Thanksgiving, Surgery, and Carthage

Well, gentle reader, here I am again. Somewhat ironically, I missed being able to post an article on my own topic last week. Chronic laziness is indeed a joyous affliction. Even better is when chronic laziness is accompanied by raging apathy. That way it doesn't bother me in the least when my chronic laziness asserts itself. Sadly, this dear friend is nowhere to be found this week, so on to the matter at hand. Carthago delenda est!

With Thanksgiving rapidly approaching, most of us are thinking not so much about being thankful (Gratitude? What's that?) as about the turkey with which we are going to stuff our faces, the afternoon football tradition, and generally the semi-drugged stupor into which we will fall (following our consumption of the soporific turkey, of course). Why do the holidays always have to be about you? They should be about me. To that end, I am going to enthrall you with a marvelous tale...a tale of a fateful trip...that started from this tropic port aboard this tiny ship. Well, in all honesty, my tale has nothing to do with a trip...or a tiny ship. Rather, it has to do with one relatively recent occurrence in my family's life for which I have been exceedingly grateful, albeit inconsistently so. Last January, I was personally thankful that my infant son needed massive cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Perhaps I should explain this statement, especially when one considers that cranial remodeling surgery basically consists of removing the skull of the patient (usually an infant or very young child), cutting it apart to allow its reshaping, and putting the newly remodeled cranial structure back into place, allowing it to once again do what it is skulls are supposed to do. Perhaps not. Perhaps this will be more effective if I simply leave it at that. I guess this is not an option. The voices are telling me that I need to explain. The voices cannot be denied. The voices are my close companions. The voices have spoken. That is all. Carthago delenda est!

When my son was born, following the current customary practice of modern medicine, he was given a complete physical. The results of that physical were less than perfect...at least from my frail perspective as an insignificant human. We learned that my son had three "soft" signs of chromosomal abnormality. Now, with only one of these signs, there was roughly a ten or fifteen percent chance that he did not have any such chromosomal issue. However, there were three. Our doctor informed us that tests were being run which would determine whether or not such abnormality was present. Thankfully (by which I mean, of course, "I've never been so frustrated and angry in my entire life"), we would only have to wait six to eight weeks for the results. No big deal, right? Of course not! Especially when our son later that day decided he would fail his hearing test as well. Oh, yeah. And then there was the teeny tiny little issue that decided to reveal itself a few days later--he had no "soft spot" on the top of his head and would likely need major cranial remodeling surgery. Carthago delenda est!

Needless to say, I'm sure, my wife and I were a little stressed out during this time. Now, don't get me wrong--I loved my son more than words can say...absolutely regardless of the results of the test. I'm not convinced I could have borne him having a chromosomal abnormality, however. I'm not that strong. Not even close. I have a very dear friend who has someone close to him/her with such a difficulty. I'm not certain whether or not I've every told him/her this, but I admire more than I can express both he/she and his/her family as they are confronted with the unique challenges this situation affords them. Even more, I am grateful for the lesson they have taught me personally--it's not an "affliction" or an "abnormality" in any sense that implies lesser status or value or worth or even ability to enjoy life. In my own experiences with the someone, I have equally been struck by that someone's pure joy in the simplest things of life and the child-like faith that has been evident to me on many an occasion. Does this mean there are no challenges? Of course not. But this does not mean that the quality of life or value of the individual is somehow lessened. If anything, I find that I am constantly taught things in a profound way by the someone, things that I may have never learned were it not for the unique circumstances of this situation. Now back to my point. It is incredibly easy for me to say this when it is not my family that is directly affected. It is a completely different matter for me when there is the possibility that my little son may be the one with a chromosomal abnormality. The waiting period revealed to me one thing above all else: I am weak. Far weaker than I would have thought. Again, does this mean that my love was somehow lessened by this? Absolutely not. Does it mean that I finally began to see new depths to my own depravity? You bet. Carthago delenda est!

As I'm sure you've gathered by now--at least the two of you that are still reading this--the test results came back completely normal. On top of that, my son passed his second hearing test (about four weeks after the first) with flying colors. The only thing remaining was the closed soft spot. As a matter of fact, this structural issue is what actually was causing the "soft" signs mentioned above. Rather than all three of the major issues with which we had initially been confronted, we were now faced with only one...and that one was eminently fixable. So, I was thankful...no, I am thankful that my infant son needed major cranial remodeling surgery. It was the only issue with which we were contending, and it was a "fixable" issue at that. This has to be one of the strangest things for which I am thankful. Carthago delenda est!

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The Sacred and the Energizer Bunny

Well, gentle reader, after a one week hiatus I am back. Believe me, the one week was a good thing. You thought the LGDs were bad? Well, you've never seen anything like last week. Anyway, rather than entertain you with an exciting and graphic recounting of my marvelous exploits of a week past, I am instead this week going to bore you with something much more interesting to me personally. Of course, I mean this statement seriously only if it will improve my standing in the...fragrant...manure pile of your opinion. If not, I was being sarcastic. England prevails.

