So low…

When I was six, I always sat in the same spot in the church where my dad was pastor: second row, left side. I sat there by myself, but my mom sat a bit further back. She kept an eye on me from behind; my dad could see me from the pulpit. I behaved. I didn’t mind going to church and I always loved to sing. During a revival meeting one night, the guest music director stopped in mid-hymn and said, “You people need to sing out now! This little boy here on the second row is just singin’ like a bird. I think I’ll ask him to sing a solo for us tomorrow night!” This was like being discovered in a soda shop and given a movie contract…at least to six-year-old me. The music director was probably joking, but after the service I told him I would sing a solo on the following evening. He said okay (hey, my father was the pastor; he couldn’t back out now).
By the next evening, though, I was petrified. The thought of getting up in front of the whole church and singing by myself had turned from a thrill to terror. I couldn’t go through with it, although I cried because I still wanted to do it. Six years and two churches later, I finally made my solo debut as a 12-year-old alto singing Away In a Manger. Since then I’ve probably done a thousand solos. But I missed that first opportunity.
Fortunately, God believes in second chances…and third ones and hundredth ones. Since we don’t always say yes the first time, He keeps asking, keeps pointing the way we should go. Sometimes it takes years before we finally give in. And some people never do. But as long as there’s breath in you, it is not too late. God has planted a seed in you—a talent, a gift—and He keeps saying, “Here’s your chance to use it.” It’s scary. I know.
But it can also start you singing your little heart out.

Doesn't ring a bell…

Anyone here happen to know a Pruitt G. Arises? Or a fella named Algorithm U. Inexcusable? Or is that a woman’s name? I’d like to find these folks because they’ve sent me email recently, along with a host of similarly-named spammers like Thermal J. Alabamans, Placarding H. Phoebe, and—my personal favorite—Finnbogadottir O. Walkmans. Are you hearing from these people[sic]? Either W.C. Fields is communicating from the great beyond (he frequently used pseudonyms like Larson E. Whipsnade in the credits of his movies) or some massive email program selects random words and places them in the “from” line of junk emails. All the names I used in this column are from actual emails I received last week.
I can’t understand why they would use such bizarre names…although I love the fact that there’s always a middle initial. But do the spammers really think I will look at a new email and say, “Hmm, I wonder if that’s the same Tunnels V. Wanderlust I went to high school with?”
See, a name can mean everything…or it can mean nothing. When God commissioned Moses to go back to Egypt and free the Israelites, Moses quite reasonably said, “Whom shall I say sent me?” And God did not reply, “Tell them Incalculable E. Subcontractor is the name.” Instead, He said, “I AM.” None of these fancy-shmancy exotic sounding names for the true creator of the universe. Just “I AM.”
When we receive a message, it’s vitally important to know from whom it came. Whether it’s email, envelopes, tv commercials, magazine ads or billboards, we need to know the source and to be discriminating about the messages we accept and allow to influence us. When God calls, you need to listen. When Spadeful T. Retaliating sends you email, you need to hit “delete.” And, as St. Francis would say, may we have the wisdom to know the difference.

Branded…

I’m standing in the detergent aisle at the grocery store and I’m overwhelmed by the choices. I do a quick count and learn that there are fifteen different varieties…of Tide! Not even counting the other brands, there are fifteen kinds of Tide: liquid, powder, scented, scent-free, color-fast, with bleach, with fabric softener, etc. And et cetera some more. Even in the soda aisle, there is Diet Coke in two sizes of cans and four sizes of bottles, Diet Coke with lemon or lime or black cherry or caffeine-free or with Splenda. Do we really need this much variety?
It doesn’t end there. Take a look in the yellow pages under “churches.” I counted 97 different denominations listed in Austin. That’s not separate congregations; that is separate denominations, some of which have dozens of churches in Austin. There are seventeen differents varieties of Baptists alone.
If it’s so hard to choose the right detergent, how can we ever choose the right church? Which one is going to take care of our dirty laundry? For me, simpler is better. I don’t need the detergent with “spring fresh” scent or fabric softener. I just wanna get my stuff clean. The simple message of Jesus—love God and love other people as much as you love yourself—has been loaded down with endless “new and improved” additives that only serve to confuse and cause division.
But somewhere on that crowded aisle is a plain white box with big letters that say “GRACE.” And on the side panel it says, “Also contains love, forgiveness and peace of mind. No artificial ingredients.” I’ll buy that.

Book Release Party—What a Blast!

The release party for Shiny Spots was held on Sunday evening, September 9th, and it was one of the most memorable moments of my life. Many thanks to all who came out to support me that night; it meant more than I can ever describe. Here are some pictures from this awesome event!
First, my witty and beautiful daughter introduced me...and got big laughs from the audience!





















Then some big, balding guy read some stories.



















The audience was large...and attentive.













Even my mom seemed interested.













Look at that line...to get my autograph!










It was an amazing night I'll never forget.

Asphalty Reasoning…

I think I may have discovered a new “spiritual gift.” I have the ability to find road construction anywhere, any time. Whether I’m travelling across town or across the United States, I have the uncanny knack of always picking the route where the road is torn up or reduced to a single lane. When someone asks, “What’s your sign?” I reply, “Lane closed ahead.” I’ve seen more cones than Baskin-Robbins, but the only flavor seems to be orange.
One day last week I was sitting in traffic (again) and I started thinking. “I wonder if there will ever come a day when all the roads are fixed? A time when there’s nothing left to repair?” I don’t think it’s gonna happen. By the time the last road is fixed, the first one will be in dire need of repair. And what about new roads, roads that don’t even exist yet? As wonderful as it would be, we can’t fix everything at once.
That’s a hard concept for us modern humanoids. And it’s even harder to grasp that our lives are in the same shape as our roads. Every time I start feeling good about one part of my spiritual path, I realize I’ve neglected another part which is now slowing down the flow of traffic. So I begin to concentrate on that needy section … and big potholes develop in the original part. It’s a process that can never be finished. But—just like maintaining the roads—we have to do it. Otherwise, everything slows to a crawl; we can’t move forward at all.
Apparently streets of gold need no such repair. But until we reach the place that has such thoroughfares, we keep patching and paving and painting. Maybe we’re making progress, though. This week, I made it all the way to work without seeing any construction. A little glimpse of heaven. A light unto my (unpaved) path.