Month: January 2009

in November of 1995…

dc Talk released what was at the time the definitive  “Christian” album.  it was the best selling Christian album ever at that time, and 6 of it’s 7 singles reached #1 on the Christian charts.

i’m talking about Jesus Freak


this album had an amazing impact on me.  i remember buying it in the Christian book store in Amarillo when I was visiting my grandparents over Thanksgiving.

so what? you may say.  well, i recently put it in my car to listen to it again, and i just wanted to note that on a social justice scale, it was well ahead of it’s time.

it seems that lately Social Justice and Social Gospel have been on the forefront of people’s minds.  in the last few years we have seen a major shift in the church caring more about social issues.  if you go back 14 years to Jesus Freak, you will find dc Talk already beginning to address these things.  let’s just take some lyrical samplings.

from Like it, Love it, Need it!

You’ll never find peace of mind in your pool of self
You’ll never find peace of mind in a sea of wealth
You’ll never find peace of mind in your rock and roll
You’ll never find peace of mind if you sell your soul

You gotta like it, you gotta love it
I know you need some freedom from the strife
You gotta like it, you gotta love it
I know you need some Jesus in your life
[Some Jesus in your life, some Jesus in your life]

We circumvent our feelings through an angry sound
He who complains the loudest, wears the fattest crown
We’re anti-everybody, call it paranoia
Well I ain’t no judge or jury, but I’m praying for ya

You’ll never find peace of mind in your lucky charm
You’ll never find peace of mind on a hippie farm
You’ll never find peace of mind in a one-night stand
You’ll never find peace of mind in your superman

from What Have We Become?

(chorus 1)
What have we become?
A self indulgent people
What have we become?
Tell me where are the righteous ones?
What have we become?
In a world degenerating
What have we become?

(chorus 2)
Speak your mind, look out for yourself
The answer to it all is a life of wealth
Grab all you can cause you live just once
You got the right to do whatever you want
Dont worry about others or where you came from
It aint what you were, its what you have become

Mom and dad are fightin
As rosie lies there crying
For once again shes overheard
Regrets of their mistake
With christmas bells a-ringing
Little rosied leave them grieving the gift shed give her family
Would be the pills shed take

An inconvenient child
She wasnt worth their while

and that is just a sampling.  the whole album talks about our lives lived out and how that affects others.  even the choice of the cover tune In the Light by Charlie Peacock echoes these thoughts.

The disease of self runs through my blood
Its a cancer fatal to my soul
Every attempt on my behalf has failed
To bring this sickness under control

Tell me, whats going on inside of me?
I despise my own behavior
This only serves to confirm my suspicions
That Im still a man in need of a savior


so thank you DC Talk for reminding me that you “got it” way back when.  i’ve always hated injustice and only recently have felt the freedom to speak out and do something about it.

i sang this song the other night at church…

there is alot of reverb on my voice, but the video work is great.  much thanks to Jerod Chambers and the team at Preston Trail Community Church for shooting this.  you should see it in HD.  it’s really cool.

In Honor of John Updike…


i’m going to post my favorite short story of his on here today.  i read excerpts from this selection for the UIL Prose competition in High School.  the first time i read this story Jr. year, I knew that John and I would be literarily connected, much like the first time i read e.e. cummings!   Updike always wanted his stories to be animated.  the language is so descriptive in this story and you can imagine me as a teenage boy reading this for the first time.  so here’s to you Mr. Updike.  may you rest in peace…

by john updike
In walks these three girls in nothing but bathing suits. I’m in the third check-out slot, with my back to the door, so I don’t see them until they’re over by the bread. The one that caught my eye first was the one in the plaid green two-piece. She was a chunky kid, with a good tan and a sweet broad soft-looking can with those two crescents of white just under it, where the sun never seems to hit, at the top of the backs of her legs. I stood there with my hand on a box of HiHo crackers trying to remember if I rang it up or not. I ring it up again and the customer starts giving me hell. She’s one of these cash-register-watchers, a witch about fifty with rouge on her cheekbones and no eyebrows, and I knowit made her day to trip me up. She’d been watching cash registers forty years and probably never seen a mistake before.

