Defection? Perfection!

I've had to defend this position with several people in my life up to this point, so I will repeat my rock-hard logic here:

I have decided to forego the Cincinnati Bengals' 2006 season.

Yes, just like that, I have swapped interest, which was once with my 'home team' (more on this concept later), and is now on the still local Indianapolis Colts. That means I'm not concerned with the Bengals performance for the rest of this season. I wish them well, but I will not be 'rooting' for them. I will be rooting for Peyton Manning to pass his way clear of the surprisingly porous defense that Tony Dungy has constructed. I will be rooting for no more hiccups like this past weekend against Dallas. I will be rooting for non-felon receivers like Mr. Wayne and Mr. Harrison, the likes of which the Cincinnati team is unable or unwilling to attract.

The Bengals (the Trailblazers of the NFL) shot themselves in the foot with a terrible performance against the Steelers early in the season (a game which, even in a win, severely hampered my optimism for the season), then put a stake through my allegiance in an ugly, ugly loss to the Patriots that I attended.

At first, I had some internal anxiety about shucking a team that wears my home town's name on their jersey, but then I started thinking.

Why should this corporation (and, let's be frank, that's what it is: a business that exists to make money. This is true of your favorite pro sports team, college, and in some cases, church-type corporation) assume my patronage simply because they're the only game in my city? That's a limited monopoly! And if that works, why doesn't P&G just re-brand its toothpaste as Cincinnati Crest? Then would I feel bad about not buying it? This is a terrific marketing move, but I'm hereby free of this constraint. The Bengals are a product for entertainment, just like Crest is a product for cleaning your teeth, and if I want NFL-style entertainment, I'll choose from all my options, thank you.

I just happen to think that this iteration of the Cincinnati-style NFL product is an inferior one, so I don't care to support it, financially or emotionally. Improve your product next year, Bengals, and I may return to your fold. And all you people who would call me turncoat or fair weather or a bandwagoner, I say this: pshaw. You are in a prison of sporting illusion, not living in the modern marketplace of television revenues and promo savvy. Wake up, grandpa.

I've felt fine supporting the little Dallas Mavs for years (largely because, without a team here in town, nobody cares who you're interested in bball-wise, and most people are disinterested in the NBA, period), but now I'll feel just fine following my little Colts, which is a name for an immature horse. That's endearing, somehow.

The Summer of the Back Yard

I can't believe I've neglected this post for so long.

It's crazy, because I'm SO PROUD of the work my team (read: me) did on the back 40 this past summer. Our stated goal was to revolutionize THIS.



It was a massive undertaking and sure, I wouldn't think many guys would be up for the challenge. But with my crack squad (read: me), nothing is too big a job (well that's not true at all, but this JUST made it). We began by getting one of those huge roll-away dumpsters (having one of those parked in your driveway is a sure way to get testosterone flowing, I tell ye), filling it with most of the backyard, including that terrible shed, and then setting about rebuilding that which had been destroyed, including the never-finished fence line (the genius who threw this stuff up just said "Why do I need a fence going all the way around the yard? I've got this crappy metal shed that covers over it!" Beautiful). Then we (me, with a professional gardener guy) expanded the beds, brought in new plants, threw up an all NEW! shed, then power washed the deck and stained the whole sucker by hand (oh good gravy this was more than I bargained for), and topped it off with two Adirondack chairs I built and painted. And you get this...





So gents, that was the summer of the backyard. As one of the photos shows, I started killing the grass, and it is now completely dead. All the clover, all the dandelions--dead. And I replant in the spring, and by next summer, you got yourself a REVOLUTIONIZED back 40. Yeeeeaaaaah.

Next summer's project will have to do with popsicle sticks and the Eiffel tower.

And Speaking of Weddings

Didi, as some of you will know (and all of you SHALL know), is in the wedding-making biz (see her website by clicking on the title above). I will now tell you a story from her world which is strange and unusual. She seems to have gotten into the well-heeled world of high dollar weddings, and had an encounter last night worth repeating. She'd been talking with a young woman who seemed interested in her services but uncertain of her budget. Didi didn't know if this was because funds were tight, or her parents were considering helping her out, or if the girl was just unsure that she wanted a wedding planner at all. She had another meeting with the girl last night, along with her father. It went like this:

Girl's Father: What we want to make sure of is that little Kendra (or whatever) has a wedding that will be the most impressive event that any of my friends have ever attended.

