It’s interesting how life keeps coming back round again. Think about it. We’re back in Hawaii now after a three hour delayed flight, not fun, screaming babies, hacking, coughing seatmates, late hour, 2:30 a.m. California time. Wake up this morning, 4:30 a.m. Hawaii time (7:30 West Coast), do the math, 5 hours sleep.
Off to Homelani Camp on the North Shore for the final Music Camp Concert, where nineteen years ago we were welcomed as Divisional Leaders, but held under a tent then: Same camp, new pavilion (house that Joe built), different campers, most not born then, and a rugged beach, probably the same sand and recirculated sea water pounding its shore.
What possesses us to be there? Two of our granddaughters are in the program, playing in the band, singing in the chorus, et al, just like their grandparents did at that age (different camps, mind you). Awards are given: Riley wins the Soloist competition, McKenna receives the Drama Award, Theory Medal and during the finale is crowned the camps “Honor Musician,” making the buttons pop, or in this case, T-shirt expand.
This is where the round stops, however, neither grandparent ever winning even a single award during those hither music camp years. For decades now, I’ve been outspoken against these kinds of awards, believing that every camper is a winner, and should be adjudged so… AND NOT BECAUSE I DIDN’T WIN, EITHER!
Thus it is I sit and write with mixed emotions this afternoon. Proud, yes, but also sad for those who tried so hard and came up lacking. What will that do to their little psyches? I know what it did to mine. In that sense, I guess the round hasn’t stopped… “round and round we go, and where it stops nobody knows.”
Still can’t get my head ‘round’ this award thing, or our rank thing for that matter. Why?
JN
Showing posts with label Hawaii. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Hawaii. Show all posts
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
Extension Free!
We left for the Brisbane airport at 9:30 a.m., Monday, Oct. 20 with a stopover in Sydney and then on to Hawaii. 10 coffees, 5 meals, 3 movies, 2 shuttles, 22 hrs, 10 minutes later, we arrived Honolulu at 7:40 a.m., Oct. 20, 1 hr, 50 minutes before we departed. Go figure! At my age, I wish these kinds of time calculations occurred every day. Gaining approximately 2 hours every day, next year this time I would be 30 days younger. Now that’s my definition of “extending.”
After breakfast (I was asleep on the plane when breakfast was served) and a sugar-free, vanilla latte, it was off to Kuhio Beach for that rejuvenating swim under the swaying coconut palms—a taste of heaven-on-earth. Think about it: A place of “healing waters,” thirst-quenching rivers” and “life-giving trees” where “time will be no more” (Revelation 22). Those of you still trying to untangle from the Hairball, see what you have to look forward to? We, the retired sanctified, are just a wee bit closer.
I barely missed the cut and was able to retire at age 65 (extensions began immediately thereafter), followed now by almost 7 years of “heaven-on-earth” bliss. During those 65 years I spent most of my time, as MacKenzie says in Orbiting, “daubing more or less inside the lines.” For the first time, during these 7 years, I have felt entirely free to paint my masterpiece unencumbered by the Hairball.
He goes on to write, “The stifled strokes of paint had nothing to do with me. They did not illustrate who I am or speak of whom I could become. I felt duped, cheated, ashamed—anguished that I had wasted so much canvas, so much paint. I was angry that I had been conned into doing so.”
“But that is the past. Passed.”
“Today I wield a wider brush—pure ox-bristle. And I’m swooping it through the sensuous goo of Cadmium Yellow, Alizarin Crimson or Ultramarine Blue (not 4, 13 or 8) to create the biggest, brightest, funniest, fiercest damn dragon that I can. Because that has more to do with what’s inside of me than some prescribed plagiarism of somebody else’s tour de force.”
I can echo a loud “Amen!” to that.
He goes on to write, “You have a masterpiece inside you, too, you know. One unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. And remember:”
“If you go to your grave
without painting
your masterpiece
it will not
get painted.
No one else
can paint it.
Only you.”
So it’s back to the heavenly drawing board for me, free from the threat of those Hairball limiting “extensions.” I’m actually painting “The River of Life” right now. Mine is filled with sugar-free, non-fat vanilla lattes! And without the hassle of a Hairball controlled petty cash reimbursement, mind you. I wonder what yours might look like?
After breakfast (I was asleep on the plane when breakfast was served) and a sugar-free, vanilla latte, it was off to Kuhio Beach for that rejuvenating swim under the swaying coconut palms—a taste of heaven-on-earth. Think about it: A place of “healing waters,” thirst-quenching rivers” and “life-giving trees” where “time will be no more” (Revelation 22). Those of you still trying to untangle from the Hairball, see what you have to look forward to? We, the retired sanctified, are just a wee bit closer.
I barely missed the cut and was able to retire at age 65 (extensions began immediately thereafter), followed now by almost 7 years of “heaven-on-earth” bliss. During those 65 years I spent most of my time, as MacKenzie says in Orbiting, “daubing more or less inside the lines.” For the first time, during these 7 years, I have felt entirely free to paint my masterpiece unencumbered by the Hairball.
He goes on to write, “The stifled strokes of paint had nothing to do with me. They did not illustrate who I am or speak of whom I could become. I felt duped, cheated, ashamed—anguished that I had wasted so much canvas, so much paint. I was angry that I had been conned into doing so.”
“But that is the past. Passed.”