By the time I got her feathers smoothed and her goodies into a bag — she gives me alittle snort in passing, if she’d been born at the right time they would have burned her over in Salem — by the time I get her on her way the girls had circled around the bread and were coming back, without a pushcart, back my way along the counters, in the aisle between the check-outs and the Special bins. They didn’t even have shoes on. There was this chunky one, with the two-piece — it was bright green and the seams on the bra were still sharp and her belly was still pretty pale so I guessed she just got it (the suit) — there was this one, with one of those chubby berry-faces, the lips all bunched together under her nose, this one, and a tall one, with black hair that hadn’t quite frizzed right, and one of these sunburns right across under the eyes, and a chin that was too long — you know, the kind of girl other girls think is very “striking” and “attractive” but never quite makes it, as they very well know, which is why they like her so much — and then the third one, that wasn’t quite so tall. She was the queen. She kind of led them, the other two peeking around and making their shoulders round. She didn’t look around, not this queen, she just walked straight on slowly, on these long white prima donna legs. She came down a little hard on her heels, as if she didn’t walk in her bare feet that much, putting down her heels and then letting the weight move along to her toes as if she was testing the floor with every step, putting a little deliberate extra action into it. You never know for sure how girls’ minds work (do you really think it’s a mind in there or just a little buzz like a bee in a glassjar?) but you got the idea she had talked the other two into coming in here with her, and now she was showing them how to do it, walk slow and hold yourself straight.

She had on a kind of dirty-pink – – beige maybe, I don’t know — bathing suit with a little nubble all over it and, what got me, the straps were down. They were off her shoulders looped loose around the cool tops of her arms, and I guess as a result the suit had slipped a little on her, so all around the top of the cloth there was this shining rim. If it hadn’t been there you wouldn’t have known there could have been anything whiter than those shoulders. With the straps pushed off, there was nothing between the top of the suit and the top of her head except just her, this clean bare plane of the top of her chest down from the shoulder bones like a dented sheet of metal tilted in the light. I mean, it was more than pretty.

She had sort of oaky hair that the sun and salt had bleached, done up in a bun that was unravelling, and a kind of prim face. Walking into the A & P with your straps down, I suppose it’s the only kind of face you can have. She held her head so high her neck, coming up out o fthose white shoulders, looked kind of stretched, but I didn’t mind. The longer her neck was, the more of her there was.

She must have felt in the corner of her eye me and over my shoulder Stokesie in the second slot watching, but she didn’t tip. Not this queen. She kept her eyes moving across the racks, and stopped, and turned so slow it made my stomach rub the inside of my apron, and buzzed to the other two, who kind of huddled against her for relief, and they all three of them went up the cat-and-dog-food-breakfast-cereal-macaroni-ri ce-raisins-seasonings-spreads-spaghetti-soft drinks- rackers-and- cookies aisle. From the third slot I look straight up this aisle to the meat counter, and I watched them all the way. The fat one with the tan sort of fumbled with the cookies, but on second thought she put the packages back. The sheep pushing their carts down the aisle — the girls were walking against the usual traffic (not that we have one-way signs or anything) — were pretty hilarious. You could see them, when Queenie’s white shoulders dawned on them, kind of jerk, or hop, or hiccup, but their eyes snapped back to their own baskets and on they pushed. I bet you could set off dynamite in an A & P and the people would by and large keep reaching and checking oatmeal off their lists and muttering “Let me see, there was a third thing, began with A, asparagus, no, ah, yes, applesauce!” or whatever it is they do mutter. But there was no doubt, this jiggled them. A few house-slaves in pin curlers even looked around after pushing their carts past to make sure what they had seen was correct.

You know, it’s one thing to have a girl in a bathing suit down on the beach, where what with the glare nobody can look at each other much anyway, and another thing in the cool of the A & P, under the fluorescent lights, against all those stacked packages, with her feet paddling along naked over our checkerboard green-and-cream rubber-tile floor.

“Oh Daddy,” Stokesie said beside me. “I feel so faint.”

“Darling,” I said. “Hold me tight.” Stokesie’s married, with two babies chalked up on his fuselage already, but as far as I can tell that’s the only difference. He’s twenty-two, and I was nineteen this April.

“Is it done?” he asks, the responsible married man finding his voice. I forgot to say he thinks he’s going to be manager some sunny day, maybe in 1990 when it’s called the Great Alexandrov and Petrooshki Tea Company or something.

What he meant was, our town is five miles from a beach, with a big summer colony out on the Point, but we’re right in the middle of town, and the women generally put on a shirt or shorts or something before they get out of the car into the street. And anyway these are usually women with six children and varicose veins mapping their legs and nobody, including them, could care less. As I say, we’re right in the middle of town, and if you stand at our front doors you can see two banks and the Congregational church and the newspaper store and three real-estate offices and about twenty-seven old free-loaders tearing up Central Street because the sewer broke again. It’s not as if we’re on the Cape; we’re north of Boston and there’s people in this town haven’t seen the ocean for twenty years.

