DEVO-DOODLES (#1)

If a baptistery is for baptizing...

And a lecturn is for lecturing, and a pulpit is for PULLING people INTO the baptistry...

And if a Communion Table is for communing...

It makes sense that a hymnal is for hymns...

But why am I the crazy one for wanting a HUM-nal as well?! 


Sometimes I like to see what happens when I BleachTM PRE-coffee.

Now we know.  I feel dizzy. 

As together we stand and sing.

BP

BARN BOWLING

Disneyland had nothin' on Grandpa's barn.  Nothing.

If you were 10 years old, like me and my cousin Randy were, you could have happily spent several years of your life trapped in that barn, if only "they'd" have let you.  

Who needs school or food or a stupid pool when you have a barn like Grandpa's to mess around in?

Everything a kid could have ever wanted was in that barn.  Cowboy hats, a tractor, tractor parts, tractor tires, car tires, truck tires, snow tires, and various inexplicable farm equipment parts were all scattered around the place like toaster crumbs.  

What to us were dusty, old pirate chests were filled with every kind of undiscovered treasure: old clothes, magazines from the 1920's, faded photos of ancient strangers, milk crates of unused Polaroid camera film, masking taped board games, a war helmet, some rubber boots, a box of bolts.  

There was all kinds of rope, and telephone cords, a picnic table, some spurs, wads of barbed wire, heaps of cracked, twice painted boards and a 10 gallon jug of industrial hand cleaner called "Goop".  

And in the back, by stacks of bound newspapers and a bird cage, sat a forever grounded, partially constructed, never to be finished, homemade airplane.  A REAL airplane.  Can I get an amen?

Eat your heart out, Knott's Berry Farm.

"Let's play cowboys," Randy said.

For once, he'd beaten me to the punch. The suggestion to play cowboys was made every day, usually by me.  It was never rejected.

"OK," I said, "But I call Jesse James."

This was really an unnecessary "call" on my part.  I was ALWAYS Jesse James.  Randy knew this.  He didn't expect any different.  He knew he would NEVER be Jesse James, just like I knew I would never LET him be Jesse James. As Jesse James I was never once caught or shot.  Except for once, when my Ben Franklin Store purchased caps misfired.  Tragic.

"OK," said Randy, "But let's not do a gun fight this time.  This time let's play REAL cowboys, like for REAL.  Like on a ranch."

I couldn't believe what my cousin was suggesting.  Jesse James, the scourge of the West, dashing outlaw and ladies man, reduced to a simple farm hand?  Was he on barn dust?  What was the point?  No way.  But just as I prepared to raise my screeching protests, he continued.

"See those stacks of tires over there?  Those could be cows and I could roll them at you and then you could hit 'em with somethin'  that would stun the cows, and then we could tie 'em up to the rafters with this rope and then pretend to slaughter 'em by hitting 'em with somethin'."

For those of you reading this who are appalled at my young cousin's rather gruesome suggestion of a playtime activity, let me remind you that these were TIRES we were talkin' about, not baby calves.  So calm down.  Also we were hardened outlaws.  AND this all happened in the days before Pong.  So stop bein' so judge-y and get off my back. 

"Is that what REAL cowboys do?"  I asked.

"I think so." he said.

"But was Jesse James ever a REAL cowboy?  Like on a ranch and everything?" I asked incredulously.

"I think everybody was a real cowboy back then," he said, "Even bank robbers."

"Really?"

"I think so.  Yeah."

This was news to me.  No wonder poor Jesse had gone into a life of crime.  Slaughtering cow-tires was no life for a man of Jesse's bravery and cunning.  It would have driven any man to train robbery.

"OK," I said.  "But what will I hit the tires - I mean cows - with?"

We quickly surveyed the barn for a weapon.  There was an endless number of possibilities: umbrellas, shelving, brooms, crowbars, a steel pig sign that read, "Cluck, cluck".

