Airline Travel and the Amusement Park Model

Apparently, airlines have decided to use amusement parks as their models of how to run airlines--into the ground. The ticket only gets you into the door and free bathrooms. Everything else costs extra.

The amusing thing about this model is that it is not amusing in amusement parks and it is certainly not amusing with the airlines. The airlines are running billions of dollars in the red and their answer to their problems is to sell you a $3.00 soft drink. Never have airport vendors had such a profitable year. Now, everyone is taking everything on board: fried chicken, soft drinks, coffee lattes, and lots and lots of bags formerly checked but now costing money to check. AA has not been joined by other airlines on the $15.00 charge for the first bag, but I can understand why they would do that. As Mike Chancellor's hands down, worst airline to fly, the $15.00 charge helps locate the bag they lost between DFW and Abilene which is a non-stop flight.

This last weekend trip went fine to Memphis. That we had to fly to St. Louis from DFW in order to get to Memphis makes no sense, but much of airlines operating policy today makes no sense. I have observed as have many others is the cheapest seats keep you in the air longer with the largest number of airports visited. Now in my world, if someone purchased a cheap ticket, I would want to get them there as soon as I could because the longer I have them, the more they cost me. That is not airline thinking(which is an oxymoron like military intelligence) Airline thinking is the cheaper the seats, the longer you keep them in the air being shuttled from airport to airport(which the last time I noticed burns valuable fuel which is why they are bazillions in the red)

Coming home from Memphis was not as fun. Perhaps it was because on the way to the airport, I made some disparaging remarks about Elvis and Graceland. One should never say ugly things about the patron saint of a city and expect to escape unscathed.

So, things went well to St. Louis. Course we were flying Northwest. At St. Louis we met up with American Airlines and the world worst planned airport with the possible except of Atlanta and Los Angeles. Going from terminal A to terminal C meant one had to leave a secure area and then re-enter through security again. The rather humorless woman who checked my boarding pass attempted to ignore me when I asked, "I thought the map in terminal A showed a secure way to get terminal C." She kept her head down and looked at my boarding pass for some reason to throw me out of the airport. I hate being ignored, so when she finished she looked up at me with that "You stupid insect" look, and I looked back at her with that "I will not move until I get a civil answer to my question." We stared each other down, and she finally cracked, "There is no way to get from one secure area to another in this airport." I replied, "Thank you." One minor victory for all the minions who fly and are treated like dirt.

When I arrived at our American gate, which is more like a holding pen than any holding pen I have ever been in, (And yes, I have been in holding pens and have the manure covered boots to show it) we joined hundreds without seats waiting on their planes of which 4/5 were late. It is an AA trademark. They are chronically late. Their pilots have a bad hair day, their planes have a bad hair day, their CEO has a bad day at work. For some reason, AA likes being late. So, most all the planes were late. When we finally boarded, this group of flight attendants had not read the memo about inflight beverage service. In fact, they had not read their memos for the last five or so years. We got pretzels and a beverage with ice. No charge.

However, when we got to Dallas, someone, a big 767 was sitting at our gate, so we decided to wait them out. It would be too much to pull into another gate (American Eagle does this with alacrity) so we sit on the tarmac until the last flight to Abilene has been scheduled to leave. They pull up to the gate, we race against hope to the gate we were told American Eagle would use. No one present. But a plane is at the gate with an engine door open. I check the monitors and sure enough, gate change for AE. We race to the gate where everyone going to Abilene is sitting quietly as the mechanic tries to fix the plane. The plane that was to depart at 8:55p.m. left at 10:00p.m. without cabin pressure and flying at 8,000 ft. at half speed. One poor misguided soul asked for a blanket. The elderly flight attendant said in her Norwegian English, "We are happy to sell you a blanket for $5.00. It comes with a nice hoody." Hoots went up through out the plane.

So we landed, I went to retrieve my one checked bag, only to find out it was not there. I went upstairs, (it is now about 11:00 p.m--arrival time was 9:45)and waited and waited to report my missing bag. The desk agent finally arrived and asked what color my bag was, and I told them it was power blue. They smiled and said, "Why, it came in on an earlier flight, we have it right here."

Welcome to Six Flags Over American Airlines!

Vacation Bible School and the Wrath of God

This week is Vacation Bible School at our place.

I believe VBS is God's punishment on adults for their unconfessed sins of childhood. It is Baptist purgatory--if you will. I once did six Bible Schools in six weeks. I was a wicked, wicked child--apparently!

