Results tagged “Christianity” from Bill's Words

I just started reading Douglas Wilson’s blog courtesy of a referral from Concert F’s Roger Keane. And, boy! am I glad I have. Thanks, Roger!

To those of you who, as Mr. Wilson puts it, are looking at 2014 balefully, I recommend reading his entry of a few days ago, The West Is Dead. Long Live the West. He quotes The Everlasting Man (G.K. Chesterton, 1925) which forms a substantial portion of his thesis:

“Christendom has had a series of revolutions and in each one of them Christianity has died. Christianity has died many times and risen again; for it had a God who knew the way out of the grave.”

Alone, this is enough for hope in the future. With the added encouragement of Mr. Wilson, I wish you a happy new year!

We will mourn the dead—the two who have died. An innocent child. A bystander.

It’s sad for all of us.

We will not, however, mourn the 40 people who were murdered during the last 24 hours. We will not, however, mourn the 90 people who died in auto accidents in the last 24 hours.

And we certainly will not hear of the 3,000+ abortions provided yesterday.

What has this country come to that the deaths of 3,130 people is mundane? Why are we not remembering these deaths as a tragedy as well? Where’s the outrage? Where’s the gut-wrenching reaction of our media over these deaths, the same media who are ignoring the outrageous tragedy of Kermit Gosnell’s war on life?

I don’t discount the tragic nature of these two deaths. Their deaths are truly tragic. Every life is precious and worth being sorrowful for the loss thereof. But so, too, are the deaths of the other 3,130.

Let’s mourn them all, shall we?

I’ve been reading through 1 Samuel recently on my year-long adventure through the Bible, and I am amazed at the intimacy God has with His people through these ancient days. They pray, He listens, and He responds. It’s a very close relationship, and one I want to experience as well. Last Saturday night, I was blessed to experience a level of intimacy with Him which I’d not yet encountered, and for reasons you’ll know in a minute, it’s my responsibility to share it with you.

It begins with a car, a 2004 Mercedes-Benz E320 4Matic (W211)¹ which has recently begun to refuse to start. The conditions are kinda’ odd: it’ll start right up if I try immediately after I arrive somewhere, but after 15, 30, 45 minutes it won’t start. A bit later (maybe an hour after I turn off the engine?), it will start just fine. Weird, huh?

The story continues with a bottle of vodka or, rather, a nearly-empty bottle of vodka. I was in the mood for a martini last Saturday night, not a martiny, so I headed down to Village Sprits where I found Rick to be out of the vodka I prefer. (Why it matters I don’t know, because I make mine dirty and the olive brine masks just about any subtle flavors of the vodka.) “No problem. We’ll have a case for you on Tuesday.” (Er, Rick? I only need one bottle…) So I left.

Except that I didn’t go anywhere. The car, parked between Papa T’s and VSOP, refused to start, pulling its usual cranking without ignition problem. Now, the last time this happened and I was out somewhere, I hypothesized that the fuel filter is a bit clogged (I’m sure it is) and that pointing the car downhill would solve the problem. On that occasion, I coasted around a bit, the nose of the car was pointed downhill, and it started right up.

This time, not so much. And worse, I was blocking two parking spaces. My only option was to continue coasting into a space in front of The Electric Blue, Tolland’s infamous topless bar.

And that’s where I sat in the glare of the parking lot lights wondering just how it would look when my car was seen there on Sunday morning with the stickers on the back which identify it very much as mine (an Apple apple, a bicycle, a Felt logo, a palmetto and crescent, and my—ahem—Christian fish). “Huh. Bill got drunk at The Blue. At least he had the sense to have someone else drive him home.” Yeah… that’s going to go over well in town politics…

So I did something I don’t see fit to do very often: I asked God directly for help. They did it all the time in the Old Testament, so why not now? But as I did so, I wondered to myself exactly why He’d help me. After all, if I turned the key and it started up, I’d go home and say, “Guess what I did? I got my car going. I figured it out. I did it!” instead of giving God the glory for helping me out of that situation. I guess I figured that this time would have to be different. So I turned the key.

And it didn’t start.