“Today I wield a wider brush—pure ox-bristle. And I’m swooping it through the sensuous goo of Cadmium Yellow, Alizarin Crimson or Ultramarine Blue (not 4, 13 or 8) to create the biggest, brightest, funniest, fiercest damn dragon that I can. Because that has more to do with what’s inside of me than some prescribed plagiarism of somebody else’s tour de force.”
I can echo a loud “Amen!” to that.
He goes on to write, “You have a masterpiece inside you, too, you know. One unlike any that has ever been created, or ever will be. And remember:”
“If you go to your grave
without painting
your masterpiece
it will not
get painted.
No one else
can paint it.
Only you.”
So it’s back to the heavenly drawing board for me, free from the threat of those Hairball limiting “extensions.” I’m actually painting “The River of Life” right now. Mine is filled with sugar-free, non-fat vanilla lattes! And without the hassle of a Hairball controlled petty cash reimbursement, mind you. I wonder what yours might look like?
Friday, August 15, 2008
God Forbid!
I’m vacationing (perpetual for me) in Hawaii right now with Barack, as in Obama, the presumptive Presidential nominee for the Democratic Party. Well we’re on the same island together anyway. And there are some significant differences between the two of us believe it or not. When all of the tourists spot him they think, Who’s Who. When I wave they think, Who’s He? He’s running for President of the United States of America; I was just appointed a Committee Chairperson for my home-owners association. He’s young; I’m old. Come to think of it, so is his Republican counterpart, John McCain, a fellow septuagenarian. The difference is, he’s running whilst I’m rocking (as in retired).
Think about it. Can you imagine a 71-year-old as Commander-in-Chief? God forbid! I mean isn’t seventy synonymous with senility? What about the atrophying muscles and sagging body parts? After all, “The old grey mare ain’t what she used to be.” Those years of experience, accumulated wisdom and sacrifice can’t compare to a youthful enthusiasm and minimal body fat, can they?
Wait a minute! Obama just turned 48 a week ago, didn’t he? So what if most mornings include an hour-long, full body workout with standing tricep push downs, lying triceps presses with single 15 lbs dumbbells in each hand, shoulder presses, step ups with a high platform, clasping dumbbells, 50 lbs overhead dumbbell extensions and calf raises lifting about 80 lbs? Whew! Do trimness, charisma and youthful enthusiasm a world leader make? Think about it. Would you want a 48-year-old answering the “red telephone” in the White House? God forbid!
Can you imagine a stuttering, 80-year-old prophet facing up to a dictatorial regime and leading an entire nation into the Promised Land (Moses)? Or a 37-year-old annointed as King of Israel (David)? Or a prophet who was taken into captivity as a teenager, but was not to receive the Prophecy of 70 Weeks (Daniel 9) until in his 80’s? Or a 30-year-old anointed as the King of Kings? Or a 40-year-old Pope/General (The Salvation Army)? Or a 71-year-old active Territorial Commander (TSA)?
GOD FORBID?
P.S. Written while rocking…after a two-mile swim and 200 sit-ups, that is.
JN
Think about it. Can you imagine a 71-year-old as Commander-in-Chief? God forbid! I mean isn’t seventy synonymous with senility? What about the atrophying muscles and sagging body parts? After all, “The old grey mare ain’t what she used to be.” Those years of experience, accumulated wisdom and sacrifice can’t compare to a youthful enthusiasm and minimal body fat, can they?
Wait a minute! Obama just turned 48 a week ago, didn’t he? So what if most mornings include an hour-long, full body workout with standing tricep push downs, lying triceps presses with single 15 lbs dumbbells in each hand, shoulder presses, step ups with a high platform, clasping dumbbells, 50 lbs overhead dumbbell extensions and calf raises lifting about 80 lbs? Whew! Do trimness, charisma and youthful enthusiasm a world leader make? Think about it. Would you want a 48-year-old answering the “red telephone” in the White House? God forbid!
Can you imagine a stuttering, 80-year-old prophet facing up to a dictatorial regime and leading an entire nation into the Promised Land (Moses)? Or a 37-year-old annointed as King of Israel (David)? Or a prophet who was taken into captivity as a teenager, but was not to receive the Prophecy of 70 Weeks (Daniel 9) until in his 80’s? Or a 30-year-old anointed as the King of Kings? Or a 40-year-old Pope/General (The Salvation Army)? Or a 71-year-old active Territorial Commander (TSA)?
GOD FORBID?
P.S. Written while rocking…after a two-mile swim and 200 sit-ups, that is.
JN
Monday, January 14, 2008
Nutters!
Junk mail, get it whether I want it or not. Spam likewise. I Googled the word, “Spam” thinking it was an acronym for something and found a different one to define it, “UBE” – Unsolicited Bulk Email. I still have no idea why the word, “Spam,” is used in this context.
My search did lead me to an acronym for SPAM in a completely different context, however – Shoulder of Pork and hAM. UGH! My grandchildren in Hawaii love it, especially in the form of Spam Musubi – “a block of salted (not vinegared; that would be sushi) rice with a slice of Spam (cooked or uncooked) on top, and typically nori (dried seaweed) surrounding it to keep it in shape.” YUK!
