doctor’s appointments. A cavity here, a filling there, plus a prescription for contact lenses--time for extreme Meredith Makeover!
I also got my hair cut; something a little less “country” and a little more “rock ‘n roll.” Ok—to be perfectly honest, I think my hair may be a little mullet-y which now means I am an aspiring theologian with a quasi-mullet— interesting. That sigh you hear is the sigh of frustration from Communion of Saints. “O! Meredith! What hath we wrought?” they ask themselves. I realize that I am probably the source of much exhasperation for such heavenly beings, yet, I humbly ask for forgiveness for my many foibles and the grace to proceed through life, with or without mullets.
Anyway, I write this from a quiet café table at an Amarillo Starbucks dangerously close to the home of my parental units. Yes—you heard (read) correctly—I am once again in the home of my idyllic childhood upbringing, bored out of my mind and yet, strangely busy. I am currently trying to forge random theological thought into a coherent sermon for Sunday, hence the coffee and Starbucks. The barista gave me a complimentary pastry and upgraded my measly tall Guatemalan to a towering coffee behemoth, simply because I had to wait for my coffee to be brewed. More coffee plus free baked goods just for waiting for freshly brewed caffeinated goodness? Seems a little out of sorts, but hey, who am I to turn down a freebie…
I feared this week might be a little on the dull side, since most of my friends have left this area or are otherwise occupied. Due to the pestering of my somewhat controlling but well meaning mother, I have had an assortment of doctor’s appointments. A cavity here, a filling there, plus a prescription for contact lenses--time for extreme Meredith Makeover!
I also got my hair cut; something a little less “country” and a little more “rock ‘n roll.” Ok—to be perfectly honest, I think my hair may be a little mullet-y which now means I am an aspiring theologian with a quasi-mullet— interesting. That sigh you hear is the sigh of frustration from Communion of Saints. “O! Meredith! What hath we wrought?” they ask themselves. I realize that I am probably the source of much exhasperation for such heavenly beings, yet, I humbly ask for forgiveness for my many foibles and the grace to proceed through life, with or without mullets.
Saturday, July 15, 2006
Is there life after Greek Camp?
Like a thunderstorm on a sultry West Texas afternoon, Greek arrived, unleashed its fury, and stopped as suddenly as its beginning. Those of us who weathered the storm are now sitting on the porch, staring at the blue sky, scratching our heads and marveling at the deluge that was Greek camp.
As soon as the “rain” subsided, many of my friends scattered to the four corners of the earth, just as cockroaches scatter when you turn the light on in the kitchen. With no Greek paradigms to memorize (or in my case, ignore) and no other school work looming in the distance, life seems a bit vacant. Free time, of course, is no curse, but with so many of my brethern and sistern gone, life is dull. In an attempt to fill this new void in my life, I utilized the following time wasters:
Reading sections from the Book of Common Worship
Reading the Directory for Worship in the Book of Order (for you non-Presbyterians, that's part of the constitution for the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A)
Updating my address book
Learning how to mail merge said address book into mailing labels
Cleaning my dorm room
Dropping off more possessions at the Goodwill in an attempt to further simplify my life
Checking everybody’s blogs
Exciting stuff, no?
…sigh…at least on Monday, I leave with my family for the Texas coast. Even though, according to SOME people, the Texas Gulf Coast is but a dim lightbulb compared to the sparkling diadem that is the Pacific Ocean, I enjoy the beach, regardless of quality, and anxiously await my vacation.
As soon as the “rain” subsided, many of my friends scattered to the four corners of the earth, just as cockroaches scatter when you turn the light on in the kitchen. With no Greek paradigms to memorize (or in my case, ignore) and no other school work looming in the distance, life seems a bit vacant. Free time, of course, is no curse, but with so many of my brethern and sistern gone, life is dull. In an attempt to fill this new void in my life, I utilized the following time wasters:
Reading sections from the Book of Common Worship
Reading the Directory for Worship in the Book of Order (for you non-Presbyterians, that's part of the constitution for the Presbyterian Church, U.S.A)
Updating my address book
Learning how to mail merge said address book into mailing labels
Cleaning my dorm room
Dropping off more possessions at the Goodwill in an attempt to further simplify my life
Checking everybody’s blogs
Exciting stuff, no?