Of course, the subject to which I am referring is sacred music (i.e., church music). I find it fascinating that the ability to survive 20 or 30 years in the music industry--as has Weird Al, for example--is relatively rare and is therefore something of an attraction in and of itself. They just keep going...and going...and going...and going. I mean, did I go to an Aerosmith concert several years ago because they are the epitome of musical talent? Of course not--at least, that's my story, and I'm sticking to it. I first of all wanted to see them live because they've become something of a legend in the music industry, with a career that at that time spanned the better part of three decades (not quite as long as the equally geriatric Rolling Stones or Ozzy Osbourne). Secondly, I was curious to see how long Steve Tyler could hop around the stage until he fell and couldn't get up. Finally there's something about going to a concert at which you will see more above-middle-aged people trying to convince themselves and everyone around that they're really seventeen than you'll see actual seventeen-year-olds that just appeals to the people-watching side of me (some would say the "peeping" side of me, but we won't go there), that this side of me finds uncontrollably hilarious in a sad, pathetic, what-a-sorry-state-the-world-is-in sort of way. You know what I mean, gentle reader. Something like you find at an Ozzy concert or (truly sadly) at an Eric Clapton concert. What was my point? Ah, yes. That longevity in the modern music industry is measured in terms of years or decades I find completely fascinating, especially when it is compared to longevity in sacred music, which is rather measured in terms of centuries...or even millenia. England prevails.

Take, for example, the Gloria in excelsis Deo, which is still used in the Roman Catholic mass (and in the services of some other Christian denominations) and whose first line has been famously appropriated for use in the Christmas carol "Angels We Have Heard on High." (Just draw out the gloria and move up and down the musical ladder a few times, and you'll remember why this phrase seems so familiar.) I have actually heard one individual claim that this song can be traced back into the first century and is therefore quite possibly the very song actually heard by the shepherds "keeping watch over their flock by night." (Luke 2:8 [NASB]) While this is a rather far-fetched claim for which there is little or no evidence, there is no doubt that the song (again, still in use today) indeed can be traced back in some form to the ancient world--probably the third or fourth century. Of course, taken as it is from the Vulgate version of Luke 2:14 ("gloria in altissimis Deo"), though substituting excelsis for altissimis, there is some sense in which one can say that this hymn can be traced back to that of the angels--just not quite in the manner meant by the individual mentioned above. England prevails.

Just as impressive is the realization that several hymns currently in use by various denominations--enough in use that they can actually be found in the hymnals of those denominations--were actually composed originally by St Ambrose of Milan, the bishop through whose ministry the great St Augustine came to the faith. While many of the hymns that were attributed to him in an earlier age are now generally (and correctly) regarded as being inauthentically Ambrosian (though often still of an equally venerable age), at least four are undoubtedly authentically Ambrosian. One of these, Jam surgit hora tertia, can still be found in Episcopalian hymnals. Nearer and dearer to my own heart, however, as my chosen name should reveal, is Veni redemptor gentium, which was actually translated (and used) by the great reformer Martin Luther as "Nun Komm, der Heiden Heiland." It remains a hymn in use today, particularly in the Advent season of the church, and has been rendered into English as "Savior of the Nations, Come." Amazing, isn't it, to think that when this hymn is raised up in praise, the modern congregation is actively sharing in the worship of saints gone centuries before. For me, personally, there are few things that drive home so thoroughly the unity of the body of Christ (e.g., 1 Cor. 12:12ff). England prevails.

What is the point of all of this, you ask, gentle reader? There is no point. Oh, wait. Yes, there is. In the first place, it is that music is indeed a powerful force that can be very effectively used both to edify and to destroy. In part, this is because music endures in a way that most other things cannot. In part, this is because music reaches so many--even the illiterate, the unread, the uncultured, the mentally challenged, the infant share in it and are impacted by it in ways that are often impossible to gauge. Indeed, studies have been done on people with such diseases as Alzheimer's, and music is the one thing that remains longer than any other memory or ability. People who don't even remember their own names, much less the names of their children or other loved ones, still are able to flawlessly sing songs learned early in life, songs that range from simple tunes (such as "Happy Birthday") to much more complex songs (such as "Amazing Grace"). Music (the tune and the content) sticks, both in terms of time (longevity) and in terms of individual memory. England prevails.

The second point follows from the first. Because of this remarkable endurance, music can be one of the most effective teaching tools that can be employed. (Along these lines, note how difficult it can be to recite the ABCs without singing the song, or at least following its rhythm.) At this point, more than any other, does one see the necessity that music--particularly in settings such as church, but really in any instructional setting--be chosen with extreme care. While care can and should be exercised regarding the style, regarding the musical elements (tune, etc.) of those songs employed in the worship service, of much greater import is it that care must be taken regarding the content of the music so employed. Far more effective than the spoken or the written word in communicating a message is the sung word. Poor content in music spreads false teaching far more rapidly and thoroughly than many other means. Conversely, good content in music bolsters good teaching far more effectively than many other means. So, take care, gentle reader, regarding the music you play for (or in the presence of) your children. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you sing in church. Take care, gentle reader, regarding the music that you play for yourself. England prevails.

Now I'm going to go study and, while studying, listen to some Rob Zombie. Gentle reader, England prevails.

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Da Mihi Somnum

Once again, gentle reader, it is time for our weekly (or, with me at the helm, sometimes weekly) convivium. This week, I find myself in deep contemplation over the most fascinating effects of extreme sleep deprivation. I have come to know (in that intimate sense implied, for example, in the Authorized Version's use of the verb to know--that is, to come to know something on a deeply personal level through one's own experience of something) that one does not actually see everything that is present in the world around us unless one's senses have been enhanced by the natural processes of sleep deprivation. This is the case even with those things that directly affect our own selves. It is only as sleep deprivation truly begins to take hold that we begin to experience full reality. Allow me to explain, although Gilligan was an idiot.