Didi: That sounds like it may be a tall order. What kind of budget did you have in mind?

Girl: Well, I went to a friend's wedding recently, and I wasn't very impressed. Her budget was 80 grand, so I'm thinking we need to think somewhere in the 150K area [she meant by this, dear reader, ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A WEDDING.]

Girl's Father: [Smiles smugly]

D: Well, we can get you the most expensive of everything in town and spend even more money than that, if that's the goal. But if the goal is having the best of everything, I can tell you we don't need to spend that kind of money. You can unquestionably have the event of your dreams for $100,000.00. [So many zeros!]

GF: [Knows he should be pleased, but somewhat crestfallen]

G: Okay, I guess we can start there and bump up the budget if we need to.

D: That's fine. Now, as I told you early on, I charge 10% of the budget for my services. [Starting to shake because of giddiness] In this case, that would be $10K. [She meant by this, dear reader, THEN THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR PLANNING A WEDDING.]

GF: No problem. Let's move ahead.

And that's how my wife pulled the wool over the eyes of the Foolishly Wealthy, and got us partway into a re-finished basement with one fell swoop. She says that this man kept asking questions about what *I* do, and Didi ably steered the questions away from her directionless musician husband, whose latest album's sales are nearing the 10 mark.

I find it all bemusing, what people will do to try to be impressive. I was stunned that this man articulated that that would be the goal of the event--impressing people. Well God bless them. Maybe Didi will deliver some stuff to this girl through their relationship so that she can be free of so much posturing. In any case, "hey rich guy! Be nice to my wife for the next 9 months, and thanks for getting rid of the unsightly puddles we have to deal with downstairs!"

On Pigeonholing

I was in the Colorado ("The Sqarest State") last weekend and picked up a little pamphlet of a sermon by a guy named Peter Heitt. I would like to take this opportunity to pimp the Heitt to you, as he's one of my favorite God-talkers. You can link to his sermons and whatnot by clicking on the title of this post. (I did that. For you.) I recommend that you listen to the streaming sermons for free, since he and his organization are still in the dark ages and charge $5 for a CD, which is insane.

Anyhow, this pamphlet was tremendous and talked about how, for many of us, God has become objectified. He is seen as the best way to get answers, or the one who'll tell us how to Live Right, or the One Who would give us life. But really He IS the truth, the way, the life. He IS those things. Jesus doesn't give you wisdom, he IS wisdom to you. One is transactional, one is relational. Heitt talks about how, in that old sitcom "I Dream of Jeanie", nobody watching the show can imagine how Major Nelson (teevee's "J.R.") goes on dates with these meaningless women while cute, perky Jeanie is RIGHT THERE, OBVIOUSLY LOVING YOU (Heitt called the message "I Dream of Jesus", which is cute too). Nelson saw Jeanie as a means to a clean house and great meals, but never appreciated her for her! She was an object to him. Grr. I used to feel this way reading Archie Comics (these were allowable in Christian homes because Archie was a believer for a while, too. It might have been a little bit of a hippy thing he was going for, but he was a believer. The Punisher, for instance, was NOT a believer.)--WHY is Archie so smitten with that catty Veronica when beautiful, available, loving Betty is RIGHT THERE? Always frustrating.


Well, objectification became more of a theme to me as I finished reading Capote's In Cold Blood. What you saw in these murderers he tried so hard to understand and report on was that these guys spend zero mental energy trying to understand their victims--they were totally detached from them. They felt nothing. The people they killed were objects to them, not persons. When you're dealing with objects, you don't have to sweat uncertainties like changing moods, vast histories and a lifetime of experiences that come together in complex and unpredictable ways. Basically, you can EXCISE MYSTERY. You can make judgments. Jump to conclusions. Or kill them if it suits your purposes. This is what we want from God: not a relationship, but some cold hard facts (or cash). Transaction. Objectification.

I spent two full days this past weekend in travel. That means I was in some form of People Holding Tanks with a gaggle of strangers. I felt the same thing, this subject of objectification, as I was wont to categorize the myriad people that crossed my monitor.

"She's overweight, hates herself. Shops at Wal-Mart. Her mom is controlling. She coddles that boy instead of leading him and setting him up for freedom and manhood."

