Fellowship Follow-up

Great time as always at Doug's Second Friday Of March Madness party. Some observations before I hit the sack:

Best food: Marshall brought wings from Wings To Go. They did not last long. (Another reason to get there early.)

Best drink: Dave had his Fair Blender and fruit in high fashion this year. I think the cherries really added that special something. Great smoothies. I had three.

Best dessert: Dr. Tim brought a tray of "ooey-gooeys." "Don't eat too many," he said, "or you'll be ooey-gooeying all night." OK.

Best food I missed: Dr. Tim also brought some meatballs in barbecue sauce. I saw them, but then filled my plate with wings and chips and guacamole. Totally forgot to go back and get meatballs. I'm sure they were good, though.

Weirdest food: Scotty brought his usual boxes of Ho-Hos and a bag of Twizzlers. He also had a greasy brown bag of cracklin' he got from some clients up from the bayou. Cracklin' is fried pig fat rolled in Cajun spices. I passed and had another round of smoothie.

Funniest comment about food: Doug--"When it comes to fried food, freshness is the most important factor."

Second funniest comment about food: Mike D, with a box of Ho-Hos in hand, to Dave as he was leaving--"Want some nappy-headed hos to go?"

Funniest comment about sports: Mike D--"I'd rather have a yogurt enema than watch an entire NBA game."

Funniest comment on world affairs: Marshall, putting forth a name for consideration for the ORU presidency--"Here's another name: Condi Rice." Dave--"Yeah, but I'm not in agreement with her position on the Palestinian situation." Me--"I don't think the ORU president has much say in the Palestinian situation."

World problems solved: All (except maybe the Palestinian issue).

Fun had: More than we deserve.

The Fellowship of Madness

I love living in Tulsa. I have visited many different towns and cities in our fine country, but I have to call one place "home," and that one place for me is Tulsa. I love it 365 days a year, but one in particular.

The second Friday of March Madness is time to gather at Doug's house. Doug opens his home to a bunch of guys who have a couple of ties: Most of us went to St. James United Methodist Church together in the 1980s. We all like basketball, but not all like the same teams. And all of us love to eat.

So tomorrow night I will wait in my driveway for Mike D. to swing by and pick me up in his late mom's 1985 Honda. I'll toss my food contribution into the backseat, strap in, and away we go.

Well, we don't go far. Doug lives about ten minutes away, and that's if Mike takes the wrong turn into Doug's neighborhood, which has been known to happen. Mike and I are usually the first ones to arrive. One year, we even beat Doug. It turned out that Doug's daughter was in a basketball playoff game and was running late. We figured that was Doug's personal problem and was not to deter us from our goal: good seats in front of the TV before the others arrived.

We used to be banished, er, assigned by Doug's gracious wife, Cheryl, to an upstairs room that had a TV, a bench press, some metal folding chairs, and three beanbags. It was our goal to get the beanbags. Four hours of sitting in a metal chair takes a bit of the joy out of the evening, but only just a little. But last year Doug had gone uptown--he bought a big screen TV and set it in his living room. Lots of comfortable seats and much closer to the food.

The food. Everyone brings something, There is no coordination of effort to assure we hit all the food groups. Some years all we have are bags of chips. Other years it's all desserts. Dr. Tim, a dentist, usually brings the best desserts. Drumming up business? We don't care. Scotty brings the same things every year: A box of ho-hos and a bag of Twizzlers. One year Scotty was in South America teaching a class on oil well management and missed the party. But his daughter came by my house with a grocery bag on Friday afternoon.

"This is from my dad for tonight's party at Doug's," she said. Inside the bag: a box of ho-hos and a bag of Twizzlers. Scott is a good man.

Dave is also consistent in his offering. A few years ago at the Tulsa State Fair, Dave wandered into a tent where some guy was demonstrating a powerful blender. The man was shoving all kinds of fruit into the pitcher and grinding it to a thick liquid state.

"This machine makes perfect fruit smoothies--a delicious and nutritious way to start your day."

Dave had never seen such a machine, but he knew he could not live without it. Somehow he talked Clair into letting him buy the thing. Ever since, Dave comes to Doug's armed with the powerful Fair Blender and an bag of fresh fruit. By halftime we have fresh fruit smoothies--which help wash down the cookies, chips and dip we have been feasting on.

Two or three years ago, Dave missed the party to take his son camping with the Boy Scouts. He caught crap from the rest of us for a year, and I don't think he will repeat the same mistake again.