In the 58 years I have lived, at least 45 of those have been spent in some form of Vacation Bible School. The first 12 were as a student. It was so much fun going to two week VBSs that Mom took us to two a summer. That covered one month of boredom. Then when I got older, I was "mature" (looking back, the word was stupid)enough to help in VBS, because volunteers were catching on and dropping out like flies. No bother, energetic youth were in ready supply so VBS could go on forever-- or it just felt like that.

Now we have today and our modern incarnation of Vacation Bible School. Things have really changed. Ours is four days long. It takes the rest of the summer to get the building back in shape after four days of hellions( I mean little children eagerly wanting to learn about Jesus)in the building. And that doesn't count the damage done by the children who never grew up--usually assigned to the recreation team(shortened to Rec) for a reason. Last night the Rec crew brought water pistols to church for the activity part of the children's time outside. I just hid in a closet until 10:00 p.m. It is not that I have a deadly fear of water pistols or of guns in general, it is just that careless watering ruins my hair.

I was actually assigned the rather harmless task this year of accompanying the bus driver as we picked up kids. This is a rather benign work, unless you back over one of them, then well, you figure out what happens after that.

We had a small bus, actually a Suburban, which I don't even want to think about how much it costs to get this monster up to cruising speed. We made two trips. The first stop was five children, one of which was caught in the act of doing something with mud. I was not too alarmed about him crawling in the car since it was not my car or my child. We just brought him as he was. I knew his teachers would correct anything amiss. Sure enough when we took him home, he was only half as muddy but twice as wet, and the door prize for being good in the bus was another water pistol.

Over the years, VBS has become shorter and shorter, and the cookies have gone from being all home made to mostly store bought. The interesting thing is the children prefer that. Years ago, when we hauled out the cookies at refreshment time, the homemake cookies were examined like one would look at a cow patty. In the eyes of the child you could see, "I ain't putting this thing in my mouth, what are you trying to do, poison me!" Of course, that would seriously damage our averages, so we were not about to do that. However, they did not know that, so they reached over cookies to die for and took the store bought cookies. Looking back I can see a lot of where my extra weight came from as the years rocked on.

But, it worked out well: the children ate the store bought cookies, and the adults (already larger than life size) feasted on the homemake cookies. The cookie makers never knew the difference. It really was quite the racket, now that I think about it. No adult would ever bake cookies just because you asked them too, but for VBS, nothing was too good.

So, back to now and we are down to two nights. That is one of the other big changes. All morning schools have gone to night schools, because we are raising a smarter group of teens and they aren't buying what we are selling. Rather immune to guilt at the adolescent age, we have had to revert to the pool of adults who could be goaded into doing this for their children and their church and bringing cookies to boot.

So, I am back running the bus as shotgun. Since our theme is the old Wild West, it is appropriate that I should have this position because I don't want anyone kidnapping these precious little darlings all covered with chocolate, tempera paint, chalk, mud, and water. However, I have noticed each evening that some parents are not happy that we have delivered their children back safe and sound. I get the feeling that some parents hope we would lose their children in the shuffle. But, they can rest assured, these are the very children that will be returned safely home.

I do remember the mother(several years ago) that left her kid at Vacation Bible School until we were thinking about calling the police. It was an hour after Bible School was over, no address, no phone number, and the little bundle of joy could not remember her last name or where she lived. Being the cynic that I am, I began to suspect a plot to dump this child on the one group of people who might just not bring her home. WRONG PEOPLE!! Whether it was remorse, or thinking about consequences, or the boyfriend left, she showed up and we learned a valuable lesson. No child was ever dropped off again without a last name, a working phone number of someone on the planet, an address, finger prints, and a gentle reminder of when VBS is over. It didn't hurt that in bold bright neon shiny lights was the CPS hotline number over the registration table and an old grouch standing poised with a phone in his hand ready to dial the magic number. We usually recruited our crankiest member who didn't see the need for such foolishness in the first place, and in the second place in his day they did all this without air conditioning using two sticks and one apple between them.

This year we tried something new. We have a VBS band. Now I know that electric guitars, drums, and screaming voices sound a little unlike the wild west, but it beats shooting up the place and chasing Miss Kitty.

The VBS band is leading worship Sunday. I will be in Taiwan. I sure I can hear them from there!

The Child Formerly known as Joseph

We are familiar with stars changing their birth names for artistic reasons, however, some change their birth names for other reasons. Case in point, Joe.

Joe(the oldest youngest child formerly known as Joseph) has not always been the oldest youngest or always been Joe.

I have lived the larger part of my life as a father calling Joseph Andrew Chancellor, Joseph. He wanted it that way and I wanted it that way. It was only after the child’s name was etched in stone (approved by all parties past, present, and future) I discovered that Joseph could be shortened to “Joe,” and most likely would. I was aghast. First, that I was so stupid as to saddle my son with a name what would immediately become a nickname known for just referring to anybody. And second, that I would have a son named Joe.

