NEXT UP...

They have replaced pews with padded folding chairs.

Instead of a pulpit, there is often a see-thru podium on stage, or maybe a music stand.  One time I saw a guy using a TV tray - even had a can of Pepsi on it.  Made me want  Cheetos.  

Sometimes guys just stand up there sans any stand at all.  These guys have usually memorized their sermons and don't need notes.  Either that or they forgot to write a sermon that week and are wingin' it...er...I mean...are following the prompts of the Holy Spirit as to what to say next. 

Apparently, the Holy Spirit doesn't write sermons during the week either. 

Preachers in suits and ties are nearly extinct.  Now they wear their golf clothes to preach in (easy transition to the links), or maybe beach clothes (Beach and Preach Wear), or whatever they happen to have on at the time.  If you preach in what you clean your garage out in, you can preach and then go clean your garage out without having to change.  

If you preach in your jammies, you can roll out of bed, preach, then head back for a nice afternoon snooze without missin' a beat.  And if the congregation wears THEIR jammies to church they can get their afternoon nap in DURING the sermon.  All very handy.

Which reminds me, all Preachers are doing is matching the congregation's fashion sense, who often look like they've come from showing livestock at a County Fair. I wish they'd bring me a corn dog back with 'em next time.

Your friendly neighborhood song book can soon be sold at auction as an authentic relic of "life in the last century", having been replaced by 3 huge monitors and your own personal Praise Team Singer / flag-waver.

Even church buildings are getting harder to find (at least church buildings with anybody still in them).  Now they meet in old Target stores, empty bars, private homes.  I saw one church that met in a bar, in the round with Lazy-boy recliners instead of pews.  Had I not been preaching somewhere already, I would've preached my best audition sermon on Job and joined in a heartbeat.  

When it comes to unusual places of worship, I prefer the "Car Church"- tends to have smaller congregations but you get to see some country in between songs.

The Church Bulletin is quickly being shown the door by email and Facebook.  Which makes me feel bad for future generations.  The old-time church bulletin was the last place on earth  you could still get a contact high whiffin' the "just printed" ink.  Tut...TUT. 

All this "new" stuff can put me in a pretty bad mood if I let it.  Makes me miss the way things were, the people I used to know, the important way it influenced my life.  It's painful to see what meant so much to me thrown to the wayside and in a way that makes me think no one cares.

And then I think - 

BOO HOO, GRANDPA! 

Guess what?!  "Gunsmoke" and "The Banana Splits Club" went off the air about 100 years ago and surprisingly, we no longer have any use for a thing called, "rabbit ears".

And here's another newsflash: rotary phones were fun (and slow and heavy and hurt your finger) but you can't put one in your pocket and carry it around with you and then expect it to give you directions to Wal-Mart! 

The reason for this is: the world has changed since 1941 and 1978 and 2001, and some of what used to make sense THEN, doesn't anymore.  Some wise, good, sensible words of wisdom THEN simply don't apply any more and never will again.

1978 advice:
"Don't sit so close to the TV you'll fry your brain."

2011 advice:
"Aren't computers great?  Let's sit in front of these little TVs for 22 hours a day!"

So when it comes to some of the surface changes I see in the church, I'm probably feeling what the old guys felt who saw them first bring in pulpits, and song books, and church buildings. 

OLD GRUMP

What's this? 

YOUNG GUY

It's called a pulpit.  

OLD GRUMP

Pull-a-what?  

YOUNG GUY

Pul-PIT.  You preach from it.  See?

OLD GRUMP

I don't want a stupid pulpit.  Where's my preachin' ROCK?!

Look, I wish they'd dress up for church - they don't.  They barely dress up for funerals and their own WEDDINGS.  So boo hoo.

I wish they'd sing the songs I used to know, they make me feel good, remind me of times and people I used to know.  But so what?  The songs they have now praise God, uplift people, teach.  I just don't know or like them as well.  So boo hoo.


The point to all this?  

Sit in a pew, sit in a recliner; 

Wear a suit, wear jeans; 

Knock on a church door at 10am, knock on the door to a secret catacomb under the streets of Rome at midnight...

As long as you're KNOCKING, I hear tell the door WILL be opened unto you.  

Imagine that. 


So until I can get my time machine fixed, guess I'm stuck  dealin' with this ever-present, often annoying, "present" stuff.  Not thrilled about that, but  the recliner idea does have my attention.

As together we stand and sing.

BP 

WHY I LOVE THE OLD TESTAMENT (#3)

I used to know a kid named Kwalk-oo.

I also knew a kid named Brian.

Kwalk-oo got all the girls.  Why?  Because Kwalk-oo is a cool name.

The Old Testament is jam-packed with cool, weird names.  Let's look at a few of them.

First off there's Hagar; handmaid of Sarah, concubine of Abraham and mother of Ishmael.  It was also one of the best Sunday Morning Funnies I have EVER read. Anything that's a Viking, a comic AND in the Bible is a tough combo to beat in my book.

Next there's Nimrod.  Nimrod was a great hunter and the son of Cush.  Nimrod is also a fantastic name to call somebody on the playground, as in, "You Nimrod!"  I find if you tell somebody off with a name from the Bible it is VERY tough to find a come back.  Same goes for "Stiff-necked, uncircumcised, white-washed sepulcher of dead men's bones."  There's just not anything you can say to that.

The King of Assyria's name was  Sennacherib.  I don't even know how to PRONOUNCE that name.  And what do you call him for short?  "Senn"?  "Rib"?  "Brian"?

Holofernes, General of Nebuchadnezzar, is no better.  "Hello, Holo!  Any orders for today?  Nice medals."

Gad was the son of Jacob and Zilpah.  Famous for inventing the phrase: "E-gad!"  As in, "E-gad, my mother is named Zilpah!"

Abihu was the Son of Aaron.  Always makes me think of that song, "Blue Abihu".

Adonijah was one of David's sons, and probably the trouble maker of the family.  You don't name an "easy" kid Adonijah, you name him Brian.  Adonijah was trouble.

Amram was Moses' dad.  And as tough as one and a half Dodge trucks.

As together we stand and sing.

BP 

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO US

Thanks George, Thomas, Ben, Sam, John, Abraham, Douglas, Susan B., Martin, Harriet, Abagail, Patrick, and countless others.

The world has never been the same.

As together we stand and sing.

BP

 

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