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!
Showing posts with label Old Rugged Cross. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Old Rugged Cross. Show all posts
Thursday, September 6, 2007
Wednesday, August 8, 2007
God-forsaken! ;-)
The travelogue continues as we wind our way through the Napa Valley, across the Sacramento plain, over the majestic, breathtaking Sierras, passing by Squaw Valley, around North Lake Tahoe, following the Truckee River down the slope to our next destination, Reno, Nevada, “The Biggest, Little City in the World,” so they claim. We have senior-discounted reservations (with perks galore) at a local hotel/casino.
Old nemesis, guilt, keeps us away from the slot machines and gaming tables, but there are plenty of non-gambling activities to keep us occupied, people watching being high on the recreational list. Those casino developers and operators are brilliant, you know. The architecture and ambience is designed to camouflage loneliness, defeat and despair with an artificial feeling of glamour, friendliness and hope.
They’re on to something and its paying off big-time. Senior citizens flock to these casinos by the bus-load. It appears as if every other person rides a motorized cart, maneuvering in between the crowded slots with great precision and skill, and/or is pulling an oxygen tank behind, whilst sucking in oxygen and tobacco smoke simultaneously, which takes even greater precision and skill.
They cater to we who are old, senile and invalid with two-for-one dinners, free drinks, upgraded rooms and senior discounts galore. We are pampered religiously and made to feel like Kings and Queens for a day. No wonder we gladly hand over our meager Social Security checks (not just 10%, the whole thing) in exchange for this temporary feeling of camaraderie and a sense of belonging. We are addicted to hope and this “God-forsaken fellowship” supplies it for us, momentarily.
The other thing that strikes my attention is the energy in this place. This, coupled with a feeling of reverence, worship and awe, gives the illusion of being in another realm, almost spiritual in dimension. There is a phantasmagoria of sight and sound meant to rev the emotions and perpetuate our fantasies. Periodically bells ring at the slots, signifying a jackpot won, followed by shouts of acclamation and thanksgiving. Similarly, cheers, applause and praise can be heard around the craps tables from time to time signifying a winning roll of the dice. It may be my imagination, but there are surely distinct “Hallelujah’s, Amen’s and Praise the Lord’s” echoing forth, spontaneously. No disputing the energy, joy, communion and comradeship occurring around these otherwise hallowed tables. Interestingly, the following is a quote out of a novel I am presently reading:
There was a whoop from the casino floor and it was loud enough to break the barrier surrounding them. She looked out and saw some ten-gallon Texan dancing at the end of one of the craps tables, just below the pulpit that reached out over the casino floor... There was a man up there dressed darkly and staring down like a priest on his congregation ("Void Moon," Michael Connelly).
Old nemesis guilt, persistent fellow that he is, sends us out seeking a place of worship on the following morning, Sunday. We find a small church nearby with a glass case marquee outlining the service times. The “S” is missing in the word, “_UNDAY,” but we pay little attention, having witnessed worse during our ecclesiastical leadership wanderings.
Without going into a lot of detail, the congregation is small, aging and friendly in an “arms length” sort of way. The pews (of 18th or 19th Century design) are hard and uncomfortable, but we are no strangers to this. A lulling organ prelude of, “The Old Rugged Cross,” is followed by a long litany of announcements, already carefully laid out in the printed program, typos and all. We sit unfazed.
Then comes twenty minutes of ultramodern 1980’s praise songs, words reflected on the screen, with each verse lagging about ten seconds behind, and everyone coerced to stand, clap and sing spontaneously. Oh, the electricity in that sanctuary is simply spine-tingling.
Well, you get the idea. An offering, two 19th Century hymns and a fifteen-minute too long sermon later (with nary an “amen” or “hallelujah” heard), we are out the door, anxiously making our way back to the energy, joy, communion and comradeship of that “God-forsaken” casino… and, I suspect, the congregation isn’t too far behind, canes, wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and all.
So Paul, standing before them at the Mars Hill forum, addressed them as follows: ‘Men of Athens, I notice that you are very religious, for as I was out walking I saw your many altars, and one of them had this inscription on it - 'To the Unknown God.' You have been worshiping him without knowing who he is, and now I wish to tell you about him.