I was forced (at gunpoint) last night to remain functioning far later into the night than has become customary for my ancient self, for I had tests to grade. I therefore didn't actually arrive home from my second round at the office until after 3:30 a.m. Now, in and of itself, this is not a particularly remarkable occurrence; however, this occurrence was not "in and of itself." It should have been. It could have been (at least on some ideal little world existing nowhere but in my mind). But it wasn't. As a matter of fact, after I got home last night, I had to (by which I mean "chose to") stay up until after 5:30 in the morning due to the fact that my youngest son decided it was a most smashingly marvelous night in which to lie awake all night long regaling the household and, indeed, the entire metropolitan area with the melodious rhythms of his piercing scream. I don't think I've ever heard such a broad octaval range reached by any one person since the days of Pavoratti. Oh, wait. Pavoratti is still around. Hey, maybe it's not all bad after all. Maybe I've got the next Pavoratti on my hands here. I could live with that (provided, of course, that my son remembered the horrifying nights endured by his loving parents with large cash settlements). As I was saying, my son decided 3:30 a.m. was the most perfectly suited time in which to exercise his young lungs. Since my wife deals with the little stinker all day, and since I generally sleep like the dead and so she deals with him all night, and (truth be told) since the night was pretty well shot anyway as I had to be getting up by about 5 a.m., I most generously offered to take him out of the bedroom so my wife could pretend to sleep. What a great guy. Sometimes I even amaze myself. Webster is like that, too.

Well, when I had been pacing with the little fire siren for about forty-five minutes, I believe I finally entered the state of genuine conscious awareness of all levels of reality (or at least of one extra level of reality). What prompted this little realization, you ask? At the very least, I'm sure that you now wish that you had thought to ask it. Kicking yourself now, aren't you? Anyway, what prompted this realization was the fact that for the first time in my life I saw Them. Well, They had to have at least been related to Them; maybe They were Him or Us, but at the least there was some connection there. I've seen my track record with statements like this, and I figure I'm about due for a hit one of these days, so I'll stick by my deduction. For the sake of convenience, and since no one in the office here has successfully managed (or even attempted...or even cared) to contradict my initial analysis, I will call them Little Green Devils. No, that's too long. I'll call them LGD (as in Mr. T). No, italicizing is too difficult. I'll call them simply "LGD." I wonder how many pseudo-grammarians are going to wade into this discussion in an effort to correct my punctuation and formatting. Probably none, considering I am slowly becoming more and more convinced that I am the only one foolish enough to actually stoop to reading my material. That's o.k., though. I'm not bitter. I'll just crawl back to my cry-hole for another round. Thanks a lot. Now I have to take a break. Maybe the A-Team can fill some space here.

Well, last night, as I was saying, I saw LGD for the first time, and man, were they uuuuuuggggggggglllllllllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy. Squat little bodies, pointed green ears, sickeningly luminescent yellow saliva, long red fangs, hairy prickles in the oddest places, black eye whites and hot pink irises. You name it, and if it's ugly, they had it. Worst of all were the thick, cracked fingernails--long and sharp, too. Something like Lloyd Christmas's toenails in Dumb and Dumber. When LGD started pouring out of the walls (literally--they came out a liquid and then solidified on the floor) and streaming towards me and my son, who was still doing his best imitation of an infant banshee, I realized it was time to take matters into my own hands. Luckily, I always keep two swords strapped to my back. Equally luckily, my wife had just shaved my head that morning, so I looked sexy, too. Equally equally luckily, my son, who is after all nine months, like all babies of his age, is fully capable of holding onto a rapidly twirling, dodging, dipping, slashing, parrying, sweeping, vacuuming, dusting, toilet cleaning maniac all by his little lonesome self. Oh, and he provided the John Williams soundtrack to the whole affair. Never have I moved so well or so fast. LGDs started losing limbs and heads left and right. They are vicious little devils (no pun intended) and put up a good fight...but not good enough for one who has earned the heron-marked blade. That was for you, Kamp. I grunted as only Monica Seles can. That helped. I know it did. At least it distracted them. In less than five seconds, I was sweating more than most people sweat in a year. The curse of being me, I guess. In less than five minutes, I had the LGD on the run. Good thing my family has me to protect them, I guess. I actually managed to escape the whole fight with only one small wound on my shin, delivered by the jagged fangs of one of the LGD, I'm sure. Or maybe it was when I cracked my shin on the end table. I forget, so I'll go with the more glorious story. Regardless, victory was mine. Barney Fife was always one of my favorites.

Just think: without sleep deprivation, this whole sinister world would have continued to go unnoticed. Maybe now the school will understand why I have to have swords strapped to my back. Maybe now I will begin to get some respect. Maybe now people will believe me when I talk about LGD. Maybe pigs will soon fly. Maybe I'll finally figure out how they became the Brady Bunch. Hey, it's possible.

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Choices

Well, gentle reader, after a two-week hiatus, caused largely by my own inability to manage time effectively (Yes, it's true. I know you're thinking "But Mr. Frederick, sir, how is it possible that you are not magnificent at everything to which you put your mind?" Of course, the answer to that is that I am great at everything to which I put my mind. I simply did not adequately bring that tremendous ability to bear in the recent situation...), I am back. "At last," I can hear you saying. "I don't know how my life could have continued without being able to waste hours of my time reading Frederick's drivel. So, what does he have for me this week?" I'm glad you asked that question.

