The Rusted Musket

I’ve read Donald Miller’s Blue Like Jazz twice, I nod my head and laugh every time, it’s a great book, you should probably read it. I was actually gifted 3 copies by a campus crusade friend, I’ve given all but one away.

There’s one story in the book though that drives me crazy, its like the only one, it stokes flaming flames of indignation every time I read it or even think about it.

It’s when Miller and some young Christians set up a “confession booth” on the Reed College campus and apologize to their classmates about everything Christians have done from the crusades to televangalists. I get so indignant, I say classic one liners to myself like “confessional apologizing is a stupid.”

But is it?

GK Chesterton once said.

“The great strength of Christian sanctity has always been simply this – that the worst enemies of the saints could not say of the saints anything worse than [the saints] said of themselves… Suppose the village Atheist had a sudden and splendid impulse to rush into the village church and denounce everybody there as miserable offenders. He might break in at the exact moment when they were saying the same things themselves. You can say anything against a man who praises himself, but a man who blames himself is invulnerable.” ¹

Taking it one step further, the strength of the saint is not only his ability to blame himself and tribe for stains of sinful transaction but his humble apology, first to God, then to man.

Don’s story isn’t wrong, I’m wrong. If I can’t apologize to man, how can I apologize to God?

Humility is like an invulnerable cup of wine-apology that lovingly, and vulnerably, points to and owns it’s stains…

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From thin air they appeared and danced about the room, I still don’t know from which universe the mighty quantity of little racket balls came from, or to which universe they all went. But I do know this, the bassist of the youth band and I captured one of these blurs, it was blue, a blue blur, and we created a new game of timeless awesome. To play this new game all you need is a friend, a racket ball, and a table; simply bounce the ball off the table and into the waiting hand of the opposing talent, hopefully you only need to just barely move four fingers and one elbow.

Mylo Xyloto is what we called this new game (Every Teardrop the predispositional force). At the height of our first Mylo Xyloto session we had twelve persons bouncing racquet balls to each other! It was so timelessly awesome.

I said Mylo Xyloto a hundred times or more that night but then I remembered I didn’t even know what the phrase meant, vulgar Swedish? I Googled. Chris Martin (lead singer of Coldplay) told the New York Times it had something to do with Xylo-toes, or the randomness of the universe, or perhaps music that “comes from a place we don’t know… (exiting through) the fingers.” I felt slightly more comfortable but strangely confused by the fact I was not committing Swedish indecencies after all.

Martin’s statement about music coming from a place we don’t know got me thinking.

Music is indeed mysterious…

If Chris Martin and I were in the same room we’d agree to disagree over musics womb, but I think we’d both agree on another fascinating musical enigma; our doubly mysterious impulse to croak forth, wave lighters, or (in christian parlance) worship.

Everyone worships something.

Some worship Reason, others Atomic Sub-Particles, still others worship the Light, Mother Gaia, or Milk Chocolate. The question is not “will you worship” but “what will you worship” and is what you worship worthy of your worship?

Perhaps musics mystery and our impulse to worship is intrinsically linked to fingers and toes after all. Fingers and toes attached to the hands and feet of a man called Jesus of Nazareth, the Lords own, who walked with us, laughed with us, lived with us, and died for us…

Is what you worship worthy of your worship?

Liz and I have wildly swung like mental hobgoblins on this existential threat to “the Reason for the Season.” Some years we do the gift, other years we do not do the gift (hard Christmas for me), and then there’s the occasional year we use all our Christmas monies for other peoples gifts (very hard Christmas for me).

Recently we chatted with friends deciding against “Mall Christmas,” and choosing instead a form of “Christ Christmas.” Part of the decision means, among many things, no gifts forever, whatsoever, on Christmas. Oh, and to add to the horror they have three kids, all between the ages of “gifts are awesome” and “gifts make the year go round.”

Now before you get all uppity and declare them “lame’ish something or another’s” let me clarify. They’re not gift averse, the gift is good, especially for birthdays, bar mitzvah’s, and moon walks, but when it comes to December 25th the equation tends to look something like this:

Baby Jesus’s Birthday + Gifts for Ourselves = Something Lost in Translation.

I believe the Little Drummer Boy actually sings more than just a little bit of truth concerning the topic at hand. For instance, the Little Drummer Boy doesn’t fret over his Xmas list, or Xmen, or a full kit to go with his lonely snare. His thoughts are focused on what he’s got to give a King, which isn’t much he reckons, so he sings profundity, “I’ll play my drum for you.”

I’ll give the King my passion… my talents… my time…

Perhaps over all the seasonal debris and associated mental constipation we should be asking ourselves a similar question

What will I give a King?

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I skipped out the front door early December for a brisk morning walk with Liz down to the lake. I had my furry hat on head, sweat whicking layers on back, and a Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth.

Reader: “Wait, what did you say?!?” “Djarum clove cigarette dangling from mouth?!?”

Ben: “Yes, you heard correct.”

