The Sabbatical is Over!

After a month off, I've finally stored up enough thoughts to be able to post on a fairly regular schedule. As most of us have experienced, writing has its rich times as well as its dry times. Times come when the words seem to flow like rivers; at other times nothing even remotely interesting comes to mind. And let's be honest, few things are more discouraging than knowingly writing a dull blog.

So, what do you do when the compositional gears of the mind are stuck in neutral? Three things have helped me through this recent valley: 1) Read good stuff, 2) Enjoy enriching hobbies, and 3) Take some time off.

To reinforce the application of these three tips, I'm going to spend the remainder of this post and the next two highlighting how I practice each principle.

Read Good Stuff

Most who like to write also have a love of reading, a fortunate connection. Reading restores the verbal well and stretches the mental muscles. If you are always putting out but never taking in, you'll soon run dry! One key to get the most "bang for the buck" in your reading is to diversify your consumption. Read different topics and different authors. The broader your reading list, the deeper your writing.

If you do not know where to start, here's 5 must reads:

1. Just Walk Across the Room by Bill Hybels

2. Power Through Prayer by E. M. Bounds

3. Dinner with a Perfect Stranger by David Gregory

4. Courageous Leadership by Bill Hybels

5. From Every People and Nation by J. Daniel Hays

What about you? What books do you recommend?

Peace on Earth?

Big news on the wires: Al Gore wins the Nobel Peace Prize.

Yesterday, I had intended on writing a more moving, less-controversial blog. With today's news, I just cannot control myself. I am unable to stifle myself. All I can do is groan, "What a load of bull!"

Al Gore, aka Chicken Little, already won an Academy Award for his film An Inconvenient Truth. Of course, I have no problem with that. What I have a hard time stomaching is that Mr. Freak-out deserves the Nobel Peace Prize for squawking about global warming and living in a 10,000 square-foot mansion with $1,200 electricty bills. Yes, I do find that a bit hypocritical. Even though he does purchase "green power blocks," most observers would acknowledge that practice is simply a reinvention of the Catholic Church selling Indulgences in the corrupt days leading up to the Reformation.

What really disturbs me, however, is fact that what has been the most respected recognition for peace is going to those involved in a debated environmental discussion. The jury is still out on global warming. If one day the majority of environmental scholars comes to assert Global Warming as fact and not theory, then the work of Gore and the IPCC will deserve wide recognition and respect. Until then, as long as Global Warming enjoys the same theory status as the Big Bang, honors such as the Nobel Prize should be reserved for those fighting in legitimate battles for mankind.

A prime example is the HIV/AIDS epidemic in Africa. The emergency status of this continent is undisputable. Moreover, the people are dying each and every day that passes, so why are we putting so much energy and recognition toward the work of those that may fight off a climate change that might come and could kill us? Instead of rewarding Al Gore for his rants, the Nobel Peace Prize should have been given to Bono or World Vision for their work in fighting the AIDS pandemic.

(If you wish to challenge me on this matter, I would invite your comments.)

Gino's East

One of the goals of my recent trip to Chicago, aside from picking up some practical how-to's about small group ministry, was to try some authentic Chicago-style pizza. Allegedly developed by the chef at Pizzeria Uno in 1943, Chicago-style is almost a whole other category removed from the standard pizza with which most of us are familiar. For our experience, my friend and I settled on Gino's East in Rolling Meadows.

We went there starving. After only a few mozzarella sticks and a roll, our pizza finally arrived. It was a 12" pie, with the thickest crust I'd ever seen on a pizza. We did our best, but neither Kirk nor I could complete 3 pieces of this monster!

Flying

This past weekend I flew to Chicago for a conference at Willow Creek Community Church. It was a great time, and I learned a lot. More on that later.

One of the more interesting parts of the trip was my flight up there. We flew Southwest, which I really enjoy for the most part. The only problem I have is when you're in the last group to board, you always get stuck with cruddy seats. All of the good ones are taken first, and I got to choose from the leftovers.

As luck would have it, I had to sit between two rather large men. Apparently, these men liked to drink. They also liked to talk, which made for some very interesting conversations. As we were taxing down the runway, one leaned over me toward the other one and said, "Hey, Bob. You're gonna die!" They laughed a little, and then the first guy remembered that I was sitting there. He turned to me and said, "You're not scared of flying, are ya?" I replied that I was not, much to his relief. He then turned to me and imparted some of the deep wisdom that he had picked up along the way. "You know, you really don't have anything to worry about until you see dirt coming in the front of the plane!"

Profound.

Justice for All

Certain events transpire to remind us of the countless injustices of the world. This past Wednesday the arrest of Nuon Chea called attention back to the seldom-remembered horrors of the Khmer Rouge. Also known as "Brother Number Two," Chea served as deputy leader to Pol Pot, the enigmatic figure who led the brutal regime that terrorized Cambodia from 1975-1980. During their reign, approximately 2 million Cambodians died by torture, execution, or starvation as the Khmer Rouge sought to turn Cambodia into an agrarian utopia. The cities were evacuated by force, the people were forced into rice fields and farm land, and anyone who resisted was punished.

For more than 26 years after the Khmer Rouge was routed from power, its leaders were not held to account. Until this year, no conviction had ever been sought for the brutalities committed against the Cambodian people. When I discovered this fact on my first trip to Cambodia in 2006, my only thought was, "Where is justice in this?" How could such evil go unpunished?

Charges are finally being brought against the most senior surviving leaders of the Khmer Rouge. Kaing Guek Eav, better known as Duch, was charged July 31, 2007 for his role as commander of S21, the most imfamous torture camp in the country. Chea's arrest represents the highest ranking leader who will be charged; Pol Pot died in 1998.

