Whodunit?

Next weekend, the singles class at my church is having a murder mystery dinner, which can best be described as a live-action version of the game Clue. Everyone attending gets the profile of character they must play. Once at the dinner, you find further instructions about which other characters you should talk to, specific information you must provide if asked, and pieces of evidence to keep an eye one.

I had a blast at the one I attended one last summer. We arrived at what was supposed to be a wedding banquet and began mingling and eating. Then, about halfway through the night, the lights went out, there was a scream, a bang, and when the lights came back on, we discovered the bride had been murdered (pretend-like, of course). The rest of the evening, we the banquet-goers sought to uncover who among us was the culprit based on what information we could obtain from other characters and other pieces of evidence found in the room.

It's even more fun than it sounds. If you ever get the chance to participate, don't pass it up.

Problem is, I can't attend this next one. That evening I'll be across town at the rehearsal dinner for one of the 78 weddings I'm attending this year. At best, I might be able to show up about two-thirds of the way through the mystery dinner, precluding me from playing any of the established roles. But then I thought to myself: What if I just created my own role, and then crashed the party halfway through?

This plan is flawless.

The theme for the upcoming mystery dinner is a poker tournament in the wild west, circa 1880--a believeable murder scene to say the least. As much fun as it would be to be a part of it, it might even be more fun for me to introduce a new, unexpected character into the middle of the story and just see what happens. Since no one knows any information coming in except for their own part, they may not even realize that I'm an unauthorized addition to the show.

I just have to narrow it down to the best idea. Here's what I've got so far:

1. Classic slacker entrance. Walk in, still putting on my cowboy costume and loudly proclaim, "Hey, sorry I'm late. I'm supposed to off somebody when the lights go out. Did anybody else have those instructions or was it just me?"

(1b) Modified slacker entrance. "Okay, so I got a little confused on the directions, and so I apparently didn't realize I was at the wrong party for over an hour. The main thing is I made it. But...if an officer shows up asking something about a maniac firing a cap gun at some kid's birthday party down at the skating rink, you know nothing.

2. "The plot thickens" approach. Burst through the doors dramatically, in full garb, with a fake blood stain over the front of my shirt denoting a bullet would. Clutching my wound, stagger around the room and bring the proceedings to a screeching halt with an obscenely loud, melodramatic soliloquy on the philosphical implications of dying as part 35-minute death scene that involves several instances of falling momentarily into a nearby character and asking them to do something (ridiculous) for me after I'm gone. Having crossed the room several times, collapse onto the middle of the floor, screeching, then go motionless. Wait five seconds. Wake up abruptly, say "Oh, by the way, Joe's the killer," then return to being dead.

3. Emmitt "Doc" Brown. Come in standard cowboy outfit plus trenchcoat, add platinum white mad scientist wig, and barrell in with my best Christopher Lloyd impression. Which is not that great. I'll run from one partygoer to the next, screaming "Have you seen Miss Clayton?!" and "The flux capacitor won't remain operational all evening! We've got to get the locomotive up to 88 miles per hour!" This would be helped by an accomplice who at least somewhat resembled Michael J. Fox, wearing that ridiculous getup from the beginning of BTtF Part III. I'd grab him by the vest and shake him as I pointed to the dead character's corpse: "Did you do it? Did you?!? Marty, you've altered the past! This is terrible! He was my grandfather! Great Scott!!"

4. Arrive as the Ace of Spades. As in, find a costume resembling the human playing cards from Alice in Wonderland. Look at everyone suspiciously. If someone comes near you, flinch overdramatically and run away.

5. Come as Batman. Saunter around. Randomly grab someone by the shirt collar and bellow, in an indecipherable growl, "Did you do it?" Push them away. Go to refreshment table. Chug punch while scowling. Repeat.

6. Come dressed as a clown with a bomb, complete with comically oversized digital countdown display, strapped to the front of my chest. While grinning maniacally, walk in one door, cross the room slowly, and exit the other side. Say nothing.