According to Wikipedia, “In the United States, the residents of the state of Hawaii and the territories of Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands consume the most Spam per capita. On average, each person on Guam consumes 16 tins of Spam each year…In Hawaii, Spam is so popular it is sometimes dubbed ‘The Hawaiian Steak.’” It goes on to say, “Many jocular ‘backronyms’ have been devised, such as ‘Something Posing As Meat’ and ‘Spare Parts Animal Meat’ or ‘Special Purpose Army Meat.’" There must be a sermon illustration in there somewhere?
Now where was I? Oh yes, we arrived home, after an extended two month absence, and the mail had piled up, mostly junk mail, advertisements for Viagra, reverse mortgages, hair loss (growth) formulas, hearing loss solutions, memory loss treatments and back copies of various magazines, including AARP (all age related mind you). In the mix were three back copies of one of our church denominational magazines. Here’s where I get a bit befuddled.
I, an American, receive the The Salvation Army British Territory’s “Salvationist” (denominational paper) whether I want it or not. It used to be an international paper published by our Headquarters in London, but that all changed somewhere along the way. Yet we still get it and most pay for it whether they want to or not.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s an excellent publication (certainly not junk mail in that sense of the word), geared to the British audience, obviously. And they have reason to be proud of it. It’s just that I have no desire or need to know the itinerary of their territorial leaders. Places like Market Rasen, Sleaford and Basingstoke are totally off my radar screen. The Territorial Commander’s column is spot on for that part of the European Continent, but I would be more interested in what my own leaders are doing and saying – Butte, Albuquerque, Kake, Escondido, Pohnpei, now you’re talking my language.
It’s nice to know that their TC sent an anniversary message to the Queen, but the concept of royalty doesn’t even begin to compute with me, culturally. And I’m glad to know that SP&S is “On the Road, “Coming to Worthing and Winton Corps” (wherever they are). I must admit that it does make me a little envious, though, being that my own territory doesn’t have a Supplies and Purchasing Department of its very own.
Then there are the adverts (“ads”), like this one: “Do YOU know anyone linked to The Salvation Army who does not get a copy of “Salvationist” every week? There are employees, regular worshippers, friends, clients, former Salvationists and others who will enjoy reading a copy regularly if they receive it.” In the lower right-hand corner there is a large star with the inscription, “Still only 60p” (however much that is). The byline reads, “Salvationist – the essential read for everyone linked to The Salvation Army.” Perhaps that should be extended to read, “…in the British Territory,” don’t you think? Besides where are my friends going to find 60P, huh?
I do enjoy the “Letters and News” section and can relate to a recent letter to the editor titled, “We are a corps not a corpse.” The writer was relating to “our corps here at Sudbury (wherever that is) referred to as a corpse” in a telephone inquiry. He went on to say, “Couldn’t we find a better way to describe our church centres (“centres” doesn’t jive with my Spell Check) – or perhaps our centres of evangelism? I want people to know that we are alive and kicking, not dead and buried.” Fire a Volley! Amen! Even an American Salvationist can understand and connect with those feelings.
A recent column by the editor was headlined, “Nutters do it together.” It was in reference to Tony Blair not speaking out about his faith because “he felt he would be thought ‘a nutter.” Huh? I don’t know what it means, but if speaking out about your faith makes you one, lay it on me.
When the Day of Pentecost had fully come, they were all with one accord in one place…And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit…And there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men, from every nation under heaven. And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language... we hear them speaking in our own tongues the wonderful works of God…’ Some, however, made fun of them and said, "They have had too much wine. (Paraphrased: “These guys are nutters”) – Acts 2:1-13.
OK, with those kind of editorials maybe the “Salvationist” is worth 60p a week (however much that is), even in America… whether we understand it or not.
My search did lead me to an acronym for SPAM in a completely different context, however – Shoulder of Pork and hAM. UGH! My grandchildren in Hawaii love it, especially in the form of Spam Musubi – “a block of salted (not vinegared; that would be sushi) rice with a slice of Spam (cooked or uncooked) on top, and typically nori (dried seaweed) surrounding it to keep it in shape.” YUK!
According to Wikipedia, “In the United States, the residents of the state of Hawaii and the territories of Guam and the Commonwealth of the Northern Mariana Islands consume the most Spam per capita. On average, each person on Guam consumes 16 tins of Spam each year…In Hawaii, Spam is so popular it is sometimes dubbed ‘The Hawaiian Steak.’” It goes on to say, “Many jocular ‘backronyms’ have been devised, such as ‘Something Posing As Meat’ and ‘Spare Parts Animal Meat’ or ‘Special Purpose Army Meat.’" There must be a sermon illustration in there somewhere?
Now where was I? Oh yes, we arrived home, after an extended two month absence, and the mail had piled up, mostly junk mail, advertisements for Viagra, reverse mortgages, hair loss (growth) formulas, hearing loss solutions, memory loss treatments and back copies of various magazines, including AARP (all age related mind you). In the mix were three back copies of one of our church denominational magazines. Here’s where I get a bit befuddled.
I, an American, receive the The Salvation Army British Territory’s “Salvationist” (denominational paper) whether I want it or not. It used to be an international paper published by our Headquarters in London, but that all changed somewhere along the way. Yet we still get it and most pay for it whether they want to or not.