Hmm. I decided that God must have a purpose in this, and that I’d try turning the key every five minutes because I’d noticed that the temperature gage was falling an appreciable amount and I hoped it was temperature related. In the meantime, I Googled “E320 W211 won’t start hot” and there are a lot of posts about how the crankshaft position sensor (CPS) fails to work when it’s warm, but works when it’s cool or hot and how there was a code P0335 on the computer when that happens. Huh. This was new information to me.

Another five minutes elapsed and as the car tried to crank for its usual five seconds, it started after 4-one-thou… seconds of cranking!

I drove home, thankful and thanking God for delivering me from the valley of the shadow of the Electric Blue (and Subway, to be fair). I got out my OBDII scanner and whaddaya know? Code P0335 was reported.

Let’s review: I prayed, God listened, and He responded. I’m going to take a guess at His purpose in this, too: I think He knows me well enough to know that I’d go home and tell the story, giving God the glory He deserves. On top of that, He revealed to me the problem with my car and saved me much frustration, time and money.

And that’s why I’m writing this, not because I owe it to God, but because I want to let you know that He is alive and well, that He listens, and that He is not so busy dealing with the world-shaking stuff to pay attention to your problems. So, as the psalmist says, “Let everything that has Internet access and a blog host praise the Lord!”

…or something like that.

¹ I’m not putting this in here to brag. I had initially just written “a 2004 model” and was going to leave it at that. But then I thought if I put in the specific model, others may find the answer to their problem, too, whether automotive or spiritual in nature.

Dear Mr. Obama,

You said you wanted to do something substantial about the tragedy of yesterday in Connecticut.

Well, do you really?

Were you joking when you paraphrased Abraham Lincoln, saying “I have been driven to my knees many times by the overwhelming conviction that I had no place else to go.”?

If you weren’t joking, then you know exactly what to do, and exactly what to encourage your fellow Americans to do.

Sincerely yours,

/Bill/

William N. Eccles

Like other bloggers, I like the style of linkblogging which John Gruber has perfected with DaringFireball.net. While we don’t see eye-to-eye regarding politics, he’s insightful when it come to Apple and tech. Unfortunately, I got tired of the politics’ slipping into what was a tech blog, so I stopped reading it. (Me? I mix tech and politics and religion and everything else. With that kind of variety, chances are I’ll offend one or two of my 18 readers thereby losing 10% of my readership every week.)

When John wrote a long piece, he used a star in the title to denote that it was all-original material and not just a link with commentary. Shawn Blanc of ShawnBlanc.net—and presumably others—have adopted this style as well. So have I.

For a while, I’d been using the ⚡ lightning bolt, but when I watched Downfall last night, I realized it was just too close to the Nazi’s lightning bolts. Even though the bolts are ostensibly used for high-voltage danger signs everywhere, and even though I’m an electrical engineer, I thought I should change to something else. (Hitler ruined not only the lightning bolts but the cookie duster mustache as well.)

So I chose the Greek capital omega, Ω. It’s the symbol used in a play on words for the unit of electrical resistance, the Ohm. (I’ve always been somewhat resistant to things—especially the current federal administration.) And it’s also the last letter of the Greek alphabet, a symbol which Christians use (along with the alpha) to represent Christ (see Rev. 1:8). Electrical engineer and Christian that I am, it seemed like a good symbol for my long-form pieces.

Unfortunately, it doesn’t have quite the visual impact of DaringFireball’s star or ShawnBlanc’s plus. But I like it.

I have long wondered about Israel’s claim to Gaza. This article summarizes the argument of John Piper wherein he makes a claim that Israel is not entitled to Gaza—at least, not right now anyway. To me, a non-scholar, it’s well-argued and Biblical. His final point:

Finally, this inheritance [of the Promised Land] of Christ’s people will happen at the Second Coming of Christ to establish his kingdom, not before; and till then, we Christians must not take up arms to claim our inheritance; but rather lay down our lives to share our inheritance with as many as we can.

If you don’t read the full text of Piper’s sermon, at least read the summary at The Gospel Coalition.

John 2:1-11 was used at the wedding of a friend yesterday. I love the fact that the bride and groom chose that piece of the Gospel, and I reflected on what might have been going through the mind of Jesus at the time. Not presuming to actually know, of course, but I have been trying to put myself into His shoes so as to better know Him. It isn’t easy, and it is sometimes puzzling.

