I'm loving Lost. Even with the continuing cliff-hanger of why Locke's dad is on the island and what's going to happen to Jack, Kate, and Sayeed being ignored this past week, I thought Wednesday night's episode was fun. I think viewership is coming down to this: Do you trust the producers or not? If so, like I do, you watch each episode and give them the benefit of the doubt that it's moving to something even greater. I think this season's been fantastic, even with the odd break between the first six episodes and the ones running now. They've probably got two or three more seasons, I think...I hope. Sure, I'd love for it to run a bit longer, but I don't think the plan was for it to be extend beyond that. Hopefully ABC will allow them enough time to tell the story and not try to milk it for more than they can offer or give up and cut it short.

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Practice for the Easter drama I'm in has been intense. It's a five-person drama in three short acts. I play Caiaphas, and the other characters are Jairus, Jairus' daughter, Peter, and Mary. We don't have dialogue; it's set up so that each character speaks towards the audience, addressing various groups of people. (For instance, I yell at Jesus on the cross at one point and in the next act I'm speaking to the priests.) I actually yell through the whole thing; I guess those weren't exciting days for Caiaphas. But the words I'm speaking have led to me to some good reflections.

At one point he shouts, "Don't tell me I know not what I do! I know exactly what I do! I DON'T NEED FORGIVENESS FROM YOU!!"

I don't believe I've verbalized anything like that to God before, but it seems I've acted as such many times, discarding his forgiveness as something I'm not interested in and could care less about. What an awful place to be, but when temptation shows up and we willingly choose to go with it, we might as well say something similar.

"I can do it on my own."

"I don't need you or any of your people."

"If you're not going to do anything about this, I'll make something happen."

Surrender has been a word very close to my heart over the past month. I'm trying to decide what it looks like in the various situations I'm facing. Does surrender mean backing away from certain people? Does it mean mentally relinquishing my thoughts? How do I release the sense of control I so desperately hold onto at times, even though it's a completely false sense of control?

I don't want to say any of those things, with my mouth or with my life. I want to all of me to echo the lyrics

All to Jesus I surrender
All to him I freely give
I will ever love and trust him
In his presence daily live

All to Jesus I surrender
Make me, Savior, wholly thine
Let me feel the Holy Spirit
Truly know that thou art mine

All to Jesus I surrender
Lord I give myself to thee
Fill me with thy love and power
Let thy blessing fall on me

I surrender all
I surrender all
All to thee my precious Savior
I surrender all

I'm closing in on finishing my third month in Tuscaloosa, with the close of the semester waiting closely around the corner. (Actually, I'm waiting to meet my mind there.) It's been such a smooth transition and move for me.

I haven't church-shopped, which I was afraid might happen; the first place I went has been the only place I've been. I've made a few friends through the mens' Bible study. I help serve a meal to homeless/disenfranchised folks on Thursdays. I've gotten to have lunch a few times with Pastor Bill. And I'm playing Caiaphas in the Easter drama in a couple of Sundays, which means most people will recognize me as the bad guy who screamed throughout the Easter service. (I may shave my head bald afterwards to separate myself from the role a bit.)

Classes, both as a student and a teacher, have been incredible. I saw the mom of a friend of mine a few Sundays ago and she asked about them. She looked completely bewildered when I told her how much fun I was having -- as if there wasn't a possible way to combine those two things. But, as I told her, I've always enjoyed school and learning and academics; we're all wired differently.

Being back near my family has been extremely comforting, convenient, and enjoyable. I've been able to visit Mom and Dad in Florence and Bethany in Nashville quite regularly; I've even made a trip to Florida to see Luke. Memphis awaits; I need to get up there and see Anna and Craig (though we've seen each other multiple times too). When my Thursday night class lets out at 6:00, I can walk back to my apartment, make dinner, pack, and get on the road by 7:00 and walk through my parents' front door by 9:15. (The toughest thing is leaving by 7:00.) Blessings...

Experiencing a bit of winter and spring has been refreshing. The Quad is my study place. I've got a couple of benches that I rotate among to get my reading done for classes. There's nothing quite like sitting outside on a beautiful day with a cool breeze and reading, even if the material is mainly composed of boring journal articles.