7. Train a Jack Russell terrier to sprint around the room, holding a nutcracker figurine in his mouth. Come in dressed as a pirate, covered in what appears to be remnants of a wedding cake. In a fit of rage, pursue the dog around the room while menacingly wielding a rubber snake as a whip. Knock people over if necessary. Repeatedly curse the dog in French. If possible, exit through one door, then return, holding the nutcracker, as the dog pursues me with the rubber snake in its mouth. Yell expressions of terror in Spanish. When asked later, swear I recall neither seeing nor orchestrating any such display.

8. If nothing else... Put on best dark suit, hair perfectly coiffed. Carry around a martini glass. Wink at the women. Do the fake finger gun-point at the men. Smile insincerely at everyone. Wear "My Name Is" sticker that reads: "Red Herring."

That's all I've come up with so far. If you have any suggestions, feel fee to post them below. And if it's one that provides significant payoff with little effort or preparation (e.g. training a dog), I just may do it.

If so, I'll give a full report next weekend.

At Long Last

I'm tempted to claim my long delay between posts was a marketing stunt. It’s not unheard of for some writers/artists/musicians to disappear from the public spotlight in order to fuel speculation and, hopefully, ramp up anticipation for their next release. No, that’s not it. I'd just alienate the few loyal readers I have (or had?).

Nor can I attribute my procrastination to my July 4th weekend injury. One, because it was on my foot, actually giving me more opportunity to write as I laid off of more strenuous activities. Also, I could have used it as a subject for a blog anyway, although I don’t know if there was much to tell beyond a photograph of the five stitches on the bottom of my foot and a warning to any barefoot lake-goers to watch out for the heads of nails protruding from aging docks. (My friend Owen captured it best: "You didn’t really step on the nail so much as you swung your foot across it.")

That awful tension that just shot up your spine and into your shoulders? That’s worse that the wound ever hurt, once I got the bleeding stopped. Matter of fact, the pain of the tetanus shot lingered longer than the ache in my foot. And truth be told, the most annoying things about the ordeal were the facts that I (a) couldn’t go running for two weeks, thereby derailing my mud run training, and (b) it is harder than you think to walk around without bending your foot or rolling up on your toes. I looked ridiculous. Moreso.

But enough of that. You want a blog post? Here’s what I got:

The more organized a party is, the more fun it is to crash. Case in point, a murder mystery dinner night coming up in a few weeks. It’s like an evening-long fame of live-action Clue, except with much more complicated motives and characters. Everyone that comes has a role to play. One person is the murderer. One person is the murder victim. Everyone else must figure out by the end of the night. It isn’t difficult, and you don’t need any acting skills to participate, but there are certain lines to be read and objectives for most characters that need to be fulfilled for the evening to be success. Point being, the evening is a lot of fun, but also very structured.

All the better for party crashers to have some fun.

(To be continued…)

Rip-off Blog: "I know I had it coming..."

It's impossible to plagiarize yourself, right? I just felt like posting.

I don't spend much time in bars, but the occasional jaunt to a local watering hole for karaoke with friends is usually a good time--never mind the fact that singing in public to an intoxicated audience once held the spot just below "self immolation" on my list of top ways to ruin a perfectly good evening. Still, it's fun to go just to see what songs your friends will pick. The best ones are those that they clearly regret selecting only four bars in, at which point it's obviously too late. Once you start a song, you have to see it through to the bitter end. That's karaoke law.

My usual strategy is to pick a song that no one in their right mind would boo no matter how badly I slaughter it. The last time I went, I only performed one song: "Folsom Prison Blues." Number one, it's Cash. Nobody dares disrespect Cash. Number two, no offense to the Man in Black, but you can be pretty tone-deaf and still make the prisoner's grumbled mourning sound real. And on top of that it's just a cool song that you really don't hear that often.

As most people know, the song is fictional. Though it's consistent with his image, Cash never served any time in prison--or committed murder, as far as anyone knows. And yet what's the line that invariably evokes the most hoops and hollers in the karaoke joint? No question: "I shot a man in Reno, just to watch him die."

And I'm thinking, "What's wrong with these people? Cheering on a cold-blooded killing for no reason? Er, wait...I'M the one that picked the song..." Amazing what you'll sing about that you'd never consider doing.