I don’t find it terribly difficult to understand exactly why Jesus decided to change the water into wine. According to one author’s thoughts on About.com, it’s because running out of wine would have been terribly embarrassing to the bride and groom. So Jesus helped them out, no problem.

But what puzzled me the most is how he addresses his mother when she says (paraphrased), “Look, son, they’ve run out of wine.”

His response, which we find in the fourth verse, is “Dear woman…” and in some translations the more brusque “Woman…” I imagine that there are some of you who bristle (moms) or cringe (sons) at this mode of address. It is peculiar, no doubt, and it’s what caught my eye and imagination, especially since today is Mother’s Day here in the U.S.

Why did he address her like this? And why did he answer with (again, paraphrased), “Look, it’s not our problem,” but then do something about it anyway?

I think, again based on looking at others’ sensible conclusions, that the answer to the second question is somewhat easy. He is, in essence, saying that this is a trifle—a problem of little significance—but demonstrates that nothing is too small for him to care about and solve. And solve he does! Not only does he change the water to wine, but he changes lots of water (120-180 gallons!) into wine and the master of ceremonies says it’s really, really good stuff! In short, God is aware of even the most insignificant of problems and able to solve them beyond our wildest dreams. Have faith, and ask.

But the answer to the first question? I’ve yet to find an explanation, much less one that agrees with what I propose, namely that Jesus is in the transition from “son” to “Son.” No, not that he was any less our savior before this time than he was after, but that this was when he chose to “go big,” put the pedal to the metal and really announce his presence as the Messiah. I believe that the importance of Mary to him was less significant to him than the importance of his Heavenly Father, God. After all, though he doesn’t address Mary anywhere else (that I know of, anyway) in the Bible by name, he references God the Father by several names, all of which are familiar in nature and show a closeness which he is denying Mary in this passage.

I don’t think this is an accidental slighting of Mary—nor is it a slighting of Mary at all. She reacts as if nothing had changed and tells the servants to do whatever it is he says to do. It is instead, in my opinion, a demonstration of his changing the focus of his life from his Earthly family to his Heavenly family.

Do I have any groundbreaking or Earth-shattering conclusion to this homily of mine? No, though I wish I did. But I do have this piece of advice: You are not the Messiah, and addressing your mother, especially today, as “woman” is a sure-fired way to land yourself in a heap of trouble.

It’s true.

The number of Christians, and specifically, Catholics, is on the decline in New England.

Interestingly, no Christian bands are touring in New England, either.

Not the Newsboys.

Not Winter Jam 2012.

Not Rock and Worship.

Not Casting Crowns.

Not Jeremy Camp.

Not REDvolution.

Not Veggietales. (There go your future Christians…)

To their credit, both The Devil Wears Prada and Michael W. Smith have dates in Connecticut. You go, guys!

The rest of you are preaching to the choir…

I don’t know how I missed this. I won’t even bother addressing the person who is behind this prediction and will instead turn to one Bible verse that tells me everything I need to know about the prediction:

“But about that day or hour no one knows, not even the angels in heaven, nor the Son, but only the Father.” Matthew 24:36

And who said this? None other than Jesus Himself. Seems like He might be an authority on the subject, no?

I’ll see you in church on Sunday morning, then.

Here’s a surprise. Stephen Hawking doesn’t need God. Or Heaven or the afterlife.

All of that, he says, “is a fairy story for people afraid of the dark.”

Glad you’re not afraid of the dark, Professor Hawking. Me? I’m hedging my bets, and I have nothing to lose as a result.

Sung in church this morning, and worth consideration by all, especially considering the “debate” of the last three weeks:

Though I may speak with bravest fire,
And have the gift to all inspire,
And have not love, my words are vain;
As sounding brass, and hopeless gain.

Hal H. Hopson, 1972

I’ll try to remember this.

(Copyright ©1972 by Hope Publishing Company, Carol Stream, IL 60188. International copyright secured. All rights reserved.)