"What's THAT?" I said, pointing at a darkened corner near Randy.

Randy went to the corner, moved some old papers and pulled out what looked to be an over-sized bowling pin.  It was huge.  And wooden.  And very heavy.  Perfect.

I made sure my guns and cowboy hat were firmly in place as I took hold of the bowling pin and made my way to the killing floor.  Except for my shorts, tank top and flip flops, I was a dead ringer for Jesse James on the ranch.  Like Jesse, I would bring the same professional, cold heartedness to this job that I did to my normal thievery.

"OK," I said, "Ready," as I raised the bowling pin over my shoulder and eyed the prey.  I looked more like Babe Ruth in a cowboy hat and flip flops than anything. 

"OK.  Here it comes," said Randy.  Then he made a crazy cow sound and rolled the tire at me.

THWACK!

I swung hard and landed one solid, satisfying hit to the side of the rubber bovine, directly on it's Firestone relief lettering, and before we knew it, the cow-tire was down flat.   Knocked out.

We both gave a huge cowboy "Yee-Haw" and danced round a bit.  

"OK, Jesse, let's string 'er up," said Randy as he proceeded to loop the rope through the tire and then over the rafter.  Then he handed me the end of the rope to hold while he took the bowling pin and began to bludgeon the poor, stunned cow-tire to death.

Randy had some issues, it's true.  And as he continued to hit the cow-tire with more and more force and vengeance, something told me he was hitting more than the tire.  Had it been a pinata, the candy inside would've been Pixy Stick powder in 30 seconds.   

No matter the reason for his manic voracity.  We were cowboys with a job to do.  So, boo hoo.

When Randy finally exhausted himself, I let go of the rope and sent the tire bouncing away across the floor til it came to rest on some bricks.  Then we looked at each other and smiled.  We knew we had just invented one of the greatest, new games in all of Kid-dom.  It felt fantastic.

"Wow.  That was sooo...COOL!" I yelled.  "Let's do it again!"

"Switch sides!" hollered Randy.

This time, Randy raised the bowling pin above his shoulder while I rolled the tire.

"Look out!  This one's wild!" I said, then rolled the cow-tire as hard as I could at Randy.  The speed I sent it barreling toward him caught him by surprise, forcing him to make a wild, slicing golf swing at the top edge of the thing which sent the cow-tire not rolling but sort of hopping, end over end, back towards me where it finally stopped in a whirling death spin at my feet.


"String her up!" I called out, as I took my turn beating the now hanging target.  I hit it so hard, my forearms stung from the blows.  I assumed this was what it was like to build muscles.

For round three Randy and I again switched spots.  Randy dug through the pile of tires looking for a worthy opponent.  Finally he pulled out a particularly ominous cow-tire.

"You're gonna have to REALLY smack THIS one, Jesse.  It's a steel belted, radial.  With snow studs on it."

I smirked. 

"Roll that skinny, sorry, sucker over here and let me at it," I taunted.  

I'm sorry to say, Jesse James always had quite a mouth on him.  I wasn't proud of that fact, and  never let my mother know.  That smart mouth and the train robberies would have been too much for her.  And...she would have beaten me to death.

Randy got a running start and launched the huge, steel-studded, radial-enforced cow-tire at me with everything he had in him.  I gripped the huge bowling pin tighter and glared at the oncoming, soon to be hamburger meat with disgust.

At the last moment I realized that to make the appropriate death blow I would need to come at this thing from above.  So instead of holding the pin over my shoulder, I held it above my head instead.  

When the cow-tire came within range I swung as hard as a 10 year old criminal can swing a huge wooden bowling pin, hitting the cow-tire directly on it's unprotected top.

THWUMP! 

It was at this point that everything went into slow motion, allowing me to capture each horrifying moment in detail.  

I saw the pin hit the tire top, absorb the impact, then send the pin back, with twice the force, in the direction of my right eye.

PING!