I loved what Mike Cope had to say earlier in the week about scripture and preaching. So much so, that I'm stealing his words and posting them here for you to read. (Hope that's ok. Sometimes linking a url isn't as fun. And I've got a link to the right to his blog anyway.)

Here’s perhaps the biggest change in my understanding of preaching through the years.

I used to think that I was supposed to make scripture relevant. It’s an old book speaking to a modern world. Now, however, I see that this is too low a view of scripture and too high a view of our “modern” world.

Now I see my job as inviting people to enter into the world of scripture — a world that is hauntingly familiar and yet mysteriously dissimilar.

The key is imagination. I think I’m to help people (including, of course, myself) imagine what a truly human life might look like in light of Easter. What might a gospeled life look like?

I used to flatten scripture, I think. It became a sermon source of rules and regs. It was full of insightful points waiting to be made.

Now as I get to live inside the story world of the Bible, I realize even more why one could say that the word of God is living and active and sharper than any double-edged sword.

I love the idea of living inside a story, of the invitation to take part in something ancient and present. Maybe that's where my confusion of what's going on in my life arises: differentiating between what seems so familiar and what stands is such contrast to the story I'm living and participating in. Instead of looking to the Bible for answers, I find myself searching for hope, comfort, strength, peace, rest, and joy. And in Jesus, all that and more abundantly flows.

Ugh. Computer problems.

I'm not sure what's going on, but my laptop does not want to start up. It seemingly can't. I took it by the computer help desk on campus yesterday and was told that most likely my problem is bad, worse, or worst, though mostly from a financial standpoint. The kind gentleman who helped me out encouraged me and let me know that the chances remain pretty high that my hard drive is not affected, though he couldn't guarantee it. And that's what I'm mostly concerned about -- documents I've written, journals I've been keeping, and music and pictures. While the thought of losing all or any of those is almost heartbreaking, it's not end-of-the-world awful. It would just be terribly disappointing.

Especially since it's been several months since I backed most of it up, meaning I take the responsibility if it gets lost.

It's been interesting to go about my day without having my laptop. I'm beginning to wonder if this is a result of not finding something to give up for Lent -- that since I didn't make a decision, one was made for me...

Degrees of Sin

Another email response as a post, this one coming from one of the guys in my Friday morning group from San Antonio. They're reading through The Holiness of God by RC Sproul and had a discussion about degrees of sin recently. Dr. Bob's "What do you think?" prompted these thoughts:

Currently, I think I would consider degrees of sin not in the type of sin but in the degree to which sin holds us captive. For instance, I'm experiencing a time in which certain sins that have dragged me down are not strong temptations (and I fear that merely typing that will send an assault). But it's strictly necessary for me to recognize that it is still something that could rear its ugly head if I'm unprepared and vulnerable. I would say the degree of that sin (in a control-sense) in my life has been minimal these past four or five weeks.

The typical idea of degree of sin I think emerges from the consequences caused. It seems from scripture that God feels the jab of each sin equally; but in our lives on earth, there are some sins whose consequences have larger and deeper repercussions. Maybe we've gotten too consumed in individualism even with sin, in the sense that we question our standing with God depending on our most recent sin or most recent prayer of repentance. This, I think, misses the mark. There are examples of God's judgement resulting from "isolated" sins as well as judgement coming because of a collection/lifestyle of sin. And I'm not sure how to reconcile all of it.

In the end, I'm left feeling and acknowledging that I don't treat sin with enough or as much contempt as God does. I find myself much more casual toward it than I should be. Thankfully, the Father is much more forgiving than me, too. But there is a stark call to be as disgusted with sin as God is and that's what I'm pushing towards.

The Fours

I received this email a few weeks ago and it got passed around among my friends in San Antonio, which proved to be a nice treat as the replies came in through the course of that week. I've changed a few of my answers after seeing some other responses and reconsidering. I guess this serves as a nice filler for the blog today...