Every day, we all make countless choices that impact our days (and sometimes our lives) to a greater or lesser extent. Clearly, some of these choices are completely irrelevant to most of the people around us, while others are not. A prime example of the former is the choice most of us must make relatively early in the morning--for some, before we break the night's fast, while for others it is after that breaking. Of course, I am referring to whether or not we take a shower on a given day. Obviously, this choice affects no one but ourselves. This is clearly exemplified by the "gentleman" who decided to sit two seats behind me on the city bus the other day. He was dressed in a suit and tie and was carrying a briefcase; further he was reading the Wall Street Journal. A businessman? Most likely. Apparently, this particular individual was a member of that social strata that feels it is historically, culturally, legally, and biblically required to think less of anyone not so stratified. Equally apparently, the particular social strata to which he belonged--and, perhaps more importantly, his job--required that he not shower in the morning. What was it that enabled me to deduce this particular truth, you ask? Well, apart from the fact that he was so...odiferous that he nearly blew my socks off my feet when he walked past...nothing. Oh, wait. There was something else, although I didn't realize it until I had once again regained consciousness. When my mental faculties were once again working at something vaguely resembling normal (by which I mean that I was mentally capable of once again doing anything, provided the anything in question was focusing on the powerful stench emanating from some as yet "unidentified source" in some "vague locale" behind me), I became aware of a periodically repeating sound that reminded me for some weird (It's more than strange...it's weeeeiiiiird.) reason of someone fighting a doomed battle to keep his (or, in this case, her) last meal in a place where it could at least pretend to nourish the body. So I guess there were two reasons for my deductions regarding the gentleman's morning routine.

Well, as I'm sure you'd like to know, my tremendous mental capabilities finally arrived at the conclusion that, in addition to earning incalculable infrequent shower miles, this gentleman must also enjoy frequently inviting the oh-so-scrumptious caloric companion that I like to call sauerkraut to his repasts. I mean, really, who wouldn't love adding mostly rotten cabbage to one's meals? In a stroke of sheer genius, I grounded this deduction upon the fact that the toxic fumes which were so close to repeatedly robbing me of conscious thought--not to mention the minor luxury generally dubbed "breathable air"--were remarkably similar in their odiferous characteristics to that stagnant pile of rotting vegetable. Indeed, I believe the United States military could have employed this individual as a WMD (or "Weapon of Mass Destruction" for those of you who have been living in a dark and lonely cave for the last few years). I happen to know for a personal fact that the currently reigning king of the flies regards this gentleman as a national treasure, since he and his immediate environment--that is, any place within a three-and-one-half mile radius of him--provides his people with bountiful housing and economic opportunities. And these opportunities show no signs of evaporating any time soon. Clearly, showering is a choice which affects only the individual in question.

What is the point of all of this, you ask? Why do you care about a random individual to whose presence I have been subjected on only one occasion? Well, at least why do you care other than the fact that it was I who was affected? The point is, quite simply, this: the choices we make very often both shape and define who we are; what is more, the choices we make very often have a lasting impact, whether positive or negative, on others, and especially on those who are near and dear to our hearts. How often do I catch myself making hubristically selfish choices about how to spend my time--even choices that are ostensibly for the well-being of my family? How often am I "too tired" or "too busy" to spend time with my kids? How often do I begrudge the time I spend with my family, frustrated that I am not during that time working towards occupational advancement (ostensibly to benefit my family)? How often is that time spent with only half of my mind on the "here-and-now" (o.k., o.k.--a quarter of it, since only half is in general use anyway)? How often do I do these things, and then say that they are done "for the good of the family"? How often "must" and do I justify what I am currently doing, when it steals more time from my family than I will ever be able to redeem? Far more often than I would care to admit. At what point do the activities of daily life--even the necessary and good activities--at what point do these activities need to be put aside in order to do what is truly important? Why can I not get it through my fat-coated brain that family is more important than anything but God, even if it means that certain aspects of my "real" life suffer? Why is it that I so often seem to think that I am the most important being in the universe? Wretched man that I am! Who will set me free from the body of this death? (Rom. 7:24 [NASB])

With my penchant for screwing things up...and overreacting to minor situations...and being an all-around poophead, perhaps it is better that my kids don't see me any more than they do. Regardless, it doesn't change the fact that I have few regrets so great as the fact that I have yet to see a first step, I have yet to hear a first word, I have yet to...well, I have yet to experience much of what makes life with young children that time of life that is among the best we can ever experience. And, God help me, all of which I sometimes seem capable is to screw up their young selves. Oh, wretched man, indeed. Where is the hope? Thanks be to God through Jesus Christ our Lord! (Rom. 7:25 [NASB]) Thanks be to Him, both for the salvation He has wrought for and in me and for His care for my children and my wife. There is no one more capable.

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Lasting Joy from Love--Part 2

Well, gentle reader, here we are again. Finally, I just know you're thinking, finally I will learn what the answer to that age-old question "Who in the world does Don King's hair?" I hate to disappoint, but this week we are not going to be discussing this most pressing of questions. Instead, we are going to finish the gripping conversation begun last week. At long last, I will reveal what it is my own love for my children has revealed to me about the magnitude of the truth contained in Romans 5:6-11. I suppose that I should once again provide you, gentle reader, with a final caveat: these brief paragraphs in no way claim (not even in the land of Make Believe) to be a comprehensive examination of these verses. Clearly, there is a wealth of information contained here. My goal is only to highlight certain aspects of that wealth.

This passage in Romans has long been particularly interesting to me, in large part because of several aspects of the grace of God that it reveals. In the first place, as explicitly stated in verse 10 and implied in verse 8, God came to us (not we to Him, as is so often stated) and effected our reconciliation to Himself "while we were enemies." (NASB) That is to say, God Himself, the almighty and most holy Creator of the entire cosmos, "demonstrates His own love toward us, in that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us." (Rom. 5:8 [NASB]) Simply astonishing, is it not? Think about that for just a moment, if you would. God did not effect our reconciliation only after we had worked to improve ourselves. God did not effect our reconciliation only after we came to HIm begging and pleading, having worked in ourselves a full measure of repentance and contrition. Rather, God effected our reconciliation to Himself when we were still actively hostile to Him. What is it that an enemy does? In the most basic sense of the word, an enemy is one who is actively trying to destroy either his nemesis or the work of his nemesis or both. While we were sinners, while we were actively and fundamentally opposed to the Creator of the universe in the very depths of our nature, at that time God saw fit to work for us reconciliation with Himself.