I already know that Kalin will be bringing guacamole and chips. Now the secret to great guacamole is to serve it fresh. By fresh I mean minutes, not hours, old. The guac that he brought last year was so good I swear Kalin mixed it up on the hood of his car just before he walked in the door.

We watch two complete basketball games. Well, two games are on, and our eyes are looking at the TV, but we usually find some interesting topics to discuss. Suffice it to say that we solve all of the world's problems in one evening. All. For four hours on a Friday night in March, everything is as it should be.

Unless, of course, Dave goes camping.

Next week, great week

It's always fun to look forward, isn't it? I like the days from Thanksgiving to Christmas to goooo sloooooow so I can enjoy the buildup. Now, next week isn't Christmas, but there are a couple of fun things coming.

Monday afternoon: Opening Day in Cincinnati. There is nothing to compare with opening day in Redsland. Kids skip school throughout southwest Ohio whether they have tickets for the game or not. There is a parade from Findlay Market to Fountain Square in downtown Cincy. Great American Ballpark is packed. And then there is a baseball game.

Cincinnati was the first professional baseball team (starting in 1869), and they used to get the honor of being the first baseball game of the season. They still get to open at home every year, but thanks to ESPN, there are games played before the Reds take the field for the first time. This year, two American League teams teed it up in Japan almost a full week before the Reds. Of course, the Reds play real baseball--National League style. So I hardly count AL games as official games.

Anyway, I am in Tulsa, and may be in Oklahoma City, when the Reds game (against the Arizona Diamondbacks) starts. So how will I celebrate? I already bought a Cincinnati Reds tie. I'll wear it to church Sunday (surprising most who have never seen me wear a tie to church ever until this past Sunday, and annoying the handful of Pittsburgh fans in the house) and to Mid-America Christian University (where I ply my trade) on Monday. And will find a way to listen to the game. I will be with the boys in red and white in spirit.

Let the games begin.

The second fun thing coming up next week is the debut of the new Rolling Stones movie, Shine A Light, directed by Martin Scorsese. Yes, I will be going to see it at the IMAX. I will report in full after the viewing experience.

Anything coming your way next week?

What I Believe

I believe in God the Father almighty
Maker of Heaven and Maker of Earth
And in Jesus Christ
His only begotten Son, our Lord
He was conceived by the Holy Spirit
Born of the virgin Mary
Suffered under Pontius Pilate
He was crucified and dead and buried

And I believe what I believe
Is what makes me what I am
I did not make it, no it is making me
It is the very truth of God and not
The invention of any man

I believe that He who suffered
Was crucified, buried, and dead
He descended into hell and
On the third day, rose again
He ascended into Heaven where
He sits at God's mighty right hand
I believe that He's returning to
Judge the quick and the dead
Of the sons of men

And I believe what I believe
Is what makes me what I am
I did not make it, no it is making me
It is the very truth of God and not
The invention of any man

I believe in God the Father almighty
Maker of Heaven and Maker of Earth
And in Jesus Christ His only begotten Son,
Our Lord
I believe in the Holy Spirit
One Holy Church, the communion of Saints
The forgiveness of sin
I believe in the resurrection
I believe in a life that never ends

(Creed, lyrics by Rich Mullins)

Thanks, Rich. Hope you are enjoying paradise. Hope to see you soon, bro.

What About Saturday?

We celebrated Good Friday yesterday, and now are waiting for Easter (Resurrection) Sunday tomorrow. But what about Saturday? Is there nothing special about the next-to-last day of Holy Week?

Jesus is dead. We saw him die yesterday. His blood stains the cross that is still standing on a nearby hill. We saw his body wrapped in linen and placed in a cave with a large rock rolled in front. A Roman guard is stationed in front of the cave to prevent any of us, Jesus' followers, from breaking in and stealing the body.

Jesus' followers. What a laugh. We followed, all right. Followed Jesus away from our families, away from our friends, away from our jobs. and for what? We were promised a kingdom, but now the king is dead and we are wanted men. We are in hiding, staying out of sight of the Pharisees. If they find us now, well, they will ask Pilate for more crosses. But if we can stay hidden for a while, maybe they will forget about us. There will be another claiming to be something special, another so-called Messiah, and the Pharisees will chase after him and his followers.