Here’s a short list of advice to remember before a massive (24”) snowfall:

1. One gas can full of gas is fine for a typical winter storm. It would have been enough for this one, too, but other circumstances will make it into not enough.
2. No spare belts for the snowthrower is a bad idea.

If you don’t know where this is going by now, then you’re not as smart as you think you are.

I started snowthrowing yesterday at 3:00ish as the snow slowed down. We were at about 22” by then. I dumped most of the can of gas into the tractor, and at the stunning pace of, oh, snail, I made it halfway up the long part of the driveway. This snowthrower is wonderful, and it was churning right through whatever I pointed it at. Snow, ice, lawn, you name it! Unfortunately, those belts that have been on there for nearly ten years have, for all intents and purposes, had it. Last year, I solved many problems with belt dressing. This year, the problem was the power takeoff belt (a nice short one). It… snapped.

It snapped halfway up (“up” as in “hill”) our 700’-long driveway. On the first pass. Crap.

So I backed down the driveway, which is really, really difficult and very wearing because you’re steering a very front-heavy tractor with a snowthrower full of snow on it and trying to accommodate for the slop in the steering and not be thrown so far off the path that the thrower itself starts pulling the snow back into the path which… well, is impossible to get around.

(Note to editor: forget about Strunk & White. Long one-sentence paragraphs are the norm around here.)

When I got to the bottom, I looked at all the belts I have and discovered that I have none and that none of the none that I have will replace the one that I needed. I came inside, told T. of our plight, and started calling all of the places around town. I even tried Joe and Barbara next door, but they didn’t answer. And nobody was open, so nobody could sell me a belt.

T. and I began shoveling.

After realizing the futility of the effort, which took a long, long time to realize, I called Steve B. He was out snowmobiling with the kids, so I told his wife of the broken belt and left it as “I’ll call him in about an hour.”

Meanwhile, T. kept shoveling. I rejoined her.

After a while, I realized that the bottom of the driveway, which she was clearing nicely, wasn’t the bad part. It was going to be the top. I started shoveling at the top of my plow track, got really, really down and decided that since I could see lights on in Joe’s house, I’d ask him to plow me out. He met me at the door, I in my winter gear, he in his PJs, and I ‘splained my plight. “Well, Bill, I can’t get that thing started, the lights don’t work, and it’s out of gas.” I said we could resolve those problems if he were willing. I had gas and a little auto knowhow.

We went out to his Garagemahal (literally: 30’x50’x20’—high, yes, 20’ ceilings!—with radiant floor heat and a bathroom) and, Man! was it nice in there! The F150 started eventually and he said he’d be over after he ran up and down his semi-plowed driveway. I said I’d bring over gas.

Back to my garage where I found some tubing and siphoned the gas out of the tractor into a can. I did a remarkably good job, too, but that won’t become relevant until later. Did you know you can siphon gas out without putting your mouth on the tube? Yup! I don’t know if this works in cars, and you’d probably need a very pointy chin to make it work anyway because the gas spouts are buried in the cars nowadays, but I put the tube in and blew air into the tank instead of sucking on the tube. Pushed the gas right on out!

And into the can. Fortunately.

I took the gas over, we poured it into his truck, and Joe said he’d give it a shot after he had some dinner. I took my broken belt to the basement and tried putting an electrical staple through it. Yes, it worked, but only for about 0.372 seconds, long enough to go, “Ye…” Sigh. Joe came back over with the news that he had gone ahead and worked on our driveway, but had gotten his truck stuck about 1/2 way down. Yup, right where I left off. I said I’d shovel him out while he ate some supper. Only fair, I thought.

Meanwhile, T. shoveled. I shoveled. And I was looking at what I was shoveling which was now packed down by the truck and thinking to myself many, many bad things. Mostly four-letter words, though I dug into my vocabulary and pulled out some marvelous five-, six- and seven-letter words which might have been good in Scrabble were they allowed.

As I was shoveling, a truck appeared at the top of the driveway, but it didn’t have a plow. I figured it was some guy out freelance plowing, but with no plow? As the truck drove down the driveway, I was staring into the headlights with no clue who it was.

Until I saw the farm plate. Steve B. and one of his sons were here to rescue the Eccles once again.