What, then, did this reconciliation do? That is, from what have we been saved? I don't know about you, but the most common answers I hear tend to be along the lines of the devil or hell or sin or death or other such thing. While victory over these is most certainly a part of the whole process, none of them is the fundamental thing from which we have been saved. At its core--indeed, the reason we have the victory over death, the devil, and so on--at its core, we have been saved from God. Let me repeat that: we have finally and ultimately been saved by God from God. (See, in particular, Rom. 5:9.) God in His pure holiness and justice cannot tolerate sin in His presence. It must be punished, and it must be removed from His presence. The beauty of the Gospel is that He has punished our sin, and so He has satisfied His holy wrath. When the righteousness of Christ is imparted to us, even as He has borne our sins and the punishment necessitated by those sins, when that righteousness is imparted to us, we are effectively removed from the shadow of the wrath of God against sin and are thus completely reconciled to God. The beauty of the grace of God given us in Christ is that God has effected this reconciliation without in any way compromising His holiness or undermining His justice. Amazing.

And now we get to the point of the stories I shared last week. Those moments when my own love for my children rises to the surface with such intensity that I find it difficult to breathe, those moments have been used by God to reveal to me one of the most amazing aspects of this whole process: God sacrificed His own Son in order to effect our reconciliation. What is more, God did this "while we were yet enemies." While we rejected, while we despised, while we forsook His Son, God nevertheless at that time sent His Son to bring about our reconciliation. (Rom. 5:10) I'll tell you right now that there are many people for whom I like to think I would be willing to die in order to save their lives. Barring my wife, there is no one, not one single person, for whom I would be willing to sacrifice my children. I'm sorry, but you'd be on your own if it came down to a choice between rescuing you from a burning building or rescuing my children. You'd be on your own if the only way to save your life was to sacrifice the life of one of my children. Tough luck for you, I'd think. But my love for my children is such that they take precedence. That's my approach. Furthermore, I would kill to defend their honor. Nothing enrages me to quite the extent that people taking advantage of my children does. Now think about what God has done. While we were actively hostile to Him, while we were such that we would (and did) despise and reject His Son, at that point, God sent His Son to His death in order that we might avoid our own deserved deaths. What is more, God did it knowing that Christ would be brought to the point where God Himself would turn His back on His own Son. God did it, knowing that it would require that He forsake Himself in order to effect our reconciliation. (Note the poignant words of Christ on the cross, as recorded in Matt. 27:46 (NASB) when He cried out in agony, "Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?" [that is, "My God, My God, why hast Thou forsaken Me?"].) My words are weak and as such are incapable of expressing the sheer magnitude, the sheer wonder of this truth. God gave up His Son, He gave up Himself, in order to effect my salvation, your salvation. Absolutely amazing. Awesome (in the profound sense of the word, not in the sense of the flippant expression thrown around by so many in today's society). This work of God, this profound demonstration of His love for me, is why I can have joy--indeed, is why I do have joy. How beautiful indeed the hands that bled.

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Lasting Joy from Love

For several years now, gentle reader, one of my favorite Biblical passages has been Romans 5:6-11. There are a number of reasons for this. But first, let me tell you a couple of stories.

Several months ago, I instituted a weekly policy of taking a different child out for breakfast each week. It worked well for about 33 minutes, at which point I started having cops show up at my door at inconvenient hours investigating complaints that some weirdo was forcing cheap restaurant breakfasts down the throats of various neighborhood children every Wednesday. It was then that I began contemplating in typically deep fashion the legal expedience of limiting this weekly activity to my own children. This was a marvelous plan, I thought. Now I could finally feel as though I was fulfilling my role as father in the lives of my children while still doing everything pretty much the same as before; conscience appeasement is a sad, sad phenomenon. Anyway, this enabled me to see my kids once a week (o.k., o.k.--one of my kids once a week), while the remainder of the week was still spent in a galaxy far, far away--well, school and work anyway, though Odin knows it takes about as long to get to and from school on a typical day as it would take me to get to and from a galaxy far, far away. Still, at least once a week would I be able to keep contact with a member of my family.

In keeping with this plan, then, I one Wednesday took my daughter to Country Kitchen for the weekly ritual. An egg allergy prevented her from being able to get anything other than oatmeal for her morning repast. Still, she seemed to enjoy it, so whatever. Well, on this particular Wednesday, after a waiting session of coloring and playing games ("Let's see how many people we can hit with these little paper wads before they realize it's us!" "Yeah! That'll be fun!" "Sir, if you don't stop this immediately, we'll have to ask you to leave." "It wasn't me...really. It was my daughter! I can't do anything with her!" "Sir, I personally saw you launch that last wad..."), our food arrived, and we commenced to eating. Now, normally my daughter is quite a talkative little girl, interjecting comments at the most inopportune times ("Daddy, it wasn't either me!"), but this particular Wednesday the gentle ministrations of starvation prevented our speaking more than absolutely necessary for the first couple of minutes after receiving our food. By "absolutely necessary," of course, I mean that the only thing I heard in that first couple of minutes was a "Daddy, that's my food; stop stealing it."