I would like to stop here and inform the reader I am not, nor have I ever been, what one calls “a smoker.” In regards to alcohol and tobacco I believe all habits are bad habits, but I do occasionally smoke a tobacco pipe in the respectable tradition of CS Lewis, GK Chesterton, and your Great Grandfather. The Djarum in question was from a bygone era, cast aside, forgotten, below decks within an aroma filled smoking box. For some reason, this particular morning, I rummaged through the chest of pungent scent, lifted one out, placed it in mouth, and walked out the front door.

During the walk, which was at “Real Fast Getting Sick Pace,” I let this weird smelling cylinder bounce up and down between my lips, not even lit. I thought to myself, “You know, why are you walking around with this thing dangling out your mouth?” “It just looks dirty, and someone might get the wrong idea.”

One mile, a cold big toe, and some odd minutes later, I removed the Djarum.

End of Story… Or so I thought…

Later that evening I walked down to my coffee shop to work on scripture and resume building and book reading. I was really into it when I looked up and saw J Rizzle, a kid from youth group, I waved him over. Stomach churning dialog commenced.

J Rizzle: “I think I saw you this morning.”

Ben: “Really?”

J Rizzle: “Yah, I headed in late to school, you were walking by the railroad tracks, I was pretty sure it was you, I was going to honk.”

(checking memory bank for when exactly I took the cancer stick out of my mouth… Crap, nope, still there)

Ben: “Shucks, you should have.”

(that is to say should have had my pipe dangling out my mouth, atleast then I would have had an air of sophistication)

J Rizzle: “Cool, well I’ll see you at youth group.”

(he totally knows)

Ben: “Cool, yep, see ya.”

I thought to myself maybe J Rizzle didn’t see it, like maybe my fur Peruvian hid it, or he was driving to fast to really look me over, and then I realized how silly everything I was thinking was. The bottom line is that a youth group kid, as far as he was concerned, saw me (a youth group leader), smoking a dirty cigarette.

I felt the net of stupidity closing in, redness coming to cheeks and neck. I lamented, I prayed, I apologized, I started typing this blog, then erased it, and then started it again.

Mostly I know I was taught a lesson today concerning brazen moderation lackadaisical freedom behavior.

And embarrassingly I’ve posted it to serve warning… Both to me, and perhaps you as well…

Last night Liz and I pondered aloud where we would put a baby Kelm if we ever had one (I think we talked about where we would put one because it’s the least intense “lets have babies” thing you can honestly talk about).

So I said the cradle would go anywhere our cozy apartment would allow because Kelm babies won’t care where they sleep as long as they sleep. But then I got really excited about the bed potential for the toddler years because then I could make the toddler Kelm a sweet bed underneath my huge computer table! It would be outfitted with LED tube lighting (like the kind I have under my pedalbaord) and I’d also let the boy or girl draw cave drawings on the underside (cave drawings due to skill level, not preference).

After I got done explaining the Toddler Kelm’s sleeping arrangements Liz said she wanted to sleep there too, and I don’t blame her…

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I was subbing middle school English, watching an Anne Frank documentary, when I noticed something strange and peculiar; namely, the little Nazi in us all.

Early in the documentary, before the students turned their brains on, the narrator discussed Nazi technique used to paint Jews as inferior. While this narration went on the documentary showed footage of ugly, mentally estranged, weird looking folks.

The students, who weren’t paying any attention to the narration, saw only those images divorced from historical context and instantly laughed at them.

I hit PAUSE on the remote and spoke; “Interesting how most of you laughed and giggled at this footage. You do understand your response was exactly the type of response the Nazi’s were hoping to get from this here propaganda!?!” Silence in the classroom…

In thinking this through I’ll be honest, putting others down seems hardwired, not only in Nazi’s and middle schoolers, but you and I. In thinking this through there also seems to be another deeper hardwire, of some forgotten but deeply familiar home. A place of peace and rest with a photograph on the wall of family we don’t recognize but know is our own, and to which we owe a terrible loyalty…

Years and Years ago my core group of gamer friends and I started a Tuesday night gaming experiment, we called it Battlefield 2uesdays; yep, you guessed it, we played Battlefield 2… and then when Battlefield 2142 came out we played that… and then we played Battlefield Bad Company 2… and then Battlefield Vietnam (the remake diversion)… and then we went back to playing Battlefield Bad Company 2. I’m pleased to report Battlefield 2uesdays is still going strong, only now we call it Battlefield Tu3sdays!

(I’ll start negative and then go positive)

Disappointment can be summed up with two words – Resource Diversion (ie. Campaign & CO-OP) – Because of this resource diversion we have a comma rose without the rose petals of health and ammo, a camouflage system that resets default camo every round, and tanks that slide around serious earth tone terrain as if gliding on happy yellow plastic tarp. Sit and ponder with me, a Battlefield with 100 percent of its resources devoted to multiplayer. Did you just wet yourself? You should have…

But the universe is more complicated than that and so is this review, I totally wrote the previous paragraph before playing any CO-OP, I have since then played a few missions of CO-OP, and dang it, I actually like it. Now, I still haven’t played any campaign, but if the trend of not liking something BF3 related before playing it and then liking it after you actually play it stays true, I’ll bet dollars to SOFLAM the campaigns not terrible either.