It sounded like a lead pipe had hit a large, hollow watermelon. I dropped the bowling pin and stood there for a moment, motionless.

Randy's eyes and mouth were wide.  "Oh man.  Are you OK?"

"Um...Yeah, I think I...I think...WAHHHHHHHH!"

The dull pounding, stinging pain in my eye finally reached my shocked, insulted brain.  My eye immediately began to swell and discolor.  I took in a deep breath and let out another huge wail.  The room spinned.  The tires smiled.  Randy tried to guide me down the steps to where Grandpa was working.  

When we got to the lower level, Grandpa immediately
administered Farmer's First Aid Part 1: He examined the damage for 3 seconds then said, "Pipe down and go sit on that bucket."

It made sense.  The winter before, Grandpa had fallen off the barn and into a snow bank, where he stayed for 45 minutes til somebody found him.  After he got out all he said was, "That was pretty cold."  He was 75.  You really can't expect much more codling from a guy like that.

Within minutes, my eye  blew up to three times it's normal size.  It became yellow and purple and green. Fluid was everywhere.  My eyelashes were flayed out like a tent revival fan.  My head was aching.  I couldn't see anything for all the tears and swelling.


"Randy, take him up to the house," said Grandpa.  Then to me he said,  "You're fine."  Farmer's First Aid part 2 was now complete. 

By the time we got back to the house, I had stopped crying and had already begun thinking of what I could do with such a wonderfully, gruesome eye.  Hiding it under my hat and then suddenly revealing it to my mother and grandmother with a flourish and a blood curdling scream seemed like the best plan.

It was.

If Heaven is half as good as that barn, count me in.  

As together we stand and sing.

BP

THE QUIET GOD

God and I were talking today.

Well, I was doing MOST of the talking, he was just listening.  Which is how it usually works.  I blab and whine and beg and cry and praise, and apologize, and He just sits there, taking it all in.  I always picture Him sitting in a big orange bean bag, drinking tea, nodding His head.

Personally, I don't think people give God enough credit for being such a fantastic listener.  

Usually when you try to talk to somebody here, they cut you off right in the middle of your sentence and try to turn the conversation back to them.  They check their e-mail, send e-mail, text, watch TV, nap.  I'm used to all that.  What ticks me off is when they nod their head at the wrong times.

But I don't have that problem with God.  He's never once put me on hold, or checked even one e-mail while I was talking to him.  And if anybody had a reason to multi-task, I think He'd be the guy.

Of course, there have been times when I have wished He was not  so quiet.   There have been times I have begged Him to tell me what was on His mind (I've always wondered what His idea was behind the Platypus, and MTV).  

Sometimes I've wanted Him to just quit being so dang mysterious and tell me what I needed to do next, or to assure me that everything was gonna be OK.  But every time, He just hunkers down in that bean bag and sips His Earl Grey. 

I've had friends who say He talks to them all the time.  They carry on with God like they were on a radio call-in talk show together.  They ask God questions, then He answers them right back, then they tell each other jokes and laugh and laugh and laugh.  

It's never worked that way for me and God.  I don't know why. 

People say, "God speaks to us through His Word."  Maybe for you He does.  But whenever I read the Bible I still can't figure out how to find Highway 49 or where I left my keys or why I'm so selfish.  All stuff I ask God about.  You can read the book of Matthew all day and you will never know whether to use anti-bacterial soap or not. 

With me, God is a quiet, calm, intense listener.  I don't know why, but it works, I guess.  Clearly, He is fascinated by all the things I have to say.  My thoughts on church politics.  My ideas about old TV shows.  My sermon series plans.

I have to admit, it's a bit flattering to have the God of the Universe so enthralled by me.  But then again, I really can't blame Him.  Let's face it, I AM a fascinating man of wonder.  

As together we stand and sing.

BP

POEM POWER #3 - "THE SEASONS"

The colors of the falling leaves, 

Remind us one and all,

How Adam and his good wife Eve, 

Dinged us with "The Fall".