According to Wikipedia, Cash recounted how he came up with the "Reno" line thusly: "I sat with my pen in my hand, trying to think up the worst reason a person could have for killing another person, and that's what came to mind."

Cash wasn't a bad guy. He just seemed to want people to think he was--not unlike the unfortunate incident that brought my night to an early end.

Out of respect for the privacy of those involved, I'll forgo the details. Let's just say that I feel strongly that, while fun has its place, paid performers at nightclubs owe a degree of respect to the patrons they entertain. ...And if defending a young lady's honor compels me to take a bar stool to some Billy Joel wannabe's baby grand, so be it. It's not the first dueling piano bar that's issued me a lifetime ban, and I highly doubt it'll be the last.

"But those people keep a'moving, and that's what tortures me."

Flashback Blog: The Parable of the Sandwich

All good things must come to an end. Life goes on. Insert bland maxim here. As the long-standing housing situation breaks up and we each go our separate ways, I thought it only fitting to commemorate the time spent together by revisiting a tale from months back--a typical day at the Trace.

Friday afternoon
5:53pm
"The Trace"

Ben: Whew! Another day of non-stop excitement at the bureaucracy office in the books. Nothing to do now but kick back and enjoy a few hours of reading before bed. I've almost finished that new grammar textbook I checked out from the library. Almost too much excitement for a Friday evening, I tell ya. But, hey—you only live once. First, though, I've got to get some dinner. [checks fridge] Ah, yes! The other half of my Publix sub left over from lunch. That'll hit the spot. Almost as good as the ol' S&S cafeteria. [unwraps sandwich] There's no better way to wind down after a hectic day than sitting down to a peaceful meal at home.

[door flies open]

Tony: WHOOOO! I tell you I killed my quads in the gym. Squat 400 pounds 13 times. I was only supposed to do a set of 10, but these girls were, you know, watching intently, so I grinded out out 3 more for good measure. Didn't want to disappoint.  You ever try the squat rack?

Ben: I...yes.

Tony: Boy it'll do a number on you. I feel great. [drops down, does forty pushups, jumps back up, throws down a two-liter protein shake containing several clearly live goldfish] Whew! That was a good appetizer, but my stomach is about to eat itself.  I need food.  Fortunately I still have--[stops abruptly at the sight of the sandwich]--what's that?

Ben: Publix sub.

Tony: That's not my Publix sub, is it?

Ben: Nope. My Publix sub.

Tony: [checks fridge] Dude, that is my sub. There's no other sub in here.

Ben: This has to be mine. I left it there not six hours ago.

Tony: All I know is I left half a sub in here yesterday, and I definitely didn't eat it since then. I had a 9-egg omlette for dinner and 16 waffles for breakfast.

Ben: I think you're confused.

Tony: About a sub? No way. My memory regarding sandwiches is like steel trap. Here, let me take a bite, I'll tell you for sure if it's mine.

Ben: Get away! That's my dinner!

Tony: It's my sandwich!

Ben: Mine!

Tony: Mine!

Jay: Children, please.

[Tony and Ben look around abruptly]

Tony: How long have you been standing there?

Ben:  And why are you wearing a robe?

Jay:  I heard your calls of distress.  And the robe is comfortable. 

Ben:  Let me guess--you crashed the server again, and you're waiting for it to recover?

Jay: [looks at floor] ...yes. But...in the meantime, I hope to remedy this conflict. Tell me, what seems to be the problem?

Tony: He's trying to steal my sandwich.

Ben: It's mine. If it isn't, where'd mine go?

Tony: Maybe you left it under a stack of books.

Ben: Maybe you accidentally blended yours in that shake.  And isn't there a dumbbell around here that needs lifting?

Jay: Children, children.

Ben: Dude, stop calling us that.

Jay: I will not. But I will resolve the situation in a manner that is equitable and fair.

Tony: Okay.

Ben: Let's hear it.

Jay: To settle this argument of who is the rightful owner of the sandwich, we will compromise. [produces a large kitchen knife] I'll cut the sandwich in two, and each of you will receive half.

Tony: [falling to his knees] NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

Ben: Um...right. Whatever. I can't expect you to take sides. I suppose half's better than nothing.

[Jay raises knife.]