Moving on – I’m getting older so for a game to grab any of my steadily decreasing time/attention allotment, to rise above almost unavoidable redundancy, it needs to be special. Battlefield 3 makes me feel special, like some young special twenty something. I have to admit, even though the Dice guys are Swedish, and their nation hasn’t fought anyone since Napoleon, they’ve got some solid nuggets of brass and lead.

Vehicle combat, by itself a rarity, has punch, volume, explosion, and satisfaction. There’s nothing quite like a few minutes of intense tank warfare resulting in a steppe littered with smoldering hulks of less fortunate opponents. But there’s a nasty good balance to it all, because just as I’m smugly smiling from my tanks cupola an attack chopper will swoop down, unleashing hellfire and brimstone; that or I’ll get slammed with multiple rpg’s from multiple rooftops.

For some reason I drive tanks with assault class… should use engi class (repair is good, I’m smarter than that)… Stubborn German…

The point of my game reviews aren’t to give full on, multi-directional, HD perspectives, you’ve got IGN and Gameinformer for that; I haven’t even officially mentioned the word “multiplayer” till just now (and everyone else is right about it).

All I know is this, I haven’t bought MW3 yet… The End…

I was placing together factoids and locations for my Youth Pastor Resume yesterday when I hit the proverbial traffic snarl, the gaugau game with no gaugau ball, the Pez dispenser with, well, you get it.

I had reached the span of my life, when for about eight years, I janitored at a private Christian school. I didn’t know what to tell myself, my resume, or anyone else for that matter about this particular stretch of seemingly wasted time.

But then something occurred to me, a thought, a memory complete, a mental nudge independent of resume buffing or career building. It was the night of the huge parent teacher conference and I remembered frantic light speed cleaning; the hallways swept, the garbage emptied, the locker tops dusted, and then there were the urinals. They had the normal staining associated with urinals, basically stratified pee salt layers (yep, gross), so with moments to spare before parent teacher game time I started scrubbing this nasty fossil record.

It was at this point, when all hope seemed lost, that someone kneeled next to me on that tiled bathroom floor. It was Ernie, the Vice Superintendent of HCS, who, with rolled up sleeves and abrasive pad in hand, started scrubbing urinals with me.

That night I started to understand servant leadership and associated humility in a new way because I saw servant leadership and the associated humility in a new way.

The stretch of time spent as “Janitor Ben” may not necessarily build my youth outline but I think it built something more important than resume; my character…

Clothe yourselves with humility toward one another, because, God opposes the proud but gives grace to the humble. Humble yourselves, therefore, under God’s mighty hand, that he may lift you up in due time. 1 Pet 5.5-6

Image Credit: Plognark @ deviantart.com

A few months back I posted a complicated something or another somewhere else (a quote I can’t seem to find at the moment), basically paraphrased it said something like this. “If your Christ life is built upon your skills, your image, your talents, your persona, your degree, anything other than Christ himself; if this is the case, then even though you may have the outward appearance of Christianity you actually have nothing in common with Christianity.” Or something to that effect.

As some of you may know, two weeks ago my left index finger slipped into a machine at work. This ridiculous machine basically bit my poor finger the only way ridiculous machines know how, with nasty rip and tear lacerations.

Later that night, as I stared at my broken finger (I could very easily have lost it), I realized how much identity I had stored in that wee index finger of mine. Mostly because I felt very much worthless with a worthless broken finger; yep, that is the honest truth. I felt worthless because I couldn’t play guitar, thus I couldn’t worship (which is a lie), I couldn’t do the dishes, and I couldn’t even do my envelope stacking job (though I still had to fulfill my work week) so I was stuck doing sub-envelope stacking duties for the rest of the week. Ah yes, very troubling stuff to identities built on personal strength, intelligence, and talent.

And then in the back of my head, the very annoying paraphrased thought from above kept rumbling like so many slow moving freight trains.

There’s something very destructive about having your identity based on things you do simply because you just don’t know when those things will be lost to you.

But my thoughts come in pairs, so along with the freight train there was a mumbling lyric, a worship song actually, just the other week I kicked it off my iPods Ultimate Worship Playlist because even though the lyric was powerful I was bored with the arrangement (that admission itself could be six hours worth of blog):

In Christ alone my hope is found

He is my light, my strength, my song

This cornerstone, this solid ground

Firm through the fiercest drought and storm

What heights of love, what depths of peace

When fears are stilled, when strivings cease

My comforter, my all in all

Here in the love of Christ I stand

In Christ alone, the lyric sings, is a good place for identity, (certainly better than index fingers). And I think it’s true, for God “loves each of us as if there was only one of us,” and has a plan for each of us even if we don’t have functioning index fingers, and sometimes in spite of functioning index fingers…

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As I arose from an honest slumber darling wifey asked me how it felt to be thirty two years full!? The first thing in my mind, the first words of the day;

“I have a lot to do and even less time to do it…”

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“It is vanity to wish for long life and to care little about a well-spent life.”

- Thomas a’ Kempis