But what about us? We left all to follow the one we really thought was different. We saw what we thought were miracles--but Jesus couldn't even save himself. What miracle worker lets himself be killed? We heard his words about love, about going farther than we are asked to go, about trusting God. We stuck with him when he said we would have to eat his flesh and drink his blood. We didn't understand it, but we stood by him. And now he has deserted us.

He said to trust him, and we did. But now he's gone, and he has taken with him our lives. He has taken our families and our livelihoods. He has taken our freedom (at least for now) and our courage.

He has taken with him our hope.

We are, of all men, most miserable. We have no where else to turn. Peter says when it is safe to leave the room where we are hidden, he's going to try to start his fishing business again. We don't really care. We don't care about anything. We just sit and think. That is the hardest thing--we are trapped in here with all of our thoughts, all of our memories. We can't escape them.

There is nothing left. Darkness has become our friend, but now even the darkness is starting to fade.

The sun is coming over the hill.

Good? Friday

I just returned from going through the Stations of the Cross at our church. There are fourteen stations in all. We walked through the steps of Jesus as he walked to His death. It should have been my death, for I am thoroughly guilty of sin against God and am deserving of execution. I have no appeal.

About the third Station you are encouraged to kneel before a table. On the table is a small rock, not much bigger than your hand. Pick it up. Know that it was the weight of our sins that caused Jesus to stumble and fall as he climbed the hill to his death. What should have been my death, my thorns, my nails, my cross.

Further on there is another Station where you kneel before a table, only the rocks here are a bit larger and heavier. It was this even heavier load that caused Jesus to stagger and fall as he got closer to the place where his life would end. It was my life that should have ended.

Near the end of the Stations is yet one more table to kneel before, and yet larger and weightier rocks to lift. As I knelt before the table, I held this large rock--the weight of the sins of the world--in my hands before me. I cried out in my soul to God, "Kill me! Drive nails into my hands. Rip the flesh from my back. I deserve to die, not you!" But then I tilted my hands down toward the floor and let the rock fall. With the heaviness gone, my hands felt suddenly weightless. They began to lift on their own.

I do not deserve the freedom I experience, but I have it because the Son of God took my place in the execution chamber. I cannot explain it--it makes no sense to me. As I placed myself, even ever-so-briefly, even only in an imaginary way, in the footsteps of Jesus as he faced the cross, I could not help being struck by the irony of the phrase "Good Friday." It seemed to me that for Jesus it was a pretty bad Friday. As I reflect further, though, I now see that Good is not nearly a strong enough adjective for that day. It was the day when the only sinless one paid the price for all of my sins for all time. The rock has rolled, my hands are free to rise. For me, it was a Great, Fantastic, Stupendous Friday.

Sunday will be even better.

Cloverfield

Finally, they get one right.

Most people say they watch movies to escape real life. If that is the aim, then the movies Hollywood is dishing up these days are perfect. Very few have any grounding in reality. And therein begins the problem.

So a young girl goes to see a flick that features a shy, slightly-less-than-beautiful girl somehow lands the great-looking guy. And by lands, I mean in bed. Sans marriage ring. All is well.

A young guy goes to the movies and sees an ordinary dock-working deadbeat dad not have a good relationship with his kids, but ends up saving the world from invaders from outer space. All with the white of an egg.

Yep, everyday stories, at least in my neighborhood. Happens all the time.

Or not.

Thus you may begin to understand why I am not much of a movie person. Or when I find one I really like, it is something that fades into obscurity fairly fast. The Englishman Who Went Up A Hill But Came Down A Mountain is a great movie that I will bet a Braum's milkshake you have never heard of, let alone seen. How about Joe Vs. The Volcano? Harvey? Marty? (Wow--when was the last time I watched Marty? Great, great movie about real relationships. Another one they got right.)

Anyway, last night I took our 14 year old son, Mark, to see Cloverfield at the Dollar Theatre (on Tuesdays, only 50 cents!). After twenty minutes I figured this would be either a brilliant movie or horrible. No middle ground.

Decision: Brilliant.

(Warning: This movie is "shot" from one handheld camcorder. There is a lot of movement of the camera, just like when your mother-in-law tries to shoot video at a birthday party. More, even. It is like the ride at Kings Island where you go into a round room and place your heels, butt and head back against the wall. Then the room spins and the floor drops out. Your objective is to not puke, 'cause it will go all over everyone. Same kind of feeling with the way Cloverfield is shot...)