Don’t get me wrong, it’s an excellent publication (certainly not junk mail in that sense of the word), geared to the British audience, obviously. And they have reason to be proud of it. It’s just that I have no desire or need to know the itinerary of their territorial leaders. Places like Market Rasen, Sleaford and Basingstoke are totally off my radar screen. The Territorial Commander’s column is spot on for that part of the European Continent, but I would be more interested in what my own leaders are doing and saying – Butte, Albuquerque, Kake, Escondido, Pohnpei, now you’re talking my language.
It’s nice to know that their TC sent an anniversary message to the Queen, but the concept of royalty doesn’t even begin to compute with me, culturally. And I’m glad to know that SP&S is “On the Road, “Coming to Worthing and Winton Corps” (wherever they are). I must admit that it does make me a little envious, though, being that my own territory doesn’t have a Supplies and Purchasing Department of its very own.
Then there are the adverts (“ads”), like this one: “Do YOU know anyone linked to The Salvation Army who does not get a copy of “Salvationist” every week? There are employees, regular worshippers, friends, clients, former Salvationists and others who will enjoy reading a copy regularly if they receive it.” In the lower right-hand corner there is a large star with the inscription, “Still only 60p” (however much that is). The byline reads, “Salvationist – the essential read for everyone linked to The Salvation Army.” Perhaps that should be extended to read, “…in the British Territory,” don’t you think? Besides where are my friends going to find 60P, huh?
I do enjoy the “Letters and News” section and can relate to a recent letter to the editor titled, “We are a corps not a corpse.” The writer was relating to “our corps here at Sudbury (wherever that is) referred to as a corpse” in a telephone inquiry. He went on to say, “Couldn’t we find a better way to describe our church centres (“centres” doesn’t jive with my Spell Check) – or perhaps our centres of evangelism? I want people to know that we are alive and kicking, not dead and buried.” Fire a Volley! Amen! Even an American Salvationist can understand and connect with those feelings.
A recent column by the editor was headlined, “Nutters do it together.” It was in reference to Tony Blair not speaking out about his faith because “he felt he would be thought ‘a nutter.” Huh? I don’t know what it means, but if speaking out about your faith makes you one, lay it on me.
When the Day of Pentecost had fully come, they were all with one accord in one place…And they were all filled with the Holy Spirit…And there were dwelling in Jerusalem Jews, devout men, from every nation under heaven. And when this sound occurred, the multitude came together, and were confused, because everyone heard them speak in his own language... we hear them speaking in our own tongues the wonderful works of God…’ Some, however, made fun of them and said, "They have had too much wine. (Paraphrased: “These guys are nutters”) – Acts 2:1-13.
OK, with those kind of editorials maybe the “Salvationist” is worth 60p a week (however much that is), even in America… whether we understand it or not.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Embarrassing!
We’re staying in a little one bedroom flat, third floor, no elevator, 34 steps down and 150 additional steps to Kuhio Beach, of Waikiki surfing fame, count ‘em. This is the center of everything, Hyatt Regency, Moana Surf Rider, Duke’s Canoe Club and, on the beach, the bigger-than-life statue of Duke Kahanamoku, himself – the patron saint of surfing. Surfer wannabe worshipers flock to the shrine endlessly, bedecking it with colorful leis.
Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth. Or is it? Could this image, perhaps, be an artificially created façade, one purposely designed to cover a darker, seamier side? Is it possible that heaven and hell can coexist together in these islands?
To illustrate the point, we never know what new experience our evening constitutional stroll down Kalakaua Avenue will bring. It may be a pusher peddling “Maui Wowie” (Marijuana) or a prostitute (male/female/who knows?) propositioning a John (a Joe on those occasions when Doris isn’t with me) or someone stoned out of their mind, lying unconscious spread-eagle on the sidewalk, tourists delicately stepping around him or her. Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth.
Walking past the International Marketplace, street performers are out in force: A clown sculpting balloons; living statues, painted silver or gold from head to toe, standing for hours immobile; cartoon caricaturists, street message therapists and musicians of every color and stripe, all performing with evangelistic fervor. The crowds gather continuously, intrigued by their offerings.
On Sundays, strolling past Duke’s shrine, a hyper, elderly man sits on the grass, frantically striking guitar strings and singing (more like screaming) at the top of his lungs. Listening closely, you can decipher the lyrics – Scripture verses – bellowing forth with wild-like ferocity. The sound is unpleasant and grating to the ear. No crowds gather.
Embarrassing!
My church used to do that kind of thing, “Open-airs” and Street-Corner Meetings” they were called. There were some strange ones for sure, Ah, I remember them well. Early on in one of my congregations, an overzealous worshipper used to shout “Hallelujah” and “Amen” at the most inappropriate times.
Embarrassing!
Every once-in-a-while at special events, you will hear the following words to an old song proudly sung:
How many queer folk in the Army we see, good old Army… though our methods are strange and oft misunderstood, we do it all for the best you know, telling poor sinners wherever we go, they can be made as white as snow in Jesus blood.
It’s cute looking back, but embarrassing now, so we don’t do them anymore. We’ve matured over the years, you see, climbed far up the social ladder, a much more sophisticated church today. We’ve attended Church Growth Conferences and mimicked those who have become popular and more respected, in look and worship style – but not statistically for some strange reason. Go figure? None-the-less, we’re much more sophisticated now, thank God!
Continuing on our walk through Kapiolani Park, we see a gal high-stepping backwards at a fast clip, and all the while balancing a bottle on top of her head. Passer bys fasten on to her with fascination, a sight peculiar to the eye. My first thought is, What a great witness this would be if she were wearing a T-shirt or holding a sign that read, ‘ANYTHING FOR JESUS!’