Tony: No! Don't cut it! You can't! Just let Ben have the sandwich.

Ben: Hey! All right! [reaches for the sandwich, but Jay stops him]

Jay: Wait! Tony, why did you say to let him have the sandwich?

Tony: [sobbing] Because it's wrong. I would rather let someone else have the sandwich that for it to be hacked into sad little pieces of its former self.

Jay [puts his hand on Tony's shoulder]: Compassion like that can only come from a man who truly loves his sandwich.

Ben: Do what?

Jay: Tony, you clearly are the rightful owner of the sandwich.

Ben: WHAT?!

Tony: [clutching sandwich tightly] Thank you! Thank you! Your wisdom prevails again, Jay.

Jay:  Go, my son.  Nourish yourself.

Ben: Dude...it's a sandwich!

Tony: [to sandwich] I almost thought I'd lost you! [retreats to kitchen]

[Ben glares at Jay.]

Jay: Ben, there's a lesson to be learned here. And that lesson is that nothing can break the bond between a man and his sandwich.

Ben: I hate you.

Jay: Nothing!

Ben: Yeah, "nothing." As in, "I have nothing to eat for dinner, now."

Jay: Man does not live on 7-grain whole wheat bread alone, friend.

Ben: I keep telling you, that's blasphemous.

Jay: Is it, Ben? Or is it that the truth hits close to home?

Ben: [sniffing] Why do I smell oil and vinegar on your breath?

DQ

It should have been evident long before now: There is an abysmal lack of Dairy Queens where I live. I learned this when a recent trip out of state required a detour to address weather/visibility issues. Long story.

Actually, no. It’s not. We couldn’t see the road. That’s the story.

At any rate, the unscheduled stop passed a Dairy Queen, whose distinctive red and white sign apparently can have an effect on some people not altogether different from the one that Krispy Kreme’s “Hot and Now” sign does. Said individuals, apparently, have an anomaly in the connection between their visual cortex and the part of the brain—its name escapes me at the moment—responsible for regulating hunger. Whereas the general population see the “Hot and Now” sign driving past and think, “Ooh, a warm donut would taste awesome right now,” and then turn in to buy one, these strangely-wired persons have such an acute sensitivity to the donut sign and subsequently experience cravings so intense and maniacal, that seeing these poor souls go tearing off into the night after an original glazed is enough to make Pavlov’s dog recoil in disgust: “Blimey! All at fuss abou’ a dough-knot? Yay gods, man! Hows about some self-control, ay, Guv-nah?”

Because, as everyone knows, Pavlov’s dog is condescending. And speaks English. In a Cockney accent. And is apparently a hypocrite.

It’s like that little-known live-action Scooby-Doo movie from the early 80s where Scooby was played by a drunk Dick Van Dyke in a Great Dane costume.

Pavlov must have rolled over in his grave.

But I digress.

No one really knows how to describe the donut-obsession disorder to a person that hasn’t experienced it first hand, but it apparently gives its sufferers abilities that border on clairvoyance. Perhaps they develop super-hearing that can recognize the sound of the “Hot and Now” sign’s switch flipping over a jet takeoff. Perhaps their olfactory sense has perfected to the point that they can smell doughnuts from farther away than hyenas can smell carrion (Think Monterrey Jack’s cheese obsession on Rescue Rangers. What? Like you didn’t watch it.) My theory is that the sign actually emits a wavelength of light only visible to this population. To them, the light from the sign projects into the sky much like the Thundercats’ symbol would from Lion-O’s sword of omens (Right. Like you didn’t watch that one, too.). It causes them to turn their faces to the heavens, neon red flashing in their eyes, and abruptly stop whatever they might have been doing—sleeping, jogging, driving, performing an appendectomy—and bolt like a rabid Snarf toward the beacon summoning them.

Unchecked, that’s what my love of Dairy Queen risks becoming.

Their banana split shake tastes like an actual banana split. I mean, Sonic is good, but Sonic’s got nothing on Dairy Queen. And the only thing that comes close to a Dairy Queen around here is one that is actually part of a gas station out near the highway by the airport. I don’t think it’s a legit Dairy Queen, and I don’t think it serves everything a normal Dairy Queen does. But it’s all I’ve got. For now.