Four jobs you may not have known I have had in my life:
1. Delivery Boy for Chicago Express, a short-lived fast food place in Florence
2. Server at Stillwater Steakhouse, Florence
3. Resident Assistant in Sewell Hall, Lipscomb University
4. Professor of English, University of Alabama

Four movies I could watch over and over:
1. Dead Poets Society
2. Dumb and Dumber
3. Robin Hood: Prince of Thieves
4. You've Got Mail

Four places I have lived.
1. Fortaleza, Brasil
2. Florence, Alabama
3. Nashville, Tennessee
4. San Antonio, Texas

Four TV shows I love to watch:
1. Lost
2. Sportscenter
3. Everyday Italian
4. Sunrise Earth (though I don't get to anymore)

Four places I have been on vacation:
1. Nags Head, North Carolina
2. Boston, Massachusetts
3. Tuscon/Grand Canyon/San Fran/Portland/Seattle (road trip)
4. West Palm Beach, Florida

Four favorite foods
1. Chinese
2. Tex-Mex
3. Grilled fish and crab claws served at the beach
4. Cocktail shrimp

Four places I would rather be right now:
1. A Spurs game
2. Turner Field, Wrigley, Fenway, or Yankee Stadium
3. Europe
4. Skiing

My favorite quotes so far from my time working in the Writing Center. These have been stated directly to me. And, for the most part, I kept a straight face.

#3
Writer 1: Did you know that the price of meth per ounce is more expensive than gold?

#2
Me: Maybe you should separate these sentences and not use a semicolon here.
Writer 2: Yeah, I know, I use semicolons a lot. I'm pretty much a semicolon slut.

#1
Me: Ok, write down three reasons to support this topic sentence.
--- Long pause as Writer 1 runs hands through hair over and over again, staring blankly somewhere.
Writer 1: Do you ever get the feeling that you just know too much?

Few things brought anticipation and excitement for elementary kids (especially the boys) like Field Day at Mars Hill. For a whole day of school, we competed with each other in a flurry of events: sprints, long jumps, softball tosses, potato sack races, three-legged races, and, of course, The Mile.

The Mile. It was, in my mind, the pinnacle of Field Day. The longest distance. Requiring the most endurance. Noticed by everyone: classmates, kids in the other grades, and most parents. Even though it wasn't the final event of the day, it sometimes seemed to be the gateway to greatness or disappointment. You could win every other event during the day, which would be quite a feat, but the question that seemed to always get asked during Field Day and afterwards was, "Who won The Mile?"

Not me. Not even close. And maybe that's why it always seemed to be such a big deal. From 4th through 6th grades, I wanted so badly to finish first in that race. I thought it would solidify my place among my classmates as the ultimate athlete, bringing praise and accolades from people throughout the school. I guess my desire wansn't too overwhelming, though, because I never did anything to train for it, outside of our usual running during P.E., but still hoped I'd somehow come out on top. I did, though, go into the race with a strategy of some sorts a couple of times, but I didn't keep to it. Especially in 6th grade.

I knew I needed to pace myself throughout The Mile. I knew that the first lap would be difficult because of the speed with which the race always started. There were always a few guys who began The Mile like it was the 100-yard dash: the rush of adrenaline, the excitement of everyone watching, the cool of the morning, all contributing to the quick pace. I knew I needed to withstand that onslaught and let that burst run its course, instead saving something for the final laps.

But I didn't specifically think about the second lap. And I never was much one for pace during those years. (Admittedly, I still wonder about that in some aspects today.) I knew I needed to withstand the speed of the first lap, but couldn't see beyond what would happen in the following lap. So when the race started, I took off with the pack at a somewhat steady pace. But someone flew by us and forced the pack to speed up. Then I thought about leading the race from wire-to-wire, causing me to throw out any pacing strategy I'd considered and inched towards the front of the group. I led the last half of that first lap, crossing the line in first place a quarter of the way into The Mile. As I continued in the second lap, I flashed back to the previous few minutes when I was running along the same path. That first lap contained so much hope and promise; I was running with confidence and speed, not at all winded in any way. But the second lap hit me hard. The lead I had at the end of the first lap quickly began to dwindle. My pace, actually my speed, dropped substantially. As Mitch passed me, followed by several others shortly thereafter, I remembered my strategy and knew I wouldn't be receiving that blue, 1st place ribbon.