On second thought, that would be…
Embarrassing!
An open-air cable car on wheels, filled with tourists, drives by. The sign on the side reads, “Waikiki shuttle, Free ride.” My fertile imagination starts to run wild. If I were The Salvation Army’s spiritual guru in Hawaii again, I would buy one of those cable cars, offer free rides wherever, hand out creatively designed tracts saying, “This ride is free, but it will soon end. We can also offer you the ride of your life, one that will last forever. Heaven is a free gift,” or something to that effect, you get the drift. We would have clown balloon sculptors, Christian magicians, cartoon caricaturists, message therapists and musicians on board performing at varying times – and with evangelistic fervor, I might add.
Then again, maybe not…
Embarrassing! (Besides, what would our donors think?)
Other than that strange, elderly man, we have seen no other spiritual outreach expressions during our constitutionals. The need is there, no question about it. Sin and degradation abound. The people are there, coming by the planeloads – “the good, the bad and the ugly.” We’re not there, however, and understandably so. You see, the modern church growth movement has taught us a better way, a more popular way, an unembarrassed way. Mimic its model and the Church will never have to face persecution or ridicule again.
HALLELUJAH!
If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father's glory with the holy angels (Mark 8:28 NIV).
Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth. Or is it? Could this image, perhaps, be an artificially created façade, one purposely designed to cover a darker, seamier side? Is it possible that heaven and hell can coexist together in these islands?
To illustrate the point, we never know what new experience our evening constitutional stroll down Kalakaua Avenue will bring. It may be a pusher peddling “Maui Wowie” (Marijuana) or a prostitute (male/female/who knows?) propositioning a John (a Joe on those occasions when Doris isn’t with me) or someone stoned out of their mind, lying unconscious spread-eagle on the sidewalk, tourists delicately stepping around him or her. Ah yes, a bit of heaven on earth.
Walking past the International Marketplace, street performers are out in force: A clown sculpting balloons; living statues, painted silver or gold from head to toe, standing for hours immobile; cartoon caricaturists, street message therapists and musicians of every color and stripe, all performing with evangelistic fervor. The crowds gather continuously, intrigued by their offerings.
On Sundays, strolling past Duke’s shrine, a hyper, elderly man sits on the grass, frantically striking guitar strings and singing (more like screaming) at the top of his lungs. Listening closely, you can decipher the lyrics – Scripture verses – bellowing forth with wild-like ferocity. The sound is unpleasant and grating to the ear. No crowds gather.
Embarrassing!
My church used to do that kind of thing, “Open-airs” and Street-Corner Meetings” they were called. There were some strange ones for sure, Ah, I remember them well. Early on in one of my congregations, an overzealous worshipper used to shout “Hallelujah” and “Amen” at the most inappropriate times.
Embarrassing!
Every once-in-a-while at special events, you will hear the following words to an old song proudly sung:
How many queer folk in the Army we see, good old Army… though our methods are strange and oft misunderstood, we do it all for the best you know, telling poor sinners wherever we go, they can be made as white as snow in Jesus blood.
It’s cute looking back, but embarrassing now, so we don’t do them anymore. We’ve matured over the years, you see, climbed far up the social ladder, a much more sophisticated church today. We’ve attended Church Growth Conferences and mimicked those who have become popular and more respected, in look and worship style – but not statistically for some strange reason. Go figure? None-the-less, we’re much more sophisticated now, thank God!
Continuing on our walk through Kapiolani Park, we see a gal high-stepping backwards at a fast clip, and all the while balancing a bottle on top of her head. Passer bys fasten on to her with fascination, a sight peculiar to the eye. My first thought is, What a great witness this would be if she were wearing a T-shirt or holding a sign that read, ‘ANYTHING FOR JESUS!’
On second thought, that would be…
Embarrassing!
An open-air cable car on wheels, filled with tourists, drives by. The sign on the side reads, “Waikiki shuttle, Free ride.” My fertile imagination starts to run wild. If I were The Salvation Army’s spiritual guru in Hawaii again, I would buy one of those cable cars, offer free rides wherever, hand out creatively designed tracts saying, “This ride is free, but it will soon end. We can also offer you the ride of your life, one that will last forever. Heaven is a free gift,” or something to that effect, you get the drift. We would have clown balloon sculptors, Christian magicians, cartoon caricaturists, message therapists and musicians on board performing at varying times – and with evangelistic fervor, I might add.
Then again, maybe not…
Embarrassing! (Besides, what would our donors think?)
Other than that strange, elderly man, we have seen no other spiritual outreach expressions during our constitutionals. The need is there, no question about it. Sin and degradation abound. The people are there, coming by the planeloads – “the good, the bad and the ugly.” We’re not there, however, and understandably so. You see, the modern church growth movement has taught us a better way, a more popular way, an unembarrassed way. Mimic its model and the Church will never have to face persecution or ridicule again.
HALLELUJAH!
If anyone is ashamed of me and my words in this adulterous and sinful generation, the Son of Man will be ashamed of him when he comes in his Father's glory with the holy angels (Mark 8:28 NIV).
Friday, September 14, 2007
ALOHA!