Though I suppose that’s for the best. I’ve got an eye toward competing in the USMC Mud Run again this year, and DQ's blizzards are not part of any legit training regimen. I need keep that in mind, even though the Mud Run's five months away. Can’t let it slip up on you.

[Organizational note to self: About here is where you'll want the blog to transition from talking about Dairy Queen to talking about “running races” and “being disqualified.” You’ll want to do it subtly, so your readers don’t catch on to the fact that the blog title is nothing but a cheesy pun enabling you wedge some ridiculous story about ice cream into a piece on spiritual discipline. Oh yeah, and don’t be a moron and forget to delete this note before you post.]

As luck would have it, I heard a message on that topic the day after the Dairy Queen Detour Incident of Aught-nine, as it will hereafter be called. Having a consistent spiritual walk is more important than any outward display. You don’t have to be perfect to be a Christian, or even to be a disciple. However, as Paul warns us, we must be careful not to “disqualify” ourselves—that is, to lose credibility. If people begin to doubt you for being inconsistent or dishonest, there comes a point where it’s naïve to reject them for “judging” you. Maybe it’s our own fault for demonstrating poor judgment. All of our transgressions can be forgiven. That doesn’t mean people owe it to us to trust us if we have demonstrated untrustworthiness.

A few years ago, I remember the pastor giving a fictional example of an usher responsible for taking up offering who got caught red-handed stealing wads of money from the plate. He asked the pastor for forgiveness. The pastor forgave him. Then he fired him.

We all must forgive. If necessary, we all must forgive again. And again. But none of us technically deserve forgiveness. And we certainly don’t deserve anything more than forgiveness, like being trusted to oversee money if we have a history of embezzlement.

The pastor gave two examples in his sermon: The first was Jim Bakker. Bakker was involved in a scandal that began with marital infidelity and ended up being financial misdeeds that landed him in jail. I won’t go into the full details here. The sum is that he emerged from the ordeal, began a much more low-key ministry, rejected the health and wealth gospel, and apologized to the people he’d hurt. And they should forgive him. They do not need to give him any money (I don’t think he’s asking, though). His ex-wife didn’t owe it to him to come back to him. Technically, nobody even has to believe everything Bakker says about what happened, which is a common stance since the story appears in a book he’s trying to sell—though I’m not sure how else you’d tell the whole story.

The other example, whom the pastor didn’t name, is most likely Mike Warnke. His fall from grace happened about the same time as Bakker’s. Warnke was a popular Christian comedian in the 80s and early 90s. He had an amazing testimony about having been a high-ranking official in the church of Satan before becoming a Christian. Warnke reformed his life, started his own ministry, and became a prominent expert on the occult, even serving as a resource for law enforcement agencies on believed Satanic rituals like sacrifices. Warnke’s story was incredible.

And with good reason: It wasn’t true. A magazine article in 1991 exposed almost every facet of Warnke’s past as an elaborate hoax and lie. It is probably the worst example of “How did he get away with this for so long?” I’ve ever heard. I’ll let you read it yourself to get a full sense of it, but to my knowledge, Warnke’s never offered a plausible excuse. As a result, many of his former fans no longer follow him. It doesn't matter to them that he may be telling the truth now. They feel betrayed.

I’ve been looking at myself in the mirror, figuratively speaking, a lot more lately. What about myself don’t I see, or am I choosing not to see, that might disqualify me? I’ll be praying that God would show me where I need to be in better control, more disciplined. Ignored, everything comes to light anyway.

An exercise in personal integrity speaks to this very issue: Imagine the worst possible thing you could see revealed about yourself in the news tomorrow. I don't know what mine would be, but it's probably something bigger than a piece on p. 37E: “Unknown Blogger Arrested for Loitering At Dairy Queen.”

Flashback Blog: Slaying the Dragon

Lent starts this week, so I thought it only fitting to revisit an adventure in self-denial. (Note: This blog was originally posted almost two years ago. I'm happy to report that Jay successfully made it through the ordeal with minimal psychological fracturing.)