The girls had reached the meat counter and were asking McMahon something. He pointed, they pointed, and they shuffled out of sight behind a pyramid of Diet Delight peaches. All that was left for us to see was old McMahon patting his mouth and looking after them sizing up their joints. Poor kids, I began to feel sorry for them, they couldn’t help it.

Now here comes the sad part of the story, at:least my family says it’s sad but I don’t think it’s sad myself. The store’s pretty empty, it being Thursday afternoon, so there was nothing much to do except lean on the register and wait for the girls to show up again. The whole store was like a pinball machine and I didn’t know which tunnel they’d come out of. After a while they come around out of the far aisle, around the light bulbs, records at discount of the Caribbean Six or Tony Martin Sings or some such gunk you wonder they waste the wax on, sixpacks of candy bars, and plastic toys done up in cellophane that faIl apart when a kid looks at them anyway. Around they come, Queenie still leading the way, and holding a little gray jar in her hand. Slots Three through Seven are unmanned and I could see her wondering between Stokes and me, but Stokesie with his usual luck draws an old party in baggy gray pants who stumbles up with four giant cans of pineapple juice (what do these bums do with all that pineapple juice’ I’ve often asked myself) so the girls come to me. Queenie puts down the jar and I take it into my fingers icy cold. Kingfish Fancy Herring Snacks in Pure Sour Cream: 49¢. Now her hands are empty, not a ring or a bracelet, bare as God made them, and I wonder where the money’s coming from. Still with that prim look she lifts a folded dollar bill out of the hollow at the center of her nubbled pink top. The jar went heavy in my hand. Really, I thought that was so cute.

Then everybody’s luck begins to run out. Lengel comes in from haggling with a truck full of cabbages on the lot and is about to scuttle into that door marked MANAGER behind which he hides all day when the girls touch his eye. Lengel’s pretty dreary, teaches Sunday school and the rest, but he doesn’t miss that much. He comes over and says, “Girls, this isn’t the beach.”

Queenie blushes, though maybe it’s just a brush of sunburn I was noticing for the first time, now that she was so close. “My mother asked me to pick up a jar of herring snacks.” Her voice kind of startled me, the way voices do when you see the people first, coming out so flat and dumb yet kind of tony, too, the way it ticked over “pick up” and “snacks.” All of a sudden I slid right down her voice into her living room. Her father and the other men were standing around in ice-cream coats and bow ties and the women were in sandals picking up herring snacks on toothpicks off a big plate and they were all holding drinks the color of water with olives and sprigs of mint in them. When my parents have somebody over they get lemonade and if it’s a real racy affair Schlitz in tall glasses with “They’ll Do It Every Time” cartoons stencilled on.

“That’s all right,” Lengel said. “But this isn’t the beach.” His repeating this struck me as funny, as if it hadjust occurred to him, and he had been thinking all these years the A & P was a great big dune and he was the head lifeguard. He didn’t like my smiling — -as I say he doesn’t miss much — but he concentrates on giving the girls that sad Sunday- school-superintendent stare.

Queenie’s blush is no sunburn now, and the plump one in plaid, that I liked better from the back — a really sweet can — pipes up, “We weren’t doing any shopping. We just came in for the one thing.”

“That makes no difference,” Lengel tells her, and I could see from the way his eyes went that he hadn’t noticed she was wearing a two-piece before. “We want you decently dressed when you come in here.”

“We are decent,” Queenie says suddenly, her lower lip pushing, getting sore now that she remembers her place, a place from which the crowd that runs the A & P must look pretty crummy. Fancy Herring Snacks flashed in her very blue eyes.

“Girls, I don’t want to argue with you. After this come in here with your shoulders covered. It’s our policy.” He turns his back. That’s policy for you. Policy is what the kingpins want. What the others want is juvenile delinquency.

All this while, the customers had been showing up with their carts but, you know, sheep, seeing a scene, they had all bunched up on Stokesie, who shook open a paper bag as gently as peeling a peach, not wanting to miss a word. I could feel in the silence everybody getting nervous, most of all Lengel, who asks me, “Sammy, have you rung up this purchase?”