I damned near cried. And I woulda’, too, if my contacts hadn’t been frozen to my eyeballs.

He had a 18” walkbehind snowthrower in his truck, a few shovels, and outlined the following plan: snowthrow Joe’s truck out of the way and let him get back home. Go to Steve’s house to get more gas for the walkbehind snowthrower. And, when I told him it was the short belt, he said he might be able to match that up at his house. “Bill, I thought it was the long belt, and I have nothing for that. But the short one? Well, we’ll see! If only I’d known…”

Armed with the snowthrower, I walked up and down the driveway behind Joe’s truck while Steve and his son cleared out what I hadn’t quite gotten to behind Joe’s truck and plow. Pretty soon, Joe showed up and with a little bit of gunning it, got the truck right up out of the driveway, no trouble.

Problem 1, solved. Meanwhile, T. shoveled.

Steve went off to look for a belt and gas. There are apparently some advantages to having a farm: lots of belts hanging around and two 500-gallon tanks, one for diesel and the other for gas. These are things that we city boys would never know, although having witnessed my father replacing the furnace fan belt on many occasions… well, one, anyway… using the spare belt he had just for that purpose, you think I’d have had some brains and actually executed my plan of replacing those belts and getting spares this year.

I changed the oil… but no belts. Guess where I’m headed today?

Right. To buy a new oil filter. I used my last one.

(Seriously, I’ll have to order the belts. One of them is over six feet long and is made of a weird material. UPS quickly, please.)

I snowthrew my way down the driveway. Steve’s snowthrower was working fine.

Problem 2, solved. Meanwhile, T. shoveled.

I told her that she should go inside, call it good. It was, after all, about 7pm and she’d been shoveling for three hours non-stop—and looked it. Exhausted and sore, she said, “No, not until I know this problem is solved.” She had cleared a huge area of the driveway. At the rate that we were going, we’d have been done by midnight. But she made some snowmounds that are quite impressive and had a complete area for turning cars around to get them out.

Impressive? Yeah, you could say that.

Easy? Staples button, you can go straight to hell.

So she shoveled. I snowthrew. And Steve showed up with three belts of various sizes. One of them fit nearly perfectly and the big thrower was back in business.

Problem 3, solved.

Remember that gas problem? Still a problem. And I hadn’t told Steve that I needed gas for my tractor. No, he had gotten gas for his snowthrower, but not for my tractor because I never told him about that problem. So back home he went… It’s a good thing he lives very close, huh? …and returned with gas for the tractor, plenty to make it through the rest of the job.

Problem “the last”: solved.

And now that things were back to where they were at 3pm, only greatly improved with a new belt and much driveway already cleared, T. finally relented and went inside, exhausted, soaked, and ready to keel over. Which she did. Into a tub.

I finished the job and went over to Joe’s to help finish off his driveway, “cleanup” snowthrowing on the way down. He came outside and told me to go on home, get warm, thanks, but no thanks. And then realized that he’d locked himself out of his house.

Aw, #)%@#.

Fortunately, a spare key later, he was back in, I was on the way up the driveway (snowthrowing again—a plow is fairly limited against a 24” drift), and I finished up all the detail work on our driveway, parked things, and went inside.

It was about 8:15.

T.’s water had grown cold, the kids had let the fire die (intentionally), and it was time to regroup. I restarted the fire and took a shower to warm up, then we watched some TV, enjoyed each other’s company, and eventually went to bed.

On his way out, Steve reviewed some lessons learned for me. “Bill, there are some lessons we learned here tonight.”

“Yeah, keep spare belts on hand.”

He didn’t blink and continued.

“First, call me first and early. If I can’t help, I can at least maybe find someone who can. Second, tell me all of the problems. That way, I can prepare for all of them at once. Third, don’t hesitate to call.”

I would have hugged him right then and there, but that’s only appropriate at church. So we shook hands and off he went.

So, though one of my lessons certainly involved spare parts, the better lesson still is to have friends. Friends who can and will help or know someone who will help.

Another lesson is to know your neighbors and help them, too. I’d plowed Joe’s even-longer-than-ours driveway out once or twice before he got his truck; it was nice that he was willing to help me in return.