It's hard to imagine that anything can be done on this earth to cover the evil done by the Khmer Rouge. A part of me is so disturbed by my visits to S21 and the Killing Fields that my own rage terrifies me. These feelings must be shared to an exponentially greater degree by the people of Cambodia, whose parents, aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters died at the hands of this murderous regime. Could any tribunal ever exact justice for horrors such as these?

Yet, all of the oppressors and perpetrators of the Khmer Rouge and every other diabolical government will stand before The Judge who does have the power to properly see justice done. Those who remain defiant, as Chea has to this point, will receive unspeakable punishment. The ones who turn to Christ in repentance before that day, as Duch claims to, will be pardoned, their punishments being carried out on a hill in Palestine in the days of the Romans.

And what of the one who has caused all of this, the hater who champions injustice? Will justice ever be done?

Yes.

Images

What a difference six years can make. In the course of that time, much has changed. While I could spend hours pondering the changes our country has gone through since the attacks of September 11, 2001, I would rather focus on the change that must happen within us.

This morning, at the same time when the World Trade Center towers collapsed 6 years ago, I spent the better part of an hour speaking with my friend, Saleem, who happens to be a Muslim. He owns a gas station near my church, and we have struck up a friendship over the course of the last several months. Each Tuesday morning, after our staff prayer meeting, I head over to his store and pick up a couple of granola bars for breakfast. We usually talk for a few minutes or so, and then I head on my way.

Today, we got into a much deeper discussion as he shared with me his journey from being a student in India, to his time as a young engineer in London, to moving his family to the United States as he tried to provide for his family in the best way he knew. He showed me a picture of he and his wife, with their two young adult children. What a beautiful family! And, how he loves them!

Our conversation highlighted a lesson that the Lord has been showing me in recent months. We often tend to break humanity down into groups based on our own understandings and perspectives: good or bad, rich or poor, conservative or liberal, etc. A more useful way would be to look at people through the commonalities that we share. For instance, in Saleem, I saw today a picture of the image of God, a trait that all of humanity has shared since creation. In the hijackers, we saw a clear demonstration of mankind's depravity and hopelessness. The two images come together in a powerful way, reminding us how we each live in both camps. Throughout our lives, each of us display the image of our Creator as well as the extreme "fallen-ness" of the world we inhabit. It is in recognizing these opposing pictures that we begin to view all the people of the world as Christians should: a tarnished version of what one is supposed to be, but with the tremendous potential of being polished and buffed to a brilliant shine!

Painful memories

As a child, I used to ask my mom to let me take piano lessons. I wanted to learn how to play songs like the Star Spangled Banner and other great pieces of music. By the time I was preparing to enter fourth grade, my parents signed me up to begin taking lessons. Then I found out the truth. Contrary to my prior assessment, I did not want to learn how to play the piano; I wanted to know to play piano. This information would have been nice to have before I signed my name in blood to the Piano Czar, Mrs. Site (*name changed for security reasons).

Mrs. Site seemed like a mild-mannered Presbyterian lady, that is until one's hind-quarters landed on her piano bench. Then she pulled out all the dictatorial force she could muster and blasted all "beginners" with both barrels. Everything had a proper way to be done. Hold your hands like this, sit like this, feet like this, etc. She even had a little red book which was to serve as our practice log, a record of the amount of time we had practiced the previous week. Eventually, I learned that watching an episode of Alf from the piano bench at home should be counted as 30 minutes of practice time, providing that I practice during the commercials.

Of course, the doctored practice log was her standard for how much a student should have improved since the previous week. Oh, how she hated it (and us) when we did not progress as prescribed. She would pull out the harder pieces and make us try to play them. When I would struggle to find the notes, she would berate me for not keeping the rhythm. To make matters worse, she would even get out here little rhythm counter, a little pendulum that could be adjusted to match the count, and she would set it in motion to "give some guidance." Tic-toc-tic-toc-tic-toc. It would go on mercilessly, and I would try desperately to keep up as I searched for the keys. Bang, bang, bang! Instead of realizing that this little tactic was not helping, she would then add to the confusion by counting out loud and even clapping her hands. Tic-toc-tic-toc. "One, two, three, four." Bang, bang, bang, bang!

If the lessons were bad, then the recitals were nothing less than diabolical. She would have all of her students come to her house on a Saturday morning, and we all had to sit and listen to each other play pieces that Mrs. Site had picked out. Once my mom had even tried to inspire me by getting me a special music book with simplified version of the Rocky theme. When I showed it to her and asked to play it for the recital, Mrs. Site said, "That's nice for you to play for fun, but for the recital, I want you to play 'Polly Sue by the River'." I hated 'Polly Sue by the River', but Mrs. Site had spoken. So we all gathered together, one big group of miserable kids, and had to listen to everyone play. I remember sitting down at the bench in from of all those kids and seeing the rhythm-keeper out of the corner of my eye, intimidating me, daring me to mess up.

Once I had stumbled through my piece, the other kids followed until we got to the "Advanced" musicians. With these, Mrs. Site would not merely call out their name. To celebrate the occasion, she would talk about how difficult the piece was and how hard so-and-so had worked to prepare such a fine presentation. Mrs. Site left no doubt who the "special" students were.
Ultimately, I was allowed to stop taking piano lessons after three long years. I was inexpressibly glad to be out, thankful to no longer hear that darn rhythm-keeper. However, as the years have passed, one question has consistently baffled me: Why in the world did my parents keep on forcing me to go to these stupid piano lessons at their own expense!?!?