Winter's cold and crunchy snow,  
It's dark and lonely days,
Bring to mind the poor man Job, God's chip for gambling ways.

Back to life the birds and bees, The blooming of the Spring,

With alergies to choke and sneeze, 

Hey look!  Your head can ring! 

Then blinding, never-ending heat, 

Means the days of Summer,

An illustration from above, 

Hell will be a bummer.

Behold the seasons of the year, Each with it's special truth

Straighten up and listen here, Repent or get the boot.

by BP, circa 6/29/11

Powerful words.  

Powerful ryhme scheme.  

Weird (but effective) allergy line.

As together we stand and sing.


BP

TOUGH PREACHERS

As so often is my custom, I found myself this morning sittin' around  thinkin' about Preachers.  

This is Lectureship season.  It is a time when all us Preachers shine up our best stuff, tie our tightest Windsors and get ready to strut our sermon stuff in front of each other - while at the same time trying to not appear too show-offy and still have our hearts in the right place (by the way, I'm NOT doing the Lectureships this week because I'm Preachin with Ricky Skaggs this Thursday at the Ryman - I don't say that to be braggy, just letting people know, in case they are expecting THEIR Preacher to be there too.  You're Preacher will NOT be there - just me).

Lectureships are sorta like the Rose Bowl Parade for Preachers. We spend weeks getting ready for them - rehearsing, cutting and  pasting, re-checking texts, sharpening illustrations and mending any flannel graph stuff that was damaged in the last public debate.  Lectureships are big time.

But while I love the Lectureship season - especially when I'm Preaching at the Ryman, like I am this Thursday with Ricky Skaggs - I can't help but wonder what the "Preachers of Old" would think about all this primpin' and pontificating.

I don't mean the "New Testament Preachers of Old"; they'd probably love it.  I think Peter and Paul probably did the first 2 keynotes.

I'm talkin' about the "Old Testament Preachers of Old".  The REAL Preachers.  The guys who are the reason I became a Preacher in the first place.  "The Wildmen of Worship".  Those guys were serious.  Those guys took no lip from anybody.  Those guys would just preach at you and if you didn't repent, they'd just kill ya, right on the spot, before you even got out of your pew. 

Talk about "an altar call".

Talk about  "Evangel-cool."

Imagine THAT Lectureship, and what THAT schedule of speakers looked like:

Tough Guys Lectureship Series: 

"Letting Loose The Killer Prophet In You"; 

Woman at The Well Auditorium, Hebron, 2023 B.C.

9:30am - Samson; "How To Bring The House Down Without Using Power Point OR Steroids."

11:15am - Elisha: "Dealing With The Mouthy Teen: The Care and Feeding of She-bears."

12:30pm - Preacher's Fellowship Lunch; lentils, figs, manna and Elder Casserole.

1:30pm - Moses: "10 Plagues That Will Drive Your Elders Nuts (And Get You What You Want)."

2:30pm - Eve: "What And What NOT To Feed Your Husband."

2:30pm - Esther: "Why Women Prophets Will Beat You Every Time."

3:30pm - David: "Slingshots Won't Grow a Church But Can Kill A Pretty Mouthy Giant."

4:30pm - Elijah: "How To Wipe Out 500 Prophets of Baal While Making A Bar-B-Que."

4:30pm - Jonah: "The Preacher's Quite Time: What 3 Days Inside A Whale Can Do For Your Preaching Ideas."

5:00pm - Amos: "How To Keep On Preaching When Nobody Can Find Your Book In The Bible (or even knows for sure what you did)."   (NOTE: the location for this lecture is yet to be located.  Participants may wanna just skip this one and go to dinner early.). 

6:00pm - Preacher Lifetime Achievement Award Banquet: Honoring Brother Noah; who preached for 200 years, got exactly NO converts but DID end up baptizing and simultaneously killing the entire world - whether they liked it or not.   