Anyway, after a couple of minutes, my daughter looked up at me and said, with that completely serious intellectualism attainable only by a four-year-old, "Sometimes I call my brain a tire." Now, this is a completely normal observation to make, right? Of course! Naturally, my reaction was a half-choked "What?!?" To this, my ever contemplative four-year-old daughter explained: "Yes. Like 'My oatmeal is going to make my tire fall out of my head.'" In typical fashion, she then re-attacked her oatmeal with a gusto I have seldom seen rivaled. I don't know where she gets this stuff...

The second incident happened about two days later and involved my third child, who was not quite two at the time. He had just recently taken to going everywhere with a large doll, whom he had named "Joe" and on whose poor, bald head had been scribbled many a line (in permanent ink, of course). Well, my wife was walking down our hallway past the open bathroom door, when some movement from the corner of her eye caused her to turn back to the bathroom. Sure enough, there was my son, holding Joe by the ankle and systematically dunking his head in the toilet. I mean, how else are you going to clean off permanent ink stains? Well? How? He looked up when my wife came in, and then proceeded to dunk Joe yet again. (Thankfully, the toilet was not in that state between using and flushing. At least, I hope not.) My wife grabbed Joe from his little fist and asked, "Do babies go in the toilet?" He looked up at her in wide-eyed wonderment (probably wondering how she could possibly not know the obvious answer to that question) and responded in one of those voices that goes up and then down, "Ye-e-e-e-e-e-s." Of course. How could we have ever thought otherwise?

What is the point of all this, you ask? In particular, what could this possibly have to do with Romans 5:6-11? I'm glad you asked...even if you didn't ask and couldn't care less. Ah, once again the joys of one-sided conversation. The point is simply this: incidents such as those above are among those things that make you realize just how much you love your children. Nothing can ever take the place of one of these precious gifts. No other gift of God is quite so adept at showing you just how undeserving and woefully inadequate you are, either. But for our discussion today, suffice it to say that laughter shook my belly like a bowl full of jelly that day. (And it does shake like a bowl full of jelly, let me tell you. Santa? Santa's got nothing on me...) In addition to making me a wee bit healthier (or so I've been told), these were two particular moments in which just how much I have been blessed in my four children was impressed upon me. It's really quite impossible to put into words the overwhelming nature of the love I have for my children, but these experiences drove that home--you know, to the point that you find it hard to swallow or even to breathe. God then utilized these moments to impress upon me the magnitude of the truth contained in Romans 5:6-11. (I told you we'd get back to this eventually.) In what way? Well, I just realized how long this thing has gotten, so the answer to that will have to wait until next week. Man, my readership is going to hate me before too much longer...Why, oh why can't I be less full of hot air? And, perhaps more importantly, how many licks does it take to get to the Tootsie Roll center of a Tootsie Pop? The world may never know.

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Fantasy Football Firsts

Well, gentle reader, I return to regale you with the finest insights my vast intellect is capable of producing. Today, you will discover the wonders to be experienced by the neophyte in that great American pasttime of "Fantasy Football." (Make sure you read the previous two words in a booming, echoing voice; only then will you experience the full wonder of this moment.) Let us begin, shall we?

My experience with fantasy football prior to this year is, well, nonexistant. In other words, this is the first year that I've ever had any inclination to actually partake of this delectable dish. Well, after years of never doing...well, much of anything of any sort, this year I was asked to join two (count them: two) fantasy football leagues in the space of about three hours. "Finally," I thought to myself, "people are beginning to recognize that I am the greatest man alive." Needless to say, I decided to join, if only to bestow the blessing of my participation upon the others in the leagues.

Having made this great decision, I needed to begin the so-called "pre-draft process." Since I knew exactly what I was doing, I needed neither to research anything nor to accept advice from those who have done this in the past. Of course, by this I mean that I was completely lost, having not the slightest clue where to even begin, much less what to do. (Football? What's a football? Is that where people cut off their own feet and replace them with balls? Sounds kind of stupid to me...) So, I began at the place to which I was directed--namely, setting up an account on Yahoo so I could actually join the leagues.

Next came the most difficult task of selecting names for my teams. What name should I use to strike fear into the hearts of my enemies? Gophers? I mean, everyone is scared of little furry rodents with big buck teeth that are frequently shot by annoyed ranchers, right? Much more so than some ridiculous name like "Wolverines" or "Fighting Sioux" or "Vikings" (not that the Vikings have been anything to fear lately). "Gophers" or "Wild" is much more appropriate. So, after much consideration and finally coming to the realization that I am a being to be feared myself, I chose those classic figures of myth and terror "Wendigo" and "Chuthulu." If you really don't know what they are, I would suggest looking into some Native American mythology and reading a little H.P. Lovecraft. Or you could do it the lazy man's way (my way) and just look it up on Wikipedia. Of course, with my penchant for the macabre, in this instance I've actually read the materials in question...

Probably the easiest (by which I mean most difficult) part of the whole process was actually figuring out whom to place on my teams. I found that Yahoo allows you to export picks to all your Yahoo leagues. Being the lazy bum that I am, I of course took immediate advantage of this little tool, despite the fact that the two leagues are completely different in their scoring structures (which brings me to something else I didn't know about fantasy football--each league can almost limitlessly customize its structure, from the number of players and positions allowed to how the scoring occurs; one of my leagues is quite complicated [at least from my perspective], while the other is extremely streamlined). I mean, if picks are good in one system, they're good in all systems, right? Of course they are. Well, anyway, I actually did research to see whom I should consider picking--even to the point of figuring substatial depth for each position (from my perspective at the time--more on that later). Thirty-five pre-ranked players was enough to effectively fill 16 slots, I thought. Wrong. (Think Ray Stevens' "Haircut Song" for the appropriate voice here.) Of course, it didn't help that I wasn't able to be present at the live draft (although I got in on the last pick--hardly enough to even count). Yahoo automatically picked my players, drawing first from my pre-ranked selections and then from their own rankings. If I have taken nothing else away from this experience, it is that presence at the live draft is critical if you're going to have any chance of getting a really decent team. My team in the league that has already drafted is projected to fall somewhere near the bottom of the league...o.k., o.k. At the bottom. I think as things stand right now there is one team that I might have a chance to beat...assuming my injury prone key players can stay healthy...