He made the world and everything in it, and since he is Lord of heaven and earth, he doesn't live in man-made temples…He himself gives life and breath to everything, and satisfies every need there is (Acts 17:22-25 TLB).
Do I hear an “Amen!?”
Old nemesis, guilt, keeps us away from the slot machines and gaming tables, but there are plenty of non-gambling activities to keep us occupied, people watching being high on the recreational list. Those casino developers and operators are brilliant, you know. The architecture and ambience is designed to camouflage loneliness, defeat and despair with an artificial feeling of glamour, friendliness and hope.
They’re on to something and its paying off big-time. Senior citizens flock to these casinos by the bus-load. It appears as if every other person rides a motorized cart, maneuvering in between the crowded slots with great precision and skill, and/or is pulling an oxygen tank behind, whilst sucking in oxygen and tobacco smoke simultaneously, which takes even greater precision and skill.
They cater to we who are old, senile and invalid with two-for-one dinners, free drinks, upgraded rooms and senior discounts galore. We are pampered religiously and made to feel like Kings and Queens for a day. No wonder we gladly hand over our meager Social Security checks (not just 10%, the whole thing) in exchange for this temporary feeling of camaraderie and a sense of belonging. We are addicted to hope and this “God-forsaken fellowship” supplies it for us, momentarily.
The other thing that strikes my attention is the energy in this place. This, coupled with a feeling of reverence, worship and awe, gives the illusion of being in another realm, almost spiritual in dimension. There is a phantasmagoria of sight and sound meant to rev the emotions and perpetuate our fantasies. Periodically bells ring at the slots, signifying a jackpot won, followed by shouts of acclamation and thanksgiving. Similarly, cheers, applause and praise can be heard around the craps tables from time to time signifying a winning roll of the dice. It may be my imagination, but there are surely distinct “Hallelujah’s, Amen’s and Praise the Lord’s” echoing forth, spontaneously. No disputing the energy, joy, communion and comradeship occurring around these otherwise hallowed tables. Interestingly, the following is a quote out of a novel I am presently reading:
There was a whoop from the casino floor and it was loud enough to break the barrier surrounding them. She looked out and saw some ten-gallon Texan dancing at the end of one of the craps tables, just below the pulpit that reached out over the casino floor... There was a man up there dressed darkly and staring down like a priest on his congregation ("Void Moon," Michael Connelly).
Old nemesis guilt, persistent fellow that he is, sends us out seeking a place of worship on the following morning, Sunday. We find a small church nearby with a glass case marquee outlining the service times. The “S” is missing in the word, “_UNDAY,” but we pay little attention, having witnessed worse during our ecclesiastical leadership wanderings.
Without going into a lot of detail, the congregation is small, aging and friendly in an “arms length” sort of way. The pews (of 18th or 19th Century design) are hard and uncomfortable, but we are no strangers to this. A lulling organ prelude of, “The Old Rugged Cross,” is followed by a long litany of announcements, already carefully laid out in the printed program, typos and all. We sit unfazed.
Then comes twenty minutes of ultramodern 1980’s praise songs, words reflected on the screen, with each verse lagging about ten seconds behind, and everyone coerced to stand, clap and sing spontaneously. Oh, the electricity in that sanctuary is simply spine-tingling.
Well, you get the idea. An offering, two 19th Century hymns and a fifteen-minute too long sermon later (with nary an “amen” or “hallelujah” heard), we are out the door, anxiously making our way back to the energy, joy, communion and comradeship of that “God-forsaken” casino… and, I suspect, the congregation isn’t too far behind, canes, wheelchairs, oxygen tanks and all.
So Paul, standing before them at the Mars Hill forum, addressed them as follows: ‘Men of Athens, I notice that you are very religious, for as I was out walking I saw your many altars, and one of them had this inscription on it - 'To the Unknown God.' You have been worshiping him without knowing who he is, and now I wish to tell you about him.
He made the world and everything in it, and since he is Lord of heaven and earth, he doesn't live in man-made temples…He himself gives life and breath to everything, and satisfies every need there is (Acts 17:22-25 TLB).
Do I hear an “Amen!?”
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