…sigh…at least on Monday, I leave with my family for the Texas coast. Even though, according to SOME people, the Texas Gulf Coast is but a dim lightbulb compared to the sparkling diadem that is the Pacific Ocean, I enjoy the beach, regardless of quality, and anxiously await my vacation.
Wednesday, July 05, 2006
Furthermore...
...and yes, my blog is now pink...
...I'm not sure why...
...sometimes, it's nice to get out of your comfort zone...
...you know, march to the beat of a different piccolo...
...circle your nouns....
...be a rebel, with a cause!
...I'm not sure why...
...sometimes, it's nice to get out of your comfort zone...
...you know, march to the beat of a different piccolo...
...circle your nouns....
...be a rebel, with a cause!
Don't Worry, Be Happy
You might have seen the book, 14,000 Things to be Happy About, at your local bookstore, perhaps lodged between other quasi-gimicky "inspirational" gift books. My eight grade English teacher, apparently a devoted fan to such gimicky gift books, challenged us to keep our own "Happy Lists." Thus, we chronicled whatever inspired happiness in our pubescent pre-teen hearts; I can only surmise what I may have written down.
In the spirit of innocence and naivete, I have submitted a short list of life's blessings that are keeping me sane during these dwindling days of Greek...
thank-you notes
small children
dogs
Betty Crocker rainbow chip frosting
best friends
rain
zip-lock baggies
Shiner Bock
crisp bed sheets
colored pencils
yarn
coffee
wide, toothy grins
medium point writing pens, especially the gel-ink variety
books and book stores
grandmothers
vodka tonics
Muppets
In the spirit of innocence and naivete, I have submitted a short list of life's blessings that are keeping me sane during these dwindling days of Greek...
thank-you notes
small children
dogs
Betty Crocker rainbow chip frosting
best friends
rain
zip-lock baggies
Shiner Bock
crisp bed sheets
colored pencils
yarn
coffee
wide, toothy grins
medium point writing pens, especially the gel-ink variety
books and book stores
grandmothers
vodka tonics
Muppets
Saturday, July 01, 2006
Paper, Rock, Scissors
The following is an editorial from my hometown newspaper, the Amarillo Globe News. Note how this is not the opinion of some letter-writing wacko, but rather is the collaborative effort of the Globe News editorial staff. I am appalled and offended by the shallowness of this letter's content, its lack of theological understanding, and its underlying mysogyny. Enjoy!
June 24, 2006
"Thinking Out Loud"
The nerve of Neil Armstrong.
As he became the first man to set foot on the moon, Armstrong uttered the now famous phrase: "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."
If the politically correct illness plaguing the nation continues to infect society, in the near future Armstrong may wind up being considered a white sleeveless undershirt-wearing wife-beater rather than an historic astronaut.
Sound far-fetched?
If religious leaders begin bowing down to the P.C. altar, what chance does Armstrong have?
The Presbyterian Church (USA) General Assembly recommended Monday that church members use other references for the Holy Trinity - the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. One alternative mentioned was "compassionate mother, beloved child and lifegiving womb."
In other words, get rid of the perceived references to maleness.
Lord, no matter your gender, help us.
For the sake of argument, those who think Armstrong was only referring to members of the good ol' boys club may not be from the moon, but they're definitely from another planet.
It should be remembered that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he began with the phrase, "Our Father in heaven ..." - Matthew 6:9.
And that comes straight from the Man himself, and the message is intended for all mankind.
June 24, 2006
"Thinking Out Loud"
The nerve of Neil Armstrong.
As he became the first man to set foot on the moon, Armstrong uttered the now famous phrase: "That's one small step for man; one giant leap for mankind."
If the politically correct illness plaguing the nation continues to infect society, in the near future Armstrong may wind up being considered a white sleeveless undershirt-wearing wife-beater rather than an historic astronaut.
Sound far-fetched?
If religious leaders begin bowing down to the P.C. altar, what chance does Armstrong have?
The Presbyterian Church (USA) General Assembly recommended Monday that church members use other references for the Holy Trinity - the Father, the Son and the Holy Spirit. One alternative mentioned was "compassionate mother, beloved child and lifegiving womb."
In other words, get rid of the perceived references to maleness.
Lord, no matter your gender, help us.
For the sake of argument, those who think Armstrong was only referring to members of the good ol' boys club may not be from the moon, but they're definitely from another planet.