Those who look for Jay online may have a hard time finding him after next week. He will be giving up his computer—outside of work-related needs, of course—for about a month. He's apparently decided he needs to break his dependency. I for one applaud Jay's self-initiated pseudo-lent.

"Good for you," I told him. "Admitting that you have a problem is the first step toward kicking an addiction."

"Is it also the last step?"

"Uh, no. That would be actually conquering it."

"Aw, crap. That sounds hard."

It is, I told him. And I should know. Not long ago, I had to come to grips with a similar demon in my own life. You can probably guess it: Caffeine. Liquid crack. Seattle C. Black gold. My life blood, for a while. I realized I had a problem one day when, while eating out with friends, I was duped into drinking decaffeinated Folgers crystals—on hidden camera, no less—rather than my normal coffee, and I subsequently flew into a fit of rage. I doubt that my reaction will be the take they use for the commercial, and I've likely worn out my welcome at Nonnah's for some time.

I hadn't planned on relaying the gritty details of my struggle, but I figure it could inspire others with similar vices to break free. You just have to say you're going to do it, accept the unpleasant side effects, and then jump in with both feet. It also helps to have people keep you accountable.

The sad part was having to throw out all my caffeinated beverages at the start, but I didn't want the temptation of them lying around.  The first day wasn't too bad, but after that I began a slow spiral into full-fledged withdrawal. As some of you may have witnessed, it wasn't pretty...

Day 2: I felt tired, obviously, but only in the general I-didn't-get-enough-sleep-last-night kind of way even though I'd slept for nine hours. The headaches began soon after. I had trouble concentrating, I was dragging, and I chugged a lot of decaf coffee (yes, I know it has trace amounts of caffeine—that was one concession I gave myself). I'd hoped the psychological effect of drinking something warm would make me feel better. It didn't.

Day 5: I become irritable and generally no fun to be around. Katie asks me a question at work, and I throw a stapler at her—a twist on the usual exchange. A driver cuts me off going home from work, so I speed up and run him off the bridge and into the Congaree River. Simple tasks become difficult. The directions on the cup of microwavable noodles might as well be instructions on launching the space shuttle—in Cantonese. I begin to think that maybe my taste buds have become compromised one morning, only to discover halfway through my bowl of cocoa puffs that I'd doused it with V8 instead of milk. I try to go to the gym, but they ask me to leave after I fall asleep on the treadmill. I'm still trying to figure out how that happened. I decide that maybe if I increase my sleep habits to eleven hours per night, I won't be tired anymore. Wrong.

Day 9: I'm tired. My head hurts. I hate the world. I can't think straight. I can't blog. I can't work out like I should. I can't blog. I realize that if I don't cut back on the aspirin, I'll have to follow up lent with a detox for that, too. I smell coffee from down the hall and wonder if maybe just one cup would ease my pain. A small devil appears on my shoulder trying to tempt me. He looks like Juan Valdez in a cheap halloween costume. Come on, he says. Going forty days with just one cup is pretty impressive. What's the point of hurting yourself? No! Must not give in... People start looking at me strangely when they pass my office. Maybe because I'm shouting at the invisible devil on my shoulder.

Day 14: Reality has become fractured. All the world's a stage, and I am but an actor—butchering my lines, missing my cues, and generally being a nuisance on set when the lighting doesn't suit me. I throw a tantrum, demand better treatment and a bowl of blue M&Ms and chocolate milk with a whimsical twisty straw. Now. I hurl a platter of pastries across the set and inform the director (or is that my boss?—I can't tell anymore) that I'll be in my trailer whenever he decides to start giving his star fair treatment. For lunch, I eat a cold can of black beans and imagine that they're the coffee variety. For a moment—only a moment—I fool myself into believing they are. For that moment, it was wonderful. Then it was just plain disgusting.