7:30pm  - Entertainment; The New Ammonite Singers, singing their hit, "You Killed 'Em All But You Didn't Get Me!"

7:35pm - Kill remaining Ammonites.

8:00pm - Congregational singing and Fellowship Fisticuffs.  Followed by a special Philistine foreskin collection for The New NEW Ammonite Singers.

10:00pm - Campfire Sing-A-Long with a "Nothin' in my hands" fire from heaven igniting of the campfire demonstration by Elijah and 500 prophets of Baal.  (Note: Elijah wins).

As together we stand and sing.

BP.

MAILBAG #2

 Well, it's time once again to reach into the 'ole mailbag and see what the BlembersTM (blog-members) of this BlongregationTM (blog-congregation) have been saying recently in the comments section of this BlurchTM (blog-church).  So, it's not REALLY a mailbag.  Everybody understand?  Be cool.  Here we go.

First off, we go to an old favorite The Wolfman; who wrote this comment in response to my BlermonTM entitled "Blishionary JourneyTM", where I referenced the WWF.  Wolfman howls:

"If you are going to reference a wrestling organization, be sure and update your database. It is no longer the WWF (unless you means the World Wildlife Fund...may still apply to your comment anyway). it is now the WWE, World Wrestling Entertainment. As a BlishionaryTM, you should keep up to date with current cultural collaborations of cataclysmic character."

As always, Wolfman can come off just a little "know-it-all-look-I-just-got-my-braces off-my-teeth-straight-A student-y" on his comments (C students make the best  Preachers, by the way). I think it has to do with him bein' a Wolfman.   Still, he makes a valid point.  WWF does indeed stand for World Wildlife Fund - which was exactly what I was referring to.  So...there.


Rose (who has a fantastic blog of her own - check out) had this to say about Gidget's movie boyfriend, Daniel Craig in response to my BlermonTM: Ain't A That Good News, Yes, It Is:

"Daniel Craig? No, thanks; he has not captured my attention in the slightest. I'm on your side for this one; I certainly wouldn't be goo-gooing over him."

If I gave out prizes for comments, this comment would be getting a washer and dryer.  I think I will sew it onto a quilt and put it on Gidget's side of the bed.

Next, we have a comment from a frequent and vocal BlemberTM of this BlongregationTM, Aesaint; who had this to say about my Thought Of The Day #6 where I wrote: "I wonder if I'll ever think of another Blermon."  Aesaint writes: 

"My husband is the 'urologist to the stars' AND gives discounts to clergy." 

I have no idea why Aesaint felt the need to tell me that information considering I was yakkin' about BlermonTM topics, - but it's always good to know a capable Urologist as well as where I can get a discount.  So, thanks.  I'll be by later this week.

Another frequent BlemberTM, Rcorely wrote this in response to my BlermonTM, "Happy Muesday":

"Another instant, miraculous transformation: reading this blog makes me feel smart! That is amazing"

I agree, it IS amazing that this blog does ANYthing at all.  By the way, those of you NOT mentioned in this week's mailbag - take note: compliments will get you everywhere. 

In "The Parable Of 2 Pizzas" I wrote something...though  I really cant remember what it was right now...that prompted new BlemberTM Hamzdad to reply:   

"Thank you Lord for Pizza Hut!"

Between you and me, I don't think Hamzdad even read my BlermonTM that day.  But I have to agree - PH makes a pretty mean thin crust.  So, no foul.

In response to my award-winning BlermonTM, "When Dad Caught Bonnie and Clyde", Deacon Giff wrote

"Great story BP. Love, love, loved it!"

As I said before: compliments...everywhere.

New Blember Lisa M read "Gidget: Marriage Guru" and wrote:

Rough feet are one thing, but singing to sleep? Who are you kidding. We know you were snoring to beat the band. Come on BP, confession is good for the soul,and you have got to clear your conscience. Fess up. Gidget was threatening to stuff those sweat socks in your mouth if you didn't stop your supposed 'singing'! You are driving her nuts. We know the truth. She is only letting you think that she's driving you nuts. Goodness. We all know, you were like that as a teen.