It should be remembered that when Jesus taught his disciples to pray, he began with the phrase, "Our Father in heaven ..." - Matthew 6:9.
And that comes straight from the Man himself, and the message is intended for all mankind.
Wednesday, June 21, 2006
Bully!
Found while moving-- a piece of yellow paper with the following quote:
"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered with failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that know not victory or defeat."
--Theodore Roosevelt
Something to ponder as we attempt to wrap our heads around a gazillion Greek paradigms...
"Far better it is to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered with failure, than to take rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in the gray twilight that know not victory or defeat."
--Theodore Roosevelt
Something to ponder as we attempt to wrap our heads around a gazillion Greek paradigms...
Friday, June 16, 2006
Movin' On Up
In life, there are three constants: Death, Taxes, and Moving. Unless you were born, raised, and buried on the generations-old family homestead, most of us eventually pack up our quasi-precious belongings and send out cutesy Christmas newsletters (or similar) announcing our relocation. But, regardless of your moving experience (or lack thereof), everyone in the world has helped another person move. Your probability of being asked to help move increases exponentially if you are 1) visibly stronger than others and 2) own a truck. If you want to avoid any and all requests for moving assistance, I suggest you either move to a remote cabin in the woods and/or never purchase a truck.
Most of us seminarians have helped our sisters/brothers in Christ move in/out throughout the semester. And just as June is the peak season for weddings, it has also been the peak season for moving. Graduated seniors, leaving the seminary nest in order to test their wings at a first call, are packing up three year’s worth of belongings and memories. Couples, uniting their lives and bank-accounts in marriage, are merging two apartments of “stuff” into tiny, seminary subsidized housing. Some people, like yours truly, are abandoning the freedom of apartment life for smaller [re: cheaper] quarters in the campus residence hall.
Helping another person move is usually pain in the ass. Those who are moving realize this and frequently hesitate to ask for assistance. But living in a community, seminary or otherwise, requires the humility to ask for help and the kindness to give it. Allow me to paraphrase a popular section from Ecclesiastes: “To everything, there is a season…a time to move, and a time to help move. A time to give grace, and a time to receive it. A time to love, and a time to allow yourself to be loved.” Sometimes we are the mover and other times, we are the one moving (Unless, of course, you are God—the unmoved mover—but that’s another post for another time).
Such is the “Circle of Life,” to borrow a phrase from The Lion King. In order to grow individually as people and collectively as a community, we must uphold symbiotic relationships; otherwise, those who continually give will burn out and those who never give or contribute eventually subject their lives to the will of others. However, human sin disrupts perfect symbiosis and therefore, true reciprocity does not exist in our world. Just like communism works in theory but not praxis, community life never achieves a healthy balance of givers and takers. A recent news headline declares that a huge sum of FEMA aid was not used for its intended purposes, but rather was squandered by people who were not hurricane victims. As much as 16% of FEMA aid went to frivolous causes by fraudulent people, rather than those who needed the money most of all. Unfortunately, such fraud will result in more bureaucratic red-tape, complicating the relief process further for disaster victims.
Though such atrocities exist, we must not let the reality of human sin prevent us from acting as good neighbors. The hopelessness of the FEMA fraud or other derivitives of community cynicism must not prevent us from acting in good faith for the benefit of others. In the Presbyterian Church, we often say we are "blessed to be a blessing;" in other words, we help move because others have helped us move and will help us move again. The cycle of giving and receiving flows as effortslessy as the shifting of the Seasons or the rotation of day into night. May we all, then, remember our own blessings and the gifts of others, and live, not into apathy, but the fullness of the joy and grace of our Creator.
Most of us seminarians have helped our sisters/brothers in Christ move in/out throughout the semester. And just as June is the peak season for weddings, it has also been the peak season for moving. Graduated seniors, leaving the seminary nest in order to test their wings at a first call, are packing up three year’s worth of belongings and memories. Couples, uniting their lives and bank-accounts in marriage, are merging two apartments of “stuff” into tiny, seminary subsidized housing. Some people, like yours truly, are abandoning the freedom of apartment life for smaller [re: cheaper] quarters in the campus residence hall.