Day 22: I am the walrus, koo koo ka choo. I flash in and out of lucidity. Nothing is as it seems. Is that Tony in his uniform arriving home from work? Or are government agents coming for me, now that I have intercepted their secret code written in cuneiform on my honey bunches of oats? Just to be safe, I hide in my room for three days until the black helicopters stop circling over my apartment. I craft a helmet from styrofoam peanuts and gorilla glue to prevent them from reading my thoughts via microwave transmitters. I rearrange my furniture into a barricade, sleep in the closet, and pass the time by lecturing Marxist economic theory to my shoes. My pair of Adidas Sambas plan a mutiny, but I overhear their cabal. On the fourth night, I feign sleep until they doze off, then seize one and use it to beat the other to death. A cruel and ironic fate, true, but they deserve no better, the traitors. I am finally flushed out of my barricade by a horde of ill-tempered, genetically-mutated tree frogs that only I can see. Jay is behind this, somehow. I know it. I'll get that treacherous, invisible tree frog-controlling scoundrel...

...

I woke up four days later in a dumpster behind Jammin' Java. I guess I was drawn to the smell. There's a lesson to learn in all of this: everything in moderation. Excess of caffeine can be dangerous, but apparently absence of caffeine can be equally traumatic—though psychadelically intriguing. Or, in the words of John Calvin, which I will now attempt (and likely fail) to paraphrase, "Our sin is usually not in what we want, but in that we want it too much." It's true. We too often polarize ourselves.  There are lines that we know we cannot cross, true.  But for many aspects of life, all or nothing are usually both pitfalls. We are, as one theologian put it, like a drunk who cannot stay in the middle of the road. We stumble into the ditch on one side, then climb out and proceed to stumble into the ditch on the other side. I suppose you can also think of these extremes as the gutters lining either side of our spiritual bowling lane. Let this be a lesson to you.

I must now prepare to encounter similar psychotic breaks when Jay finally pulls the plug on the computer. Help me help him—if you see him online, kindly ignore him. It's for his own good. When you see him, encourage him. And remember that he has to go through hell to get out the other side. If he starts looking at his shoes in a distrusting manner or raving about tree frogs, don't fret. It's not pretty to watch, but it's a sign that the healing has begun.

A Good Man

My friend Will recently sent me a link to this clip. It's taken from a video blog produced by Penn Gillette, the audible half of the comedy/illusion performing duo Penn & Teller. Take a look.



This is a startling clip for a number of reasons. First, Penn isn't merely a skeptic. He's an opponent of organized religion in general. Go to youtube and search for “Penn Teller Bible.” In addition to this clip, you'll find about a half dozen they've put together solely for the purpose of mocking scripture (Peruse them only if you've got thick skin). I find it remarkable that he would have a reaction like this to a Christian sharing his faith.

Equally astonishing—to me, anyway—is that a person who rejects Christianity outright actually gets the idea behind evangelism. It's not about pride in being right or adding converted souls to some cosmic scorecard; it's an attempt to save someone's life. Even that can mean nothing to the person if they don't believe they're in danger, but Penn seems to understand what many Christians do not: Claiming to be a Christian and yet refraining from evangelism altogether is either hypocritical, cruel, or both.

I've never felt convicted by the words of an atheist before, but Penn's will follow me for a while:

“How much do you have to hate somebody...?”

It reminds me of a scene in a movie I saw once, though it's so vague I only remember the sense of it. I can't even remember what movie it is. It goes something like this: A woman, busy talking on a phone or otherwise preoccupied, is about to step off the curb in front of a speeding car. A man near her sees the impending catastrophe, grabs her, and pulls her back out of harms way. As she spins toward him, she never sees or hears the car blow past. She slaps him in the face for grabbing her, shrugs away his attempt to explain, and continues on her way having no idea that this guy just saved her life.

Evangelism is awkward by its very nature. I totally understand why it comes across as arrogant. You're telling someone that they aren't living their life right. And even if you tell them you're no better than them, what they hear is that you know better than them. It shouldn't surprise a proselytizer if they receive only annoyed responses. We should expect it. But if we adhere to the tone that the man who encountered Penn did, we can't feel ashamed for trying. Worst case scenario is a slap in the face, whether literal or figurative—which I think most Christians would agree is more than worth it if a few lives are saved.

But most times the reaction will fall somewhere in between rage and repentance. It's sometimes enough if the encounter sticks with the person long afterward. Penn's certainly did. Even if it never means anything more to him than a story, his testimonial on the web has already taken it farther than one Christian man at a magic show likely ever imagined.