Third, go to church. That’s where you’ll meet the people who will be kind to you and, if you’re lucky, you’ll meet Steve and his family there. Not only can his kind of people help, but they are willing to help.

God bless you, and thank you, Steve.

(Did I mention that Steve is a superb butcher? His store is The Country Butcher at Spring Meadow Farm in Tolland on Route 74. Can’t miss it—it’s a beautiful place. Open on Fridays and Saturdays, the best grilling nights of the week, so plan ahead.)

A friend from high school is watching someone near and dear to her in the final stages of life, and it’s enough of a burden on her—someone who is always upbeat and positive—that she posted something on Facebook about it. In her post, she struggles to reconcile the belief that we can do good as long as we’re breathing with the suffering that she’s witnessing. She says that this can’t be how it’s supposed to be, and wanted an explanation someday.

I have a big mouth.

So I volunteered what I thought on the subject in a response. Since then, several other people have replied that they had needed to hear these words, too. I thought I would share them here so that others can read them, and hopefully they may help.

Remembering that I’m no theologian and I’m not a pastor, that I’m just a Christian, a husband, a father, and an engineer, here’s what I wrote:

First, I’m sorry things aren’t going well for someone near you. Same here. It’s all the tougher when something happens during this season. It just plain sucks.

As to your other ponderings, them’s a toughie. You can either explain it with lots of theological mumbo-jumbo or make it simple enough that even I can understand it. I prefer the latter. Here it goes, hope this helps:

I am glad that God didn’t create evil. He couldn’t—He’s all perfect and stuff like that. Instead, He let us do what we wanted to do from the very beginning, and being given free will, we created evil by removing Him from parts of our existence.

Think about darkness for a moment and recognize that it’s an absence of light—it’s not a real “thing” as much as it’s a thing caused by the lack of something real. (It would be interesting, though, if it were: we’d have darkbulbs in aisle 10 next to lightbulbs.) Just like a vacuum isn’t a “thing,” but is something caused by the lack of gunk to fill the void. So, too, evil is not a real “thing” but is the absence of good, and all the good stuff there is comes from God (James 1:17).

And when the door is opened to the bad stuff (thanks, Mr. Adam and Mrs. Eve), it gets busy and wrecks stuff for us. Always has, always will. It kills people. It breaks up marriages. It finds ways to make our days really, really crappy in ways that we haven’t even thought of.

But I’m with [another correspondent to the original post]. Whatever is going on is no surprise to Him. He saw it coming, and He will make good use of it to serve His purposes and work out well for those who love Him (Romans 8:28). Do we necessarily know how it will work out? No. Do we know when it will work out? No. Sometimes we see the results, other times… not. It may happen in our lifetimes, and it may not. Why not? Dunno’, but the Bible says it’s going to work out, so I have to believe that.

Why can’t he just fix everything? I suppose He could, but He chose not to make us automatons, robots, doing just good stuff. Instead, He lets us screw up at will. Makes things a lot more interesting that way, I suppose.

So, “Why, God?” Why free will? Why let us do what we want to? Why let us push Him out of our ways? Why not make everything perfect? My answer is, “We don’t know.” The Bible doesn’t answer these questions. Instead, we are told that the ends justify the means, and we’re not told what the big plan is in the first place. I think it’s a little presumptuous for us to think that we could understand all of what He has in His plans. You know, He’s infinite, and we’re a bit smaller than that. If He answered the question “Why?” to us, I’m thinking our collective brains would explode. “YOU WANT THE TRUTH?! YOU CAN’T HANDLE THE TRUTH!” comes to mind.

I’d still like to try understanding His answer. It would be really, really interesting.

All that having been said, it doesn’t make it any easier for us to watch others endure circumstances which are distinctly not good. But it does make it easier to focus on bringing Him into the situation if we can get away from the angry “You’re not such a loving God after all, are you?!” phase and move to the “OK, so be it, now… HELP! (Please.)” phase. Just like it’s hard to make up and be nice with [your husband] if you’re still mad at him after an argument. Get past the argument, and you can make up. Get past the blame game, and you can ask God to do just about anything.