Helping another person move is usually pain in the ass. Those who are moving realize this and frequently hesitate to ask for assistance. But living in a community, seminary or otherwise, requires the humility to ask for help and the kindness to give it. Allow me to paraphrase a popular section from Ecclesiastes: “To everything, there is a season…a time to move, and a time to help move. A time to give grace, and a time to receive it. A time to love, and a time to allow yourself to be loved.” Sometimes we are the mover and other times, we are the one moving (Unless, of course, you are God—the unmoved mover—but that’s another post for another time).
Such is the “Circle of Life,” to borrow a phrase from The Lion King. In order to grow individually as people and collectively as a community, we must uphold symbiotic relationships; otherwise, those who continually give will burn out and those who never give or contribute eventually subject their lives to the will of others. However, human sin disrupts perfect symbiosis and therefore, true reciprocity does not exist in our world. Just like communism works in theory but not praxis, community life never achieves a healthy balance of givers and takers. A recent news headline declares that a huge sum of FEMA aid was not used for its intended purposes, but rather was squandered by people who were not hurricane victims. As much as 16% of FEMA aid went to frivolous causes by fraudulent people, rather than those who needed the money most of all. Unfortunately, such fraud will result in more bureaucratic red-tape, complicating the relief process further for disaster victims.
Though such atrocities exist, we must not let the reality of human sin prevent us from acting as good neighbors. The hopelessness of the FEMA fraud or other derivitives of community cynicism must not prevent us from acting in good faith for the benefit of others. In the Presbyterian Church, we often say we are "blessed to be a blessing;" in other words, we help move because others have helped us move and will help us move again. The cycle of giving and receiving flows as effortslessy as the shifting of the Seasons or the rotation of day into night. May we all, then, remember our own blessings and the gifts of others, and live, not into apathy, but the fullness of the joy and grace of our Creator.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
And thus, another summer begins
Summer is here, folks! I say, bring on the margaritas, the daytime drinking, the hours frittered away by the refreshing waters of a swimming pool or ocean.
True to form, I have ushered in this most delightful of seasons by acquiring a righteous sunburn, which I earned yesterday during an afternoon at Barton Springs. Luckily, the sunburn is mostly on my back, so as long as no one touches my posterior, I am in relatively little pain. Don't cry for me, Argentina; you would think that after 24 years on this planet, I would have learned to apply sunscreen. But no one ever said I was a model of common sense...
Greek began this week, much to my chagrin. But, unlike some OTHER ancient biblical languages which shall remain nameless, Greek is infinitely more accessible and enjoyable. So far, I really the class, which our professor refers to as "Greek Camp." I have pledged not to take this very seriously--which is why I am currently at my haven, the Crown & Anchor, "studying" for tomorrow's quiz. Another Shiner Bock, please!
Here's a Greek joke for ya:
Man: Guess what? I've got a Grecian urn.
Woman: How much's a Grecian urn?
Man: Oh, about 6 bucks an hour!
Ok...not funny...it's an old joke that we like to tell in my family.
I think that, in honor of Greek, we need to have a Greek movie night. Think about it, folks: we could watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Spartacus, Zorba the Greek, Animal House (helloooo--togas!). Any suggestions are welcome and appreciated!
Back to "studying..."
True to form, I have ushered in this most delightful of seasons by acquiring a righteous sunburn, which I earned yesterday during an afternoon at Barton Springs. Luckily, the sunburn is mostly on my back, so as long as no one touches my posterior, I am in relatively little pain. Don't cry for me, Argentina; you would think that after 24 years on this planet, I would have learned to apply sunscreen. But no one ever said I was a model of common sense...
Greek began this week, much to my chagrin. But, unlike some OTHER ancient biblical languages which shall remain nameless, Greek is infinitely more accessible and enjoyable. So far, I really the class, which our professor refers to as "Greek Camp." I have pledged not to take this very seriously--which is why I am currently at my haven, the Crown & Anchor, "studying" for tomorrow's quiz. Another Shiner Bock, please!
Here's a Greek joke for ya:
Man: Guess what? I've got a Grecian urn.
Woman: How much's a Grecian urn?
Man: Oh, about 6 bucks an hour!
Ok...not funny...it's an old joke that we like to tell in my family.
I think that, in honor of Greek, we need to have a Greek movie night. Think about it, folks: we could watch My Big Fat Greek Wedding, Spartacus, Zorba the Greek, Animal House (helloooo--togas!). Any suggestions are welcome and appreciated!
Back to "studying..."
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