I thought and said “No” but it wasn’t about that I was thinking. I go through the punches, 4, 9, GROC, TOT — it’s more complicated than you think, and after you do it often enough, it begins to make a lttle song, that you hear words to, in my case “Hello (bing) there, you (gung) hap-py pee-pul (splat)“-the splat being the drawer flying out. I uncrease the bill, tenderly as you may imagine, it just having come from between the two smoothest scoops of vanilla I had ever known were there, and pass a half and a penny into her narrow pink palm, and nestle the herrings in a bag and twist its neck and hand it over, all the time thinking.

The girls, and who’d blame them, are in a hurry to get out, so I say “I quit” to Lengel quick enough for them to hear, hoping they’ll stop and watch me, their unsuspected hero. They keep right on going, into the electric eye; the door flies open and they flicker across the lot to their car, Queenie and Plaid and Big Tall Goony-Goony (not that as raw material she was so bad), leaving me with Lengel and a kink in his eyebrow.

“Did you say something, Sammy?”

“I said I quit.”

“I thought you did.”

“You didn’t have to embarrass them.”

“It was they who were embarrassing us.”

I started to say something that came out “Fiddle-de-doo.” It’s a saying of my grand- mother’s, and I know she would have been pleased.

“I don’t think you know what you’re saying,” Lengel said.

“I know you don’t,” I said. “But I do.” I pull the bow at the back of my apron and start shrugging it off my shoulders. A couple customers that had been heading for my slot begin to knock against each other, like scared pigs in a chute.

Lengel sighs and begins to look very patient and old and gray. He’s been a friend of my parents for years. “Sammy, you don’t want to do this to your Mom and Dad,” he tells me. It’s true, I don’t. But it seems to me that once you begin a gesture it’s fatal not to go through with it. I fold the apron, “Sammy” stitched in red on the pocket, and put it on the counter, and drop the bow tie on top of it. The bow tie is theirs, if you’ve ever wondered. “You’ll feel this for the rest of your life,” Lengel says, and I know that’s true, too, but remembering how he made that pretty girl blush makes me so scrunchy inside I punch the No Sale tab and the machine whirs “pee-pul” and the drawer splats out. One advantage to this scene taking place in summer, I can follow this up with a clean exit, there’s no fumbling around getting your coat and galoshes, I just saunter into the electric eye in my white shirt that my mother ironed the night before, and the door heaves itself open, and outside the sunshine is skating around on the asphalt.

I look around for my girls, but they’re gone, of course. There wasn’t anybody but some young married screaming with her children about some candy they didn’t get by the door of a powder-blue Falcon station wagon. Looking back in the big windows, over the bags of peat moss and aluminum lawn furniture stacked on the pavement, I could see Lengel in my place in the slot, checking the sheep through. His face was dark gray and his back stiff, as if he’djust had an injection of iron, and my stomach kind of fell as I felt how hard the world was going to be to me hereafter.

this weeks sermon…

was on THE LAW!

Matthew 5:17-20

17“Do not think that I have come to abolish the Law or the Prophets; I have not come to abolish them but to fulfill them. 18I tell you the truth, until heaven and earth disappear, not the smallest letter, not the least stroke of a pen, will by any means disappear from the Law until everything is accomplished. 19Anyone who breaks one of the least of these commandments and teaches others to do the same will be called least in the kingdom of heaven, but whoever practices and teaches these commands will be called great in the kingdom of heaven. 20For I tell you that unless your righteousness surpasses that of the Pharisees and the teachers of the law, you will certainly not enter the kingdom of heaven.

our pastor used a modern parable called the parable of Ski Mountain.

He said that the owner of the mountain loved to have people come and ski.  they enjoyed all of the runs and slopes.  the owner made some very simple rules that made the mountain safe.  rules like “always ski under control”, and “stay within the ski mountain boundaries”.  the owner wanted to entrust these guidelines to people, so he created the “ski patrol”  they were the very best skiiers and had a firm grasp of the guidelines.  but the ski patrol begin to love the rules more than the people or skiing.  they began to add to the rules.  “always ski under control” became “snowplow only”.  the ski patrol made skiing on the mountain a task and not a joy, so the owner sent his son to reclaim the mountain and reinstitute the original guidelines as they were intended so people could once again have joy in skiing on the mountain.

that was great.  he talked about the reason that the Pharisees and churches today come up with extra guidelines and rules, is because it’s alot easier to manage our sin than it is to love the poor, or do the other things that Jesus says are the heart of the law.

my kids take martial arts….