"Those college kids don't know what they want. They just want a good time, and are probably unsure, even, of what that is. They live according to no rules. They're casual and toned and are interested in their hair. Probably watching music videos on the ipod instead of reading something enriching."

"Why must you bop your head like that, black man? Do you think that the people around you will be impressed because you have a laptop computer and you're using it as a walkman? You look terrible. You're uneducated and, I assume, socially awkward..."

"You snobby woman and your little lap dog. Why bring that to an airport? Okay, you're rich. Hooray for you, lady. Your well-appointed husband will walk off the plane and you'll get in your '05 SUV and you'll be back in temperature-controlled comfort in no time, just like you like it. I bet you hate mixing with the proletariat here in Mass Transit World."

I'm not proud of any of that stuff, but I'll tell you it didn't take very long for me to type it out. Those judgments are there, at the ready. In each of these cases, and a thousand more, the statement YOU DON'T KNOW ANY OF THESE PEOPLE would be apropos, but judgment would keep any of us from thinking such things. Pigeonholing is convenient, by golly, whether it's with the guy in front of us at the Taco Bell Express line or God Himself. If I can make you into an object, and I don't have to sweat with the confusion of relating, I can try to milk you for spiritual protection, or I can deem you irrelevant and worthless, or I can even rape and murder you. Either way you go, it's a sad substitute for life.


So let's not be this kind of man! Let's walk up to every child, woman, man, cashier, and Omniscient Being (even ourselves!) and say "you are a wonder! You are, in some mysterious way, unknowable! There are depths to you that I cannot plumb, but that only the God of All can fathom! Let me treat you with kid gloves, knowing that I'm interacting with something infinite and God-marked, never thinking I can encapsulate you or summarize you."

And me? Well, I am FEARFULLY and WONDERFULLY made! That means that treating me with some degree of FEAR and WONDER is appropriate! (Not that you must. I'm just saying... I'm a real wonder!) I am a fascinating compendium, an unusual and inexplicable assortment, a magical formula! If this sounds up-with-peopleish, forgive me, but I'm just reading my Bible aloud, here. And I'll not be hog-tied with a Systematic Steveology, or reduced to a sound bite based on what I did last time.

Boy I want to be done with the categories and the judgments. And I want to be done with the objectification of God. Welcome to my weekend.

Boy oh boy

Stop telling me to love God with all my heart.

If I could love God with all my heart, I wouldn't need Jesus. I, however, fail. What I need isn't exhortation toward better effort: I need a Savior.

Romans 3:20 ...no one will be declared righteous in his sight by observing the law; rather, through the law we become conscious of sin.

Hallows

Here's the simple question: why do poor people like Halloween so much? Seriously. That's the question. Lots of people get into lots of holidays, but poor people (waaaaay more than your suburban types) just go nuts for Halloween. I'm just saying.


Now, let's do all the damage control right up front. If you're really into Halloween, I'm not saying you're poor, and I'm certainly not saying that if you're poor you're somehow less than. Please. Let's not do all that. I'm just saying that if I drive around my city at Christmas, there seems to be an equal number of people going gung ho for it downtown or in the hoity toity land. If anything, the SUV set seems to be MORE extravagant about the Yule Tide season (I have no idea what Yule Tide means, but I'm sure it has some pagan origin. I am nonplused about this and don't care). But look around at the Halloween decor in YOUR local burb. Really. Now, call me names, call me what you will, but those with less money like this holiday more.

I would also like to say at this point that *I* am very into Halloween. I like it. I like the mirth, the madness, and the random frivolity of the day. I dress up. I carve pumpkins. Okay? I'm all over it. This is NOT about downing Halloween. Perish the thought.

So--why? I do not have the answers, although I'm endlessly interested in all issues social. Got any guesses? How about because they feel condemned somehow, and closer to the whole death iconography? How about because it's an expression of some kind of rebellion that's socially acceptable? Maybe it has something to do with compassion, and the less-monied feel closer to the down-and-out, as if there's a visual language they speak more easily than the well-heeled. I really don't know. And I'm not the guy to research the issues. I have other things to do.

But I'm just saying--it's notable, it's weird, and I'm putting it out there. Alright kids? It's just an observation. Do with it what you will.

There are cookies to be eaten. I'm out