We’re in Hawaii for two reasons. Twins! They arrived this week, Parker Tai Kuanalu first, with Hayden Sheridan Kaipo’i following close behind. The first-born’s Hawaiian name means “cresting wave” and the other, “breaking wave.” Pretty creative, huh? My son is a surfer, obviously. The twins have three older sisters, two of them (7 and 9) already “Hanging 10.” By comparison, when I surf everything hangs!
They were born at Queens Hospital (as in Hawaiian royalty). Coincidentally, while looking through the “Book of Hawaiian Names,” I discovered that the translated name for Noland is “Kaulana,” meaning “famous, celebrated, renowned.” Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the hospital personnel.
I will spare you the gory detail, except to say that the parking was horrendous, five dollars every time you entered and exited, including the father. And that price required a special stamp. The “keeper of the stamp” was obviously a descendent of some Gestapo Chieftain or Chief Secretary, take your pick. You know the type. Dear ones, the Chief Secretary is second-in-command, “keeper of the regulations,” in my denomination – title may vary, but is common to all.
Here’s the long of it, abbreviated. Time for discharge and it’s my responsibility to bring the car around. Wallet empty, I go to the hospital ATM machine. Out of order! Back to “keeper of the stamp,” hat in hand, begging for compassion. “Sorry,” she said, “The rules.” “But I’m Commissioner (VIP) Kaulana (Renowned), pleaded I (not revealing my retired status, mind you). She gave me that wrinkled brow, question mark kind of look, obviously thinking to herself, What kind of nut-case is this?
Dear reader, please understand that “Commissioner” is “The Man!” in my denomination. Lest I get into trouble with some, let me change that to “The Person!” Our Founder once exclaimed, “Some of my best men are women!” I believe that, because I’m married to a Commissioner. And she is “The Man!”
Nonplussed, I go whimpering to the concierge desk hoping to find a person full of love and grace sitting behind it, wisely leaving off the “Commissioner” bit this time. Voila! This tiny, kind, flexible Mother Theresa, non-Chief Secretary Type took mercy on my soul saying, “Bless you my son. Discharging patients receive special dispensation and, thus, I give you absolution. The parking price has been paid for you.”
She then took my hand and gently led me to the Admissions Office, whereupon “the keeper of the stamp” reluctantly pressed, “Pardoned,” on my parking ticket. “Hallelujah, set free!” sang my liberated soul. Well, this is how I vaguely remember it anyway.
Embellished, you say? Perhaps it is a wee bit in word, but not in spirit. Listen up! My daughter-in-law required an expensive apparatus in order to care for the twins. She was directed to a government office, indicating it would be free for the asking. Calling for an appointment, she was told to bring the babies (1 week old) with her, the only instructions given.
She sat in the waiting room for one solid hour, juggling two crying babies, when finally summoned by the official in charge, asking her for proof of birth. “Here they are,” she said, proudly, holding the twins forth. “Not sufficient,” stated the “Keeper of the Stamp, officiously. “How do we know they’re yours?” My daughter-in-law sat there dumbfounded. The stamp was affixed, “Request Denied.” “Next!” cried the official, dispassionately.
“Keepers of the stamp” are proliferating in our society, look around you. The law has become institutionally deified and almost always takes precedence over compassion.
Ah, but that’s why Jesus came, isn’t it?
A new commandment I give to you … that you love one another as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this, all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another (John 13:34-35).
That one phrase, “love one another,” is repeated three times in this ultimate principle to live by. I call it the Commandment of Compassion...The religious leaders of that day deified the law, whilst Jesus came with a new overriding commandment. This new “law of love” was given precedence over all the other existing laws, rules and regulations.
Thank God we live in a new dispensation and His Church, through Jesus Christ, has been absolved from this kind of deification. Hmmm. Does that include my church too, I wonder? And yes, I would send this article to one of our denominational papers (The War Cry, New Frontier, Officer or Good News) for publication, but I don’t think it would get the obligatory “Stamp of Approval.”
By the way, in Hawaii, the “Aloha Spirit” captures the essence of this “new commandment.” I hope the twins become infected with it. In fact, I hope all Christians catch it, Chief Secretaries included (I can say it because I were one once). Now where did I put that darn stamp? Oh, there it is…
ALOHA!
They were born at Queens Hospital (as in Hawaiian royalty). Coincidentally, while looking through the “Book of Hawaiian Names,” I discovered that the translated name for Noland is “Kaulana,” meaning “famous, celebrated, renowned.” Unfortunately, someone forgot to tell the hospital personnel.
I will spare you the gory detail, except to say that the parking was horrendous, five dollars every time you entered and exited, including the father. And that price required a special stamp. The “keeper of the stamp” was obviously a descendent of some Gestapo Chieftain or Chief Secretary, take your pick. You know the type. Dear ones, the Chief Secretary is second-in-command, “keeper of the regulations,” in my denomination – title may vary, but is common to all.
Here’s the long of it, abbreviated. Time for discharge and it’s my responsibility to bring the car around. Wallet empty, I go to the hospital ATM machine. Out of order! Back to “keeper of the stamp,” hat in hand, begging for compassion. “Sorry,” she said, “The rules.” “But I’m Commissioner (VIP) Kaulana (Renowned), pleaded I (not revealing my retired status, mind you). She gave me that wrinkled brow, question mark kind of look, obviously thinking to herself, What kind of nut-case is this?