Well, time will tell how the season goes. Regardless, it's been a hoot. I'm positive my sex-appeal will guarantee an invite again next year. Or maybe it'll be the fact that I field teams that a bunch of geriatric hobblers could crush. Either way, this'll be an experience.

As a side note, for those who care, the draft resulted in the following team (given in no particular order):

1) QB - Peyton Manning (Ind)

2) WR - Marvin Harrison (Ind)

3) WR - Santana Moss (Was)

4) WR - Nate Burleson (Sea)

5) RB - Laurence Maroney (NE)

6) RB - DeShaun Foster (Car)

7) TE - Jermaine Wiggins (Min)

8) BN/RB - Tatum Bell (Den)

9) BN/QB - Steve McNair (Bal)

10) BN/WR - Keyshawn Johnson (Car)

11) BN/WR - Marcus Robinson (Min)

12) BN/RB - Jamal Lewis (Bal)

13) BN/TE - Ben Troupe (Ten)

14) K - Josh Brown (Sea)

15) BN/K - Jason Elam (Den)

16) DEF - Indianapolis (Ind..Oh, wait. You might already know that.)

Immediately following the draft, I made the following changes...once again displaying the wonders of my intellectual prowess, as these moves were made at the recommendation of a couple of my...friends (read "mortal enemies" or "opponents," as you prefer):

1) Tatum Bell was dumped in favor of Frank Gore (BN/RB, SF)

2) Laurence Maroney was dumped in favor of Mike Bell (RB, Den)

Now you know, and knowing is half the battle...or knowledge is power...or any cliché you choose to insert here.

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The Way God Works--Part 3

Well, gentle reader, here we are again. Finally, the third and final installment in this little series of discussions. I'm sure you've all been anxiously consuming all the squashed bread you've been able to find as you've waited with baited breath for this. Swallow that last bite, then, and rest at ease, for the eagerly anticipated moment has finally arrived. As I said in the previous postings , this little series is in no way an effort to exhaust (or even really scratch the surface of) this vast topic. Nevertheless, I leave you, gentle reader, with these few words on the second of the reasons that God elects to use means in His dealings with people.

In His grace and mercy, God elects to use means in His dealings with people in order that those who are used as means might be blessed. For example, when God provides us with our daily bread, one of the means that He uses in that provision is the work of the farmer. As the farmer acts within his vocation as a farmer, God in turn uses that vocation to bless the farmer. As was said to the Israelites, "[T]he LORD your God has blessed you in all the work of your hands." (Deut. 2:7 [ESV]) And, lest we think that this statement doesn't apply to us today, that we are indeed blessed as we fulfill our vocations is made more clear in such passages as Psalm 128:1-4, in which we read, "Blessed is everyone who fears the LORD, who walks in His ways! You shall eat the fruit of the labor of your hands; you shall be blessed and it shall be well with you...Behold, thus shall the man be blessed who fears the LORD." (ESV) As the farmer does the work that helps provide the daily bread for our tables, he is blessed in the very performance of that work.

This is one of the greatest tragedies for those who go through life in unbelief. As I'm sure you know, many of the farmers whose work is used by God to provide the daily bread for our tables are not believers. They may curse God when it rains at an inopportune time or when drought destroys the majority of a year's work. They may be agnostic. They may be atheistic. However, God still makes use of their labors to provide the daily bread that has been promised to us. The tragedy is found in that they miss out on the blessing of being a means of God's provision. Indeed, not only do they miss out on the blessing, but in unbelief they actively reject that blessing. For the unbeliever, the fullness of God's curse upon the ground (Gen. 3:17-19) is experienced; conversely, while the believer must still eat bread by the sweat of his toil, it is done in a very real state of blessing: "Blessed are the people whose God is the LORD!" (Ps. 144:15 [ESV])

Obviously, this holds true for the believer, regardless of the specific vocation to which one is referring. Indeed, each and every person has multiple vocations with which they are engaged at any given moment. The one who has children is called to be a father, and so he is one means through which God chooses to provide and care for the children. That same one is most often also called to be a husband, and so he is one means through which God chooses to bless his wife. That same one is also the child of his parents, and so he is called to be a source of blessing to his parents. Likewise, he is called to fullfil the vocation of his work, whatever that work may be; in this, God uses him as the means to provide for and bless still others. In every one of these callings--these vocations, if you will--God also blesses the one called as that one discharges his vocation...as I'm sure any father could tell you. Ultimately, these blessings come to those who are believers, while those who continue in unbelief miss the full experience of the blessings intended by God. An unbelieving father often receives some blessing from being a father to his children; however, unbelief leads to a rejection of the full extent of that blessing, for only in Christ is the blessing of God fully realized. "Blessed are those whose lawless deeds are forgiven, and whose sins are covered; blessed is the man against whom the Lord will not count his sin." (Rom. 4:7-8 [ESV])

Why does God elect to use means in His dealings with men? While there are many specific reasons, at the heart of the matter is that He does so in grace and mercy for the benefit of those who are so affected. The greatest tragedy of all lies in the fact that so many persist in unbelief and rejection of that grace and mercy, offered ultimately in the death and resurrection of His one and only Son, Jesus Christ.