and this weekend, there is a numchucks demonstration!  i was waxing philosophical about my jh days when everyone i knew wanted to be a ninja…

how many of my friends out there had some of these you won playing  a carnival game?


it’s amazing that we used to be able to possess deadly weapons.  i remember guys bringing these to school.  they weren’t planning on going all crazy, they just wanted to show that they had one.

you could buy these along with your very own Bruce Lee shirt at the Military Supply store


but i think the one thing that everyone of my friends had was this…


that’s right!  a survival knife!  we ALL thought we were John Rambo!

ok let’s be honest, this knife blade wouldn’t even cut a piece of string, but it did have a hollow handle that would hold everything you needed to “survive” in the wilderness were you ever stranded in a remote and abandoned place.  i mean there was a compass on the top of the handle, and all kinds of stuff in the handle.  there was a “wire saw”, a single match, some fishing line, hooks and some twine.  my problem was, once i pulled it out, i never could get it all back in.  i was however completely stylin when i strapped that bad boy scabbard to my Boy Scout webbing belt.  i know i spent hours honing that thing on the whetstone, but it never got really sharp.  i don’t know what happened to it, but it was cool!

i thought about looking for a “more modern” version of the survival knife and here is what i found.


not much has changed except for the “titanium” handle with the big “prongs”

i hope you children of the 80’s enjoyed this trip down memory lane.  next week i’ll talk about parachute pants and the bandanas we used to wear around our necks.

i love….



and pretty much anything else Jon Foreman does.


i also love Nickel Creek…don’t know why the Bluegrass speaks to me so much, but it does.


so guess how pleasantly surprised i was when i found out that Jon Foreman and Sean Watkins from Nickel Creek had joined forces?

the result is  Fiction Family


on top of both of them being great guitar players.  i love how they each bring amazing vocals and song ideas to this group.  this has the stripped back sound of the Foreman solo albums, and it’s not as mandolin heavy as the Nickel Creek stuff (don’t get me wrong, i love Chris Theile’s mandolin and Sara Watkins fiddle, but Sean’s playing sometimes gets buried)

from the Fiction Family website:

The seemingly unlikely duo met a few years ago at a show featuring Wilco, R.E.M. Nickel Creek and Switchfoot. Over time, they began writing songs together, which quickly turned into a full-length album. As both Watkins and Foreman are vocalists and multi-instrumentalists, they often took turns singing lead vocals and they both play several instruments on each song, including guitar, bass, keyboards, percussion, baritone ukulele, piano, organ, mandolin, steel guitar, 12-string guitar. Fiddle player Sara Watkins is featured on a few songs as well. Foreman explains, “The album was recorded and written in parts. Because Nickel Creek and Switchfoot are both hard working touring acts, we were rarely home from tour at the same time. Consequently the tracks were passed back and forth between Sean and I. Whoever was home from tour would chip away at the songs with no real expectations at all, mainly just for ourselves and for the love of the song I suppose. We came up with a few cowboy rules for the project: No double tracking. No pussyfooting. No tuning of vocals. etc… With very few exceptions, every note was written, arranged, played and recorded by Sean and myself.”

so what is your opinion?


you can listen to the whole album here.  enjoy

wow, it’s already Thursday…

and i’m behind on my SOTM posts.  i guess i need to get going.

today we are talking about light!!


Matthew 5:14-16

14“You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden. 15Neither do people light a lamp and put it under a bowl. Instead they put it on its stand, and it gives light to everyone in the house. 16In the same way, let your light shine before men, that they may see your good deeds and praise your Father in heaven.

i can’t read this passage of scripture without thinking of the children’s song “This Little Light of Mine”.  as cheesy as that song may sing, it has a direct correlation to this verse.  the line “hide it under a bushel…no! i’m gonna let it shine” shores  up with verse 15.  light has many purposes but it’s main purpose is to dispel darkness.  darkness is the absence of light.

i also think of verse 13 every time that i fly into a major city.  miles and miles of lights that can’t be hidden.  you can’t cover that up.

have you ever been in a very dark room one that your eyes really can’t adjust to the light and then a glimmer or flicker of light comes on?  what do you do?  you move towards it.  Genesis says we are created in the image of God, in other words we are to reflect His Glory.  that’s where we get our light, and if we are light in dark places, people will move towards that glorious light!  not only that He says in verse 16, that they will see our light and praise our Father in heaven.  He gets the glory for us being a reflection.  awesome!!!

one of my favorite songs talks about light.  here you go.