Dear reader, please understand that “Commissioner” is “The Man!” in my denomination. Lest I get into trouble with some, let me change that to “The Person!” Our Founder once exclaimed, “Some of my best men are women!” I believe that, because I’m married to a Commissioner. And she is “The Man!”
Nonplussed, I go whimpering to the concierge desk hoping to find a person full of love and grace sitting behind it, wisely leaving off the “Commissioner” bit this time. Voila! This tiny, kind, flexible Mother Theresa, non-Chief Secretary Type took mercy on my soul saying, “Bless you my son. Discharging patients receive special dispensation and, thus, I give you absolution. The parking price has been paid for you.”
She then took my hand and gently led me to the Admissions Office, whereupon “the keeper of the stamp” reluctantly pressed, “Pardoned,” on my parking ticket. “Hallelujah, set free!” sang my liberated soul. Well, this is how I vaguely remember it anyway.
Embellished, you say? Perhaps it is a wee bit in word, but not in spirit. Listen up! My daughter-in-law required an expensive apparatus in order to care for the twins. She was directed to a government office, indicating it would be free for the asking. Calling for an appointment, she was told to bring the babies (1 week old) with her, the only instructions given.
She sat in the waiting room for one solid hour, juggling two crying babies, when finally summoned by the official in charge, asking her for proof of birth. “Here they are,” she said, proudly, holding the twins forth. “Not sufficient,” stated the “Keeper of the Stamp, officiously. “How do we know they’re yours?” My daughter-in-law sat there dumbfounded. The stamp was affixed, “Request Denied.” “Next!” cried the official, dispassionately.
“Keepers of the stamp” are proliferating in our society, look around you. The law has become institutionally deified and almost always takes precedence over compassion.
Ah, but that’s why Jesus came, isn’t it?
A new commandment I give to you … that you love one another as I have loved you, that you also love one another. By this, all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another (John 13:34-35).
That one phrase, “love one another,” is repeated three times in this ultimate principle to live by. I call it the Commandment of Compassion...The religious leaders of that day deified the law, whilst Jesus came with a new overriding commandment. This new “law of love” was given precedence over all the other existing laws, rules and regulations.
Thank God we live in a new dispensation and His Church, through Jesus Christ, has been absolved from this kind of deification. Hmmm. Does that include my church too, I wonder? And yes, I would send this article to one of our denominational papers (The War Cry, New Frontier, Officer or Good News) for publication, but I don’t think it would get the obligatory “Stamp of Approval.”
By the way, in Hawaii, the “Aloha Spirit” captures the essence of this “new commandment.” I hope the twins become infected with it. In fact, I hope all Christians catch it, Chief Secretaries included (I can say it because I were one once). Now where did I put that darn stamp? Oh, there it is…
ALOHA!
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Heaven Bound!
Well, so much for the routine. Hawaii beckons, so we pull up roots again and suffer our way across the Pacific to “a little bit of heaven on earth.” In fact, Magic Johnson, of Los Angeles Lakers basketball fame, was once quoted as saying, “If you don’t think you’re going to go to heaven when you die, you had better come to Hawaii and experience a little bit of what you will be missing” (or something to that effect).
I agree wholeheartedly. It’s the “getting there” part that really sucks, though. For us, a 120 mile trek across the desert, airport hotel, up early, little sleep, crammed onto an overfilled airporter bus, luggage tossed to and fro, long check-in lines, dodging carts, pushing, shoving, x-ray machines, computers out, shoes off, metal detector sounds, keys disposed, makeup confiscated (hers, not mine), computers in, shoes on, shoes back off, wands waved, shoes on again, curses exchanged. “Phew!” and this is only the beginning of our journey.
The seats are all taken in the waiting area, ah, well, not quite. People hoarding seats filled with luggage and packages, not bodies. Finally spot two vacant seats, rushing over to find out that their “saved.” Sure! Of Course! Muttering indecipherably, you stand impatiently waiting for the flight to be called. Eventually, a voice comes over the PA system with gargled instructions you can’t understand. “Wait a minute!” Is this our flight or another one nearby? Who’s boarding now? What’d she say? Man, this is nerve racking!” Meanwhile, the mob inches forward, elbows ready, each mobster determined to be first on board. Tension fills the air. “On your mark! Get set!”
Family with children first, taking forever, followed by the aged and infirmed, even longer. One old gimpy guy boards with cane in hand, and I swear to God (and Doris, in that order) that he was strutting across the terminal earlier with nary a limp. Why didn’t I think of that? And I can’t stand it when the First-Class passengers begin boarding, that smug, haughty, holier-than-thou look of superiority as they go swaggering by. Want to reach out and smack ‘em across the head, or somewhere.
Father, forgive me!
“Go!” The mob breaks, elbows flailing, shoved through the First-Class cabin, past its passengers sitting there snugly and smugly with a glass of wine or orange juice in hand. “Hope they spill it on themselves,” “old nature” resurfacing again, momentarily.
Father, forgive me!
We’re pushed, frantically, into coach looking for an empty storage bin, eventually cramming our whatever’s, wherever. Then squeeze into the seats, scrunched into a space obviously designed by Lilliputian engineers. And to make matters worse, when the flight takes off, the passenger in front reclines to the max, his head in my lap. Desire the destination, dread the journey.