If you don't know the premise, you are led to believe that what you are watching is a homemade video tape found in the area of US-477, formerly known as Central Park. I won't go through the plot--there are plenty of places you can read about that--but do know that this is not just another monster destroying NYC flick. This is about real life for today's young adults. Yes, there is an allusion to sex outside of marriage. There is profanity--a lot of it. There is drinking to excess.

Like I said, reality for young people today. (Both in and out of the church, I might add, but won't elaborate now. Later.) It was not glamorized. As a matter of fact, the guy who had sex with a girl who had been his friend for a long time is told by his brother, "You are not worthy of her." The brother is in the middle of explaining just how unworthy he is when the ground shakes--literally. But the rest of the film follows the one who took advantage of his friend the girl as he attempts to rescue her because he knows he has not treated her right.

Very good.

One girl drinks heavily at the front end of the show, doing her best to get drunk as quickly as possible. When all monster cuts loose and the party turns into an evacuation from New York City, this girl has trouble escaping harm. So we see the effects of alcohol abuse. We are not told, we see. Much more powerful.

Again, very good.

The profanity? Well, to tell the truth, if I had been in the attack these kids were, I would have said my fair share of Holy $#!* as well. Don't tell me if the Statue of Liberty's head--all twenty five feet and several tons of it--came hurtling through the air at you, you would just say My Goodness.

So, maybe not great, but at least real.

At the end of the show, Mark was not moving. He stared at the screen. We got up, walked out--he was just staring ahead. Said nothing for about ten minutes. (I remember when I saw The Deer Hunter, I didn't talk for nearly an hour. Very powerful show.) I could tell he was really moved by the show. How? Not sure. But knowing him as his father, I think I can look into his head fairly clearly.

Mark did not see actors. (As a matter of fact, the acting was not very good. But the non-acting was great! I really bought into this as a "real" video.) He saw people not much older than he in "real" situations. OK, the monster thing is not real, but don't we face monsters most of the time? Like when Mark does not know if he wants to walk with Jesus and be made fun of, or if he wants to cuss and drink and make fun of Christians himself. This is the kind of thing he is walking through right now, and it is threatening to tear up his insides. He is looking to evacuate, but he also feels pulled to go back and help that part of him he knows is right. In this way, Cloverfield really hit home with him. I recommend you check it out if you haven't already..

Joe Bob Briggs would give it at least three kung-fus.

Stoning the Stones

Music is very important to me. By very important, I mean ahead of other needless things like food and water. But not as high as a good nap on Sunday afternoons.

I came of age--musically--in the late 60s. The groups I grew up with then were the "second half" Beatles (everything from Revolver to Let It Be), Crosby Stills Nash and Young, and Jimi. In the 70s I added the solo Beatles (George's All Things Must Pass is the best solo Beatle album by far, and Paul's Wing's Wildlife absolutely horrible--but I owned them both), Grand Funk, Chicago and my all time favorite group, Loggins and Messina. (Not their chart stuff--that was only fair. Their long jam songs were and are the perfect music.)

The 80s were the lost decade music-wise. You have Genesis and you have U2. One song by Level 42. Maybe one from Huey Lewis. Oh, I guess some ZZ Top. But after that? Waste of time.

The 90s made me turn to talk radio, only to run into Rush. So I learned to love classical music.

It wasn't until this new century that I returned to my rock roots, only to discover the best bands were the old bands. And the best of the old (and oldest of the best) were ... the Rolling Stones.

Now, I never was much of a fan of the Stones. I like Brown Sugar, but Angie bored me. Start Me Up got old hearing it at every sporting event when they introduce the players. And I didn't get their satire on songs like Symphony For The Devil. I started to change my opinion of Mick and Keef when, in 1995, two of my students at Centerville High School approached me.

"Mr. Dunn," they said (not in unison, but you get the idea), "we want to go see the Stones in St. Louis, but our parents won't let us go unless an adult goes with us. Since you are the closest thing to an adult we know, we are wondering if you would go. We'll buy your ticket, we'll pay the gas. All you have to do is ride with us."

I thought about it for, oh, a second--maybe--before saying Yes. What a concert. The whole time I was thinking, "We in the Christian world are wasting our time trying to out-entertain the non-Christian world." I mean, from the opening power chord of Satisfaction to the last drumbeat of It's Only Rock and Roll I was treated to a non-stop rock and roll circus. Mick jogs five to seven miles PER CONCERT. He is more active on stage than a kid with ADD and an endless supply of Snickers. I began to change my mind about the boys from London.