I finished The Mile that year somewhere in the middle of the pack, I think. I know I didn't place in the top three. I did go on to have a good day, though, winning a few events and placing 2nd and 3rd in a couple of others. But in my mind, I stigmatized my performance in The Mile as somewhat definitive of my day. Yes, I could out-throw, out-potato sack, and out-sprint most everyone else; but I couldn't rid my thoughts of The Mile. First to finish the first lap. Way behind in the second lap. Far from the front in the end.

In 6th grade, The Mile was our marathon -- and I knew I needed to pace myself. But I still ran it like a sprint. By my senior year, I realized it as being a sprint, but difference was my body and mind were much more capable of handling it as such. As a 6th grader, I couldn't run The Mile as a sprint. I think my time that year was something around seven and a half minutes, a little slower than my times during P.E. throughout the school year. During basketball conditioning my senior year of high school, our team was timed in the mile on a few separate occasions, with coach marking goals for us individually based on the previous time. I didn't win the race any of the times we raced, but I was ok with that because I met the goal set for me. And I held onto to the strategy I began the race with: hang with the pack the first two laps at a good pace, kick it up during the third lap (even though it won't feel faster), and run on adrenaline the final lap. And I ran the fastest mile I've ever ran: five minutes, twenty-five seconds.

Which provides a great counter memory to The Mile in 6th grade. It's good to remember, when I begin thinking that my circumstances and situations are much too close to that first lap sprint and subsequent burn-out, that not only do still have room to grow and mature, but that I actually will. And I will be able to tackle situations without fizzling out. There is still hope.

I've been thinking the past couple of weeks of what to give up for Lent this year, but still don't have anything. I love the idea of sacrificing something for a specific amount of time to prepare for Easter weekend, and ultimately Resurrection Sunday. I've been reading a few thoughts at different websites and found deeper insight into what this is all about. The problem I've struggled with is finding something that is significant enough that would give me a taste of suffering to prepare myself for this special time.

(And I don't think by giving this special attention during a special time of year means it's not thought about any other time. How ridiculous to assume that because of special treatment during the spring, participants aren't thinking or focusing on Christ's resurrection year-round? How else than by daily drinking from the resurrection could we live? And why not lift its reality farther above its "usual" status during a specific time of the season?)

And this isn't only a problem for Lent. This is something I'm wrestling with regularly: how am I participating in the death, burial, and resurrection of Jesus? What am I regularly doing to die to self and live by his Spirit? I find myself reflecting on grand themes in my life and can find traces of answers to this question. When I focus on a day-to-day level, though, it's difficult to pinpoint specifics. One of the greatest difficulties is finding something that won't make me "better" but something that transfigures me closer to his life. Last year, I gave up carbonated drinks for six months. As a result, one of my roommates and I participated in different types of fasts throughout last year. We gave up meat for a week; we kept away from other foods; we were proactive and gave up late nights so we could get up fresh and pray together. So I recognize that something "small" like soda can be a gateway to deeper things (how's that for an odd metaphor?). I think for me at this time it's coming down to the deliberateness of choice and attempting to abstain from something random.

So I'll keep wrestling through this, which I hope is doing some shaping and forming in its own right. Being aware is a great conduit to change, however gradual or sudden. But awareness is not the goal or a good place to stop. As my eyes are opened, steps of obedience and choice must follow the leading of the Spirit. And as he leads and shapes, discovery will continue to plunge me deeper into awareness and change, drawing me more and more into the Spirit of Christ.

A place I wouldn't mind being at again:



This is the view of the Atlantic I enjoyed a few times last week while visiting my brother in Florida. It's from Palm Beach Island in front the house he's working at. Anna and Craig were down there as well last week and we had such a great time. We made it to two spring training games (Marlins vs. Orioles and Cardinals vs. Dodgers), spent a day at the beach, went to the Cheesecake Factory a few times, and hung out at Luke's efficiency. Though I've only been back in school since January, it was nice to have spring break again. The time last week was rejuvinating and refreshing. Throw in the little bit of time I spent in Nashville and Florence and it couldn't have been much better.