And He’ll listen and He will answer. Maybe not with the answer we expect, but with an answer that suits His plans, and we know that His plans are good.

Again, I’m sorry things aren’t all well, and hope that I’ve been of a teensy bit of help. I’m no theologian, and these things might all be wrong. I’ve picked up bits and pieces here and there and assembled them into my engineer’s way of thinking—some settling may have occurred during shipping and handling. And they may not have helped at all. But if they have, then my Christmas has been made a bit brighter, and so has yours.

Merry Christmas,
Bill

Merry Christmas, everybody.

The headline reads:

“Christian Terrorist” Arrested…

and it should read:

“Christian” Terrorist Arrested…

Subtle, but I think a more accurate portrayal of a person who is a real terrorist and a fake Christian.

Ah, let the ridicule start.

Oh. It already has, courtesy of, among others, a Mac pundit. (John, stick to Mac punditry. You’re superb at it, and I don’t think your occasional blurbs on politics are going to get you a job at The Times like your Mac stuff got you a job with Macworld.)

The only problem with evolutionists is that the things they thought were right, as in, scientifically observable humma humma humma, are sometimes wrong.

Of note, there wasn’t a triceratops. Nope. Got that scientific observable humma humma fact wrong.

Nor was there a brontosaurus. Darnit, Fred, whatcha’ gonna order if not a Brontosaurus Burger?! Wasn’t that a scientific observable humma humma humma fact, too?

And that whole fine-structure alpha constant? Might not be so constant after all.

Furthermore, evolutionists believe that it’s not possible for God to have created the world/universe/McDonald’s in six 24-hour days. But somehow they are willing to believe that nothingness became somethingness in a cataclysmic event called The Big Bang. Guess what?

These things were, you know, right based on observed fossils. Things left behind that we can see, feel, touch, and interpret.

Just as the Bible is something that we can see, feel, touch… well, read, anyway… and interpret.

So while you’re bending over backwards to avoid political incorrectness, to avoid denigrating Muslims and Islam, don’t forget to avoid making fun of regular old people who choose to believe something different than you do. I believe they deserve the same courtesy as everybody else.

Including evolutionists.

Yeah, ‘cause he just knows.

Article here

He is risen, indeed!

Here’s a “Sermon Starter,” an idea that I hope proves to be useful to someone in his or her quest to arrive at material for next Sunday morning’s sermon. I’ve occasionally had thoughts—fractional ideas, really—which I have thought would make the basis for a great sermon. But having no pulpit and having not one iota of theological talent, I’m unable to deliver on the goods. So here is a Sermon Starter. Feel free to use it in your message, and don’t hesitate to write your source into your notes.

When I need help, I try to trust God to provide for my needs. I say try because I’m not so good at it. It does help me, however, to remember that

• God’s power is infinite and
• God is everywhere at every time,

at least from a Christian’s viewpoint.

Given these two thoughts, I conclude that even the teeniest, tiniest part of God’s power is still infinite and that His infinite power can help li’l ol’ me out.

How’s that for cool? It doesn’t matter how many times you divide His power and His attention, you still have the infinite power of God working for you!

A while back, one of my friends wrote in his Facebook status that he was having a hard time overcoming his cultural programming which poo-poos the use of “I” and “Jesus” in the same sentence. A few of his friends replied with smart-aleck comments that had something to do with a Mexican.

Yeah, I was one of those smart-alecks. But I also knew exactly what he meant.

His mother, a friend of mine as well, took a bit of umbrage at the update. Her reply, which made a lot of sense, essentially said, “Screw talking. Actions are more powerful than words. (And I thought I taught you better.)” She’s right, of course.

But I still identified with his initial comment.

Because in spite of the fact that over 75% of the population of this country calls itself “Christian,” many Christians, for some reason, get particularly uncomfortable when we try to talk about Jesus (not the Mexican), even to each other. Certainly, as she correctly pointed out, there are plenty of people who say “I am Christian” but aren’t really. So that’s a part of the 75% which just won’t quite get it. But what about talking about Jesus is particularly difficult, even among believers?

Quite frankly, I really don’t know. I am still trying to understand that myself.

I’ll let you know if I figure it out, but I wouldn’t hold your breath if I were you.