So, the slow war began to resist the temptation to shorten “Joseph” to “Joe.” For the first three years, it was the parent’s battle. After Joseph could speak, he made it a mission in life to be known as Joseph. He had no fear of correcting people of all ages and walks of life. “My name is Joseph,” usually went the rebuke. And it worked. Against all odds, Joseph grew up without his name being shorted to “Joe.”

Then came China and Mandarin. Apparently, “Joseph” is difficult if not impossible to pronounce in Mandarin. So, not long after Joseph moved to spend a year in China, what years of friends and strangers could not do, Mandarin Chinese accomplished. Apparently, “Joseph” in Chinese, became something like “Yosefu.” For many Chinese, it was unpronounceable. So, instead of becoming the “Yank whose name one cannot pronounce,” “Joseph” became “Joe.”

Joseph became the “oldest” youngest child around another event in his parent’s lives.

After we had fallen in love with James, it became apparent that we would need to talk with our children about adopting the 10 year old. We were in the midst of Christmas shopping by e-mail suggestions, and I just dropped the sentence, “How would you feel about being the middle child instead of the youngest?”

Joseph e-mailed back, “I will call you tonight.”

Now grown children are rather funny about matters of sex and their parents. They evolve from not knowing anything about the subject, to curiosity about how they came to be, and the difference between boys and girls. Then, as they move into adolescence developing their own sexuality, the idea their parents might have sex is revolting. I remember reading a text book for my counseling degree. The class was “Human Sexuality.” As I recall, I left the book open on the dining room table. The particular subject was social diseases and my son walked by. There were pictures. And he was grossed out. “Dad, would you close that book and put it up! One of my friends might see it.” The notion that people older than 30 might be having sex, was equally revolting–especially if these older folks are your parents.

So Joseph calls and what follows is a long distance exercise of sputtering attempts to ask a very delicate question. “Dad, I, uhhhhhh, well, I thought you and Mom, uhhhh, how could you at your age, uhhh. . .” It was rare for me to find my son speechless and sputtering so I just sat back and enjoyed the misery. He finally wound down, and I said, “We are thinking of adopting a 10 year old boy who needs a home. You mother is not pregnant except with love and a burden. Joseph relaxed and became quite the little cheerleader for our adoption. And he became the middle child.

Fast forward a couple of years and Joseph is enrolled in the Master’s program in psychology at Pepperdine University at Riverside. On one family occasion, he snuggled up to me and said, “You know this whole middle child thing has completely scarred my psyche–perhaps forever.” Being the incredibly empathetic counselor that I am, I responded, “Well, you’ll just have to get over it won’t you?”

So I have hit upon the idea of minimizing the damage by restoring Joseph (now Joe) to his former glory as the youngest child. He is just the oldest youngest. Somehow that works for me.

Something smells in BGCT Land Part II

When last we left our dwindling erstwhile convention, they were being challenged by their new Executive Director to reach Texas's 11 million lost persons with a simple, understandable witness, and meet the human needs within our state.

This blog explores our part in the challenge of sharing Christ with the lost in our state. Let me simply proceed along three lines: our churches; ourselves; our convention.

If we were to witness in simple ways to 11 million lost in our state, one would expect many of those persons to seek a church where they could grow up in Christ. We might have a slight problem here. Many Texas Baptist churches are not really ready for an influx of new Christians. There is space, but not room.

Too many church are not healthy enough to have new spiritual children in their midst. In fact a cynic's view of Texas Baptist Churches is that large numbers of them are either settling in a new pastor; growing discontented with the pastor they have; actively attempting to run off the resident pastor; and/or fighting amongst themselves. What a great environment in which to bring a new Christian.

Additionally, many of our churches are self-focused (hence the continuing worship wars) and really find themselves very uncomfortable with strangers. Overgrown with power structures that have been in place for years, such churches are actually hostile to outsiders. But they are being counted as resources for the challenge.

Too many pastors and ministry families are not spiritually healthy enough. We still have an unchecked stream of men and women leaving ministry because they are tired of being beat up, beat down, argued with, and generally disrespected. Add to that, personal moral failure and continuing church conflict, and these are the front line leaders we are depending on to lead the charge.

Church members are on board theoretically, but practically, most don't have the time or the will to set out to be a part of reaching either goal. Our million Baptists is quickly dwindling into a smaller and smaller group.