Buttered Pop Tarts and Good Morning Bread

Being the exciting and crazy person that I am, I spent a little bit of time last Friday night grocery shopping. After studying most of the afternoon, I needed to get out and do something and I also needed to re-stock my fridge, so I walked down the street to Publix with a list of items to bring back. I've found that shopping without a list can be quite dangerous to my check-out total, and in turn, my checking account. Fortunately, I discovered this a few years ago and now, being back in an apartment by myself, I prepare for the grocery store in a much more disciplined fashion.

(My trips to the grocery store were much more sporadic my last couple of years in San Antonio. Having roommates contributed to this nicely, in that there tended to be some type of food available whether or not I'd bought it, so I could get away with not going to HEB as often. Also, I was out of town or at evening meetings of some sort associated with youth ministry, meaning that I tended to eat out often. Presently, my disposable income has been greatly slashed, meaning I'm much more aware of where I'm spending money on food.)

So there I am in Publix on a Friday night. I'm cruising through the vegetables, deciding what kind of lettuce I want; strolling over to the fresh baked bread, not finding the loaf I want and getting croissants instead; and finishing my excursion down the cereal aisle, I pass the pop tarts. I'm reminded of a conversation I had with my siblings and cousins over the holidays about when we used to go to Grandmama and Granddaddy's house in Virginia. We were talking about breakfast, which was oddly quite memorable.

For some reason, we each own the distinct memory of sitting at the kitchen bar, eating pop tarts and toast -- except they weren't your regular pop tarts and toast. After the pop tarts would jump out of the toaster, Grandmama would put them on a small plate and slide a slice of butter on them for us to spread around. If we were having toast, the toast would pop out, get placed on a plate or napkin, and we'd press down with a toast impression that left the picture of a sun rising and the words "Good Morning" staring back at you. Whether it was the toast or pop tarts, breakfast never seemed so fun. Nowhere else did we get to use butter and pop tarts. Only in Virginia did we eat Good Morning bread.

So I stopped at the pop tarts, found a pack of strawberry flavored ones that didn't have any frosting, and placed them with the rest of my goods, a non-list stranger. Though my list was one item longer than expected, I was throwing caution to the wind of nostalgia. (Sorry, that's quite an overdone sentence.) But I did hurry back to my apartment and get my toaster out. Actually, I just remembered that I didn't have one that night. I wanted to save the first one for breakfast some morning. So I was quite excited when I was going through my mind about what to eat for the breakfast the next morning when I remembered I had pop tarts. I got the toaster out, got a small plate ready, pulled out a stick of butter and waited for the "pop."

I waited. And then waited a little longer.

Still a bit more.

Then...the pop.

I sliced off a little bit of butter, slathered it on the warm pastry, sat down on a stool at my kitchen bar, and relived some of my childhood. I thought about my Grandmama at her kitchen sink, wearing her yellow gloves doing the dishes. I thought about spinning around on the bar stools, about getting excited to go play basketball outside or trying to figure out a way to get Luke to push me around in the wagon while I steered it like a car. I thought about the shared memories I have with my brother, sisters, and cousins regarding the simplicities of a cold Virginia morning and the warmth of buttered pop tarts and Good Morning toast.

And then I repeated the whole thing a few more times this week.

Because that's what we do with important yet simple memories. We go back again. We recreate them, sometimes without realizing it. We take pieces of people and fragments of specific items and freeze them together. We pair these memories with common though sometimes disposable things, only to return to them over and over, attempting to recreate those times in a small way, honoring the past by acknowledging them in the present.

It's been more than ten years since any of us have been to Grandmama and Granddaddy's house in Virginia. Grandmama lived there a few years after Granddaddy died, but then she moved in with my family in Alabama. But this past week, I spent a little bit of time in their house remembering. In my mind, I walked down the hall from the bedroom area of the house, made a right into the dining room, walked around the table and hopped up on a stool. And the buttered pop tart tasted just as I remembered it.