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The Way God Works--Part 2

Well, folks, I'm sure you've all been waiting breathlessly for the next installment in our little discussion (you can find the first part here). By "discussion" I mean that I get to talk, and you don't. Hot air is useful at times.

Last time I promised to discuss later two points regarding why it is that God has elected to use means in His dealings with people. Now is later. However, gentle reader, I am only going to touch on one of them today. You will have to wait until next time for the second of the two.

Why, then, does God use means in His dealings with people? First and foremost, it is an act of grace and mercy on the part of God towards us. We, as sinful and lowly human beings, would be consumed were we to stand in the presence of the holy and almighty Creator. Two relatively famous illustrations of this point spring immediately to mind.

The first is that of Moses. When Moses was receiving the tablets of the Law on Mt Sinai, he requested that God would reveal His glory to Moses. God's response to him in Exodus 33 is particularly revealing: "I will make all my goodness pass before you...But...you cannot see my face; for no one shall see me and live." (Ex. 33:19-20 [NRSV]) God then told Moses that He would cover him with His hand, removing His hand after He had passed by and allowing Moses to see His back (and expression, of course). His face could not be seen--even by Moses.

Furthermore, after simply speaking with God on Sinai as he received the Law, the glory of God had so encompassed Moses that the people were unable to even be in Moses' uncovered presence. Indeed, Exodus 34 reveals that Moses had to wear a veil over his face following his encounters with God so that the people could be near him. So great is the glory of God.

Isaiah 6 reveals the presents us with the second example. When Isaiah sees the throne room of God, he can do nothing but cry out "Woe is me! I am lost, for I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips; yet my eyes have seen the King, the LORD of hosts!" (Is. 6:5 [NRSV]) It is only after he has been purified by the fire from the altar that he is able to bear even the sight of the throne .

This chapter in Isaiah is particularly revealing, for the Seraphs that are around the throne of God cry out again and again "Holy, holy, holy is the LORD of hosts; the whole earth is full of His glory." (Is. 6:3) In Hebrew, a single repetition of a word (e.g., holy, holy) indicates perfection; that is, a description of something or someone as "holy, holy" indicates that thing or person is perfectly holy. As unfathomably awesome as it is, God is more than perfectly holy. The triplicate makes that abundantly clear. God is, if you will, perfectly perfectly holy.

That is the God who is so gracious as to have sent His own Son to die in our place. That is the God who is so gracious as to have promised to supply for us our daily bread. That is the God who is gracious enough to spare our sinful selves from being consumed by His holiness; for God, in His holiness, cannot tolerate sin in His presence. Indeed, it was for this reason that God sent His Son--so that we believers will "be saved through Him from the wrath of God." (Rom. 5:9 [NRSV]) Therefore, God does not destroy us with His direct presence in the provision of our daily bread. He instead uses means.

Why else would He use means? Again, in His grace and mercy he does. I will touch on that next time.

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The Way God Works

As this is my first official post on this site, I suppose the polite thing to do would be to give all who care some semblance of an idea regarding just who I am. Well, to those of you who care, tough luck. I'm Frederick III; look it up in The Oxford Dictionary of the Christian Church, if you are interested.

That aside, an interesting truth has been pressed upon me lately--a truth that has helped me to see the value in both mundane and downright unpleasant circumstances. It also helps to explain why it is that God so rarely elects to work in spectacular miracles (by which I mean, e.g., the feeding of the 5000 or the healing of the blind man) any longer. And, no, it is not because the world is so much more rational or sinful or skeptical or whatever now than it used to be. What is this truth, you ask? It is quite simply that God has chosen to work His will in this world through means; that is, God uses means to accomplish what he would accomplish in this world.

By way of example (just one--I could think of countless), consider one of the petitions we pray in the Lord's Prayer--if you're like me, often without even thinking about what you are saying, much to my (and your?) chagrin. We say (in some manner similar to this, anyway), "Give us this day our daily bread." What do we mean by this? We are asking God to provide what we need to survive on a daily basis. Perhaps even more amazing, God has promised to do just that (see the end of Matt 6, e.g.). How, though, does He do this? By miraculously causing the bread to appear out of thin air on our dinner tables? Generally, no. He does it by means of the farmer who grows the grain, the miller who grinds and prepares it, the baker who bakes it, the trucker who gets it to the store, the grocer who stocks and sells it, the bagger who throws it on the bottom of our bag so that the bread can be all squished when we get home, the employer who has given us the job that provides the wages with which we are able to purchase the bread, etc. I could go on and on and on.

It is vital that we realize that this does not in any way mean that God's provision of our daily bread is any less miraculous than it would be if He caused it to pop out of thin air. (Man, would my kids love that--if they didn't scream in terror, that is. It could go either way.) In our sinfulness, we (or at least I) simply tend to lose sight of the fact that it is a miraculous provision. In our sinfulness, we(I) also tend to see the process (if we ever think about it) as somehow divorced from God; that is, I do the work that earns the wage, I pay the grocer for the bread from my money, so it is up to me (and me alone) to ensure that my family continues to eat. I don't know about you, but I tend to turn the means into the source. Foolish.

Why, though, Mr. Frederick III, does God elect to use means? Wouldn't the spectacular be a lot easier all around (and be more convincing that God is indeed the one behind the process)? Good questions you have asked. While I have neither the intention nor the ability to exhaust this topic, I will briefly touch upon two of them at a later time.

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