Keep living in your lala land though. We wives know the real story.

Wow.  I don't know about you, but I feel like I've been in the losing side of a street fight.  Clearly, Gidget got to Lisa and promised to make her President of her fan club, "Mouthy Friends of Gidget".  I'm doomed.

Finally, we have something from new BlemberTM, CS in response to "The Smart Guys" blermon:

 "Brother Preacher!! Why did I not know about the Malibu Fight Night? I, of all people -- I who witnessed your first miracle, The Wiping Up Of Coffee With a Plastic Bag during Moonshine rehearsal." 

I haven't thought about that miracle in years.  I was fantastic.  Wish you ALL could have been there.

as together we stand and sing

BP

GIDGET: MARRIAGE GURU

Sometimes Gidget scares me to death.  

The other day my wife, Gidget, started tellin' me about this time, a few years ago, when the two of us went on a vacation to Peru.  We met some friends there, went hiking, saw Machu Picchu, and then later ate some fried bananas on a beach.  

While we were there, she got food poisoning, and I got a pretty bad sunburn that landed both of us in the Emergency Room.  

It all ended OK though, when the Doctor who treated us both, offered to let us stay at his Villa that overlooked the ocean for nothing for 2 weeks.  Despite the 2 days of illness, it was without a doubt, a trip of a lifetime.

Unfortunately, I had absolutely NO memory of this trip whatsoever.  I was terrified.  Naturally, I assumed I was experiencing early stages of something terrible.  

So I started popping vitamin C and fish pills like they were Skittles.  Then I started making "sticky" notes to remind me who Gidget was and who I was and where I lived and then slapped the notes all over the house.  

I was devastated.

Then a couple of weeks later, I was telling a friend the sad tale of how I had absolutely NO memory of this clearly fantastic trip to Peru with my wife, when Gidget walked in.

"What are you talking about?"  she said.

"I'm telling Bruce about that trip to Peru I can't remember being on."

"Peru?" she said.  "You were never on a trip to Peru!  That was me and my SISTER!  I got food poisoning and she got this really bad sunburn.  Terrible.  Why on earth would you think you went on that trip?"

She's going to drive me nuts.

She does the same thing with movies I've never seen, books I've never read, and dogs we've either had or not had.

"What do you MEAN you don't remember Fluffy? He went to Peru with us!  Fluffy LOVED Machu Picchu."

Sometimes Gidget will suddenly rearrange everything in the kitchen cupboards for no reason, making me feel like I'm visiting an old friend's house for the first time.  I recognize the dishes, but have NO idea where I found them or what they're for.  

She'll put the bath towels where we used to keep the drill.  The drill ends up in the freezer next to the frozen peas.

One time I went to get the checkbook and found a drawer full of yarn.  You can't pay bills with yarn.

Then last night I crawled into bed next to her and she said, 

"You're feet are so ROUGH!  They feel like sweat socks!  You have GOT to start using some lotion, or get a pedicure, or BOTH!"

I felt terrible, apologized profusely and then sang her to sleep.  

Then I reached down and took off my SOCKS, revealing my perfectly smooth, gorgeous feet.

I was so confused I couldn't sleep for 2 hours.

The good news is this kind of thing can be great for a marriage.  Makes you feel like a newlywed and an Alzheimer's patient all at the same time.  Either way, you really start paying attention to each other again.  You HAVE to, otherwise you'll never find the towels.  

Its kinda like dating again - if you dated somebody who kept hiding your coffee mug from you, and told you that you used to work on an alligator farm.  Every day is a new day to be spent trying to figure out who the heck you're married to now.

I love Gidget.

She's going to drive me NUTS, but I love her.

As together we stand and sing.

BP