We always pray and have our devotions when taking off, for all the obvious reasons. Sitting on the plane, Bible in hand, I turn to today’s devotional, “The Gateway to the Kingdom.” The two bookend Beatitude verses are the Biblical references, I kid you not:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:3 NIV).
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (5:10).
The devotional thought concludes with (16:24-25). If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.
I take note of the spiritual parabolic similarities. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches when delivering His “Sermon on the Mount.” He’s instructing us on the Heavenly journey and would never put it crudely like I did to begin with, but, paraphrased, He is saying, “The ‘getting there’ part requires sacrifice.” My apologies dear reader, but the word, “sucks,” really does communicate it so much better, don’t you think?
Father, forgive me!
Devotions completed, we settle in for the long, laborious flight. The food is bad, the movie boring, the ride bumpy and the lavatory lines maddening. After a hard landing, we deplane to balmy breezes, breath-taking panoramas, water clear as crystal, life-giving coconut, papaya and mango trees swaying, yielding its fruit every month, Heaven on earth… I feel born again.
Momentarily, I try not to think of the next journey when we will suffer off to a Church Growth Conference at the Hyatt Regency, “on the beach,” in “Someplace,” Florida or California, room with a view, I hope – king-size bed preferred, upgraded rental car and... Dread the flight!
Oh, and looking forward to the Bible Conference at “Beach/Lake Whatever” this year, see you there. Sure hope I don’t have to share a bathroom with anyone. Wouldn’t that be the pits? Dread the drive!
“Sign me up for the journey, Lord, no sacrifice too great...”
“Go where?!#*@!...”
Father, forgive me!
I agree wholeheartedly. It’s the “getting there” part that really sucks, though. For us, a 120 mile trek across the desert, airport hotel, up early, little sleep, crammed onto an overfilled airporter bus, luggage tossed to and fro, long check-in lines, dodging carts, pushing, shoving, x-ray machines, computers out, shoes off, metal detector sounds, keys disposed, makeup confiscated (hers, not mine), computers in, shoes on, shoes back off, wands waved, shoes on again, curses exchanged. “Phew!” and this is only the beginning of our journey.
The seats are all taken in the waiting area, ah, well, not quite. People hoarding seats filled with luggage and packages, not bodies. Finally spot two vacant seats, rushing over to find out that their “saved.” Sure! Of Course! Muttering indecipherably, you stand impatiently waiting for the flight to be called. Eventually, a voice comes over the PA system with gargled instructions you can’t understand. “Wait a minute!” Is this our flight or another one nearby? Who’s boarding now? What’d she say? Man, this is nerve racking!” Meanwhile, the mob inches forward, elbows ready, each mobster determined to be first on board. Tension fills the air. “On your mark! Get set!”
Family with children first, taking forever, followed by the aged and infirmed, even longer. One old gimpy guy boards with cane in hand, and I swear to God (and Doris, in that order) that he was strutting across the terminal earlier with nary a limp. Why didn’t I think of that? And I can’t stand it when the First-Class passengers begin boarding, that smug, haughty, holier-than-thou look of superiority as they go swaggering by. Want to reach out and smack ‘em across the head, or somewhere.
Father, forgive me!
“Go!” The mob breaks, elbows flailing, shoved through the First-Class cabin, past its passengers sitting there snugly and smugly with a glass of wine or orange juice in hand. “Hope they spill it on themselves,” “old nature” resurfacing again, momentarily.
Father, forgive me!
We’re pushed, frantically, into coach looking for an empty storage bin, eventually cramming our whatever’s, wherever. Then squeeze into the seats, scrunched into a space obviously designed by Lilliputian engineers. And to make matters worse, when the flight takes off, the passenger in front reclines to the max, his head in my lap. Desire the destination, dread the journey.
We always pray and have our devotions when taking off, for all the obvious reasons. Sitting on the plane, Bible in hand, I turn to today’s devotional, “The Gateway to the Kingdom.” The two bookend Beatitude verses are the Biblical references, I kid you not:
Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (Matt 5:3 NIV).
Blessed are those who are persecuted because of righteousness, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven (5:10).
The devotional thought concludes with (16:24-25). If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross and follow me.
I take note of the spiritual parabolic similarities. Jesus doesn’t pull any punches when delivering His “Sermon on the Mount.” He’s instructing us on the Heavenly journey and would never put it crudely like I did to begin with, but, paraphrased, He is saying, “The ‘getting there’ part requires sacrifice.” My apologies dear reader, but the word, “sucks,” really does communicate it so much better, don’t you think?
Father, forgive me!
Devotions completed, we settle in for the long, laborious flight. The food is bad, the movie boring, the ride bumpy and the lavatory lines maddening. After a hard landing, we deplane to balmy breezes, breath-taking panoramas, water clear as crystal, life-giving coconut, papaya and mango trees swaying, yielding its fruit every month, Heaven on earth… I feel born again.
Momentarily, I try not to think of the next journey when we will suffer off to a Church Growth Conference at the Hyatt Regency, “on the beach,” in “Someplace,” Florida or California, room with a view, I hope – king-size bed preferred, upgraded rental car and... Dread the flight!
Oh, and looking forward to the Bible Conference at “Beach/Lake Whatever” this year, see you there. Sure hope I don’t have to share a bathroom with anyone. Wouldn’t that be the pits? Dread the drive!
“Sign me up for the journey, Lord, no sacrifice too great...”
“Go where?!#*@!...”
Father, forgive me!
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