I went back and listened again to what is considered their great trilogy: Let It Bleed, Sticky Fingers and Exile On Main Street. Amazing stuff these boys cranked out. Their albums following these three were hit-and-miss, mostly miss, but even when missing they were better than 90% of the rest of the stuff being hawked in record stores. I wondered why I had never really given them a chance before. And I think I know. It was their "bad boy" image.

Of course I should be one of the first to know that image is often just that--a made-up persona. But there we had Mick with his tongue hanging out, and Keef with a needle in his arm and a spoon up his nose. Brian Jones dead from drugs. Ronnie Woods in rehab. Only Charlie seemed somewhat normal--but only as normal as drummer can be. And in the 70s, 80s and 90s, one could not call oneself a Christian and accept people like this. (We had yet to learn about grace and mercy, you see.)

Well, now it seems that Keef--who could be legally declared dead from all the drugs he has pumped into his body--is reading his Bible. Says parts of it are boring, but the only crime there is saying outloud what many of us think to ourselves. And Mick, on his mostly-forgettable solo album The Goddess In The Doorway, includes lyrics that could be sung in most evangelical churches today. Could it be the boys are searching? Could it be that they have now realized that even with the millions of dollars they have made, the endless pleasures they have consumed, the knighthood (for Sir Mick), the wives and lovers they have gone through, they just can't get no satisfaction? And would it be such a bad thing if they feel empty in their souls and start seeking for what can truly satisfy? Can God forgive their past? Is Jesus' blood sufficient even for Mick and Keef?

I'm thinking it is. More than enough. So let's not get too worked up next time we see the boys (who are now closer to 70 than 60) on TV or the magazine rack. Instead, pray for them. Remember, it's only rock and roll.

The Irish In Me

"Progress should mean that we are always changing the world to fit the
vision, instead we are always changing the vision."--GK Chesterton


My wife is wrong about one thing. She thinks St. Patrick's Day is my
favorite holiday. Actually, that honor is reserved for the last
Saturday in February when Holland Hall prep school (here in Tulsa) has
its annual book fair. Doors open at 8--I'm there at 6. Sorting through
table after table stacked with used books is certainly a great day for
me. Going home with a box of books for less than 20 bucks, looking
through them, figuring out which ones I just bought that I already had
(this year, only one!), then putting them in the order I hope to read
them--truly a great day.

But I am proud of my Irish heritage. And I do appreciate Kathy making
corned beef, cabbage and mashed potatoes for me, even if the Irish had
never heard of corned beef until they immigrated to the U.S. Oh, and I
really like the shamrock cookies she makes each year. So on the whole,
St. Patrick's Day is good for me.

It just so happens that my favorite hymn has its roots in an 8th
century Irish poem. "Be Thou My Vision" was translated into English by
Mary Byrne in 1905, and made into the hymn as we know it in 1912. My
favorite version is by Van Morrison from his Hymns to the Silence
album. But this morning on my drive to Oklahoma City (in torrential
rain) I listened to the version by Phil Keaggy, with its war-chant-
like drums. (This would be a great song for Triibe, Gyle and Mark.)
The next-to-last verse really speaks to me:

Riches I heed not, nor man's empty praise,
Thou mine Inheritance, now and always:
Thou and Thou only, first in my heart,
High King of Heaven, my Treasure Thou art.

I sing this with great gusto (and off key), often with tears streaming
down my cheeks. But do I really mean it? Do I really live it? Can I
truly say that I don't heed the call of riches? How much do I really
like the praise of men? If it is to be, it will only be when the
first two verses are ingrained in me.

Be Thou my Vision, O Lord of my heart;
Naught be all else to me, save that Thou art.
Thou my best Thought, by day or by night,
Waking or sleeping, Thy presence my light.

Be Thou my Wisdom, and Thou my true Word;
I ever with Thee and Thou with me, Lord;
Thou my great Father, I Thy true son;
Thou in me dwelling, and I with Thee one.

As I progress in my walk with the Lord, am I changing my world to fit
His vision, or am I trying to bend His vision to fit my ever-changing
world? For me, this is a daily struggle. Some days I win, others I
lose. Oh God, be thou my vision every day! May the last verse be my
soon cry:

High King of Heaven, my victory won,
May I reach Heaven's joys, O bright Heaven's Sun!
Heart of my own heart, whatever befall,
Still be my Vision, O Ruler of all.