And then there is the State Convention. What smells in BGCT land is this grand challenge at this time. In less than three years, we are going to pray, sell, mobilize, educate and do these two great challenges. In my life as a Texas Baptist, such great challenges usually took about a year to plan, a year to get the churches ready, and a year or more to conduct the emphasis. Those were the good years when we liked each other and worked together. Those times are not now.

That is what smells. We have a big crack in our Baptist foundation and we are going to paper over it with sounding the challenge around two cherished themes (one more cherished than another): evangelism and human caring. Honestly, these are days of low trust between us and low trust between pastors, churches and the BGCT. It seems we will try anything but face this mistrust issue head on.
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In my reading of great moves of evangelism, it seems to me such efforts have always come as a result of a mighty move of God within the church--first! That makes sense. If the church is not spiritual healthy, spiritually refreshed, in love with Jesus and holy living, any disciples we would train would be two and three times as much sons/daughters of hell as we are. Thank you but I think we have enough of that. Remember "1 million more in '54". If you don't, one wit put it this way, "A million more like we got in '54 and we will be out of business."

In fact, this whole challenge thing has the cart wrong way around. The natural out flow of the inrush of the Holy Spirit into the fellowship of the church is evangelism and compassion. It has always been and shall always be. The fact is that we are more in Acts 1 than 2. We are more saturated and mired in "what's in it for us" than people with bold kingdom hearts. In fact, in the life of many Baptist churches pastors and people have hearts that are two sizes two small for the world in which we live.

So, we are we to do with this bold challenge? I would suggest we set a goal of having our churches more healthy by 2010 so that we are ready for reaching more than 11 million people with the simple gospel. We don't need to put off the second part of the great challenge. Getting one's hands dirty in the mud of human need has a way of softening the heart that pictures and videos cannot do.

Our Convention aught to lead the way with repenting and asking for forgiveness for what has happened over the last 8-10 years. Doesn't revival begin, always begin, when God's people begin to humble themselves and pray and seek the face of God and turn from our wicked ways? Then let our BGCT leaders show us up close and personal what that looks like. It can be a non-showy, sincere, model of Biblical repentance.

You see, that is what smells in BGCT land. I think we are rushing to a great work, in order to refocus our attention away from what has been left undone. To invoke the name of God to cover one's unconfessed sins borders on, if not in fact is-- presumption!

Something smells in BGCT Land Part 1

While Yisrayl Hawkins, head of the House of Yahweh religious sect in Abilene, was proclaiming the end of the world, Dr. Randel Everett was issuing a bold challenge to Baptists of the Baptist General Convention of Texas. As I understand it, by 2010, Dr. Everett wants Texas Baptists to have communicated the Gospel in a way that every person in Texas who is not a Christian (11 million) can understand. And, have reached out to assess and respond to the human suffering of those in Texas that are poor and without the basics of life.

I understand why Hawkins wants the end of the world to come, for he is most likely going to jail. The date has come and gone and we are still here. So, once again, the cult leader has been proven wrong, but still folks will look past his false prophecies and continue to follow him.

Dr. Everett's challenge is not a prophecy, just a challenge, but an interesting challenge none the less. Many have extolled the breath of this vision as being-- well visionary. But I must ask, why this, why now?

I am not opposed to either goal. As poorly as we do evangelism, our church has 6 waiting baptism--three of them Hispanic. As to goal 2, our small congregation gives thousands of dollars of food out each year through our food pantry free to those in need. In addition, through the Angel Food Network, we have assisted families across the Big Country buy affordable food for themselves and their families. Added to that, this ministry has allowed us to give away thousands of dollars worth of food to flood victims, returning soldiers, and families in crisis. Recently, we added a volunteer who has retired from the Department of Human Services after 30 years of God called service. Her responsibility is community ministries and she has come to our church for such a time as this for helping us identify and respond to social needs. Already in less than a year, thousands of dollars have been given to people for prescription medications, rent assistance, utility help, and basic life needs. Our Texas Baptist Offering for World Hunger has not only been something we contribute to, but something that comes back to us in the form of a grant to help our social ministries programs in 2009.

Why now? Why this? Crescent Heights is a transitional church. That simply means we find ourselves where hundreds of church across Texas find themselves: the neighborhood is changing and our church as we knew it is dying. Everything we have tried for the last 40 years has not worked, or worked long. The dying has been slow and frustrating. With this transitioning, has come a painful transitioning in the budget. Fewer people, fewer dollars. But you wouldn't know it by what we attempt each year. This year our frustration took a turn that has proven interesting. Following the lead of Henry Blackaby (What the Spirit is Saying to the Churches) we have divided our budget into two categories: what we think we can provide through tithes and offerings; what we need God to provide. For the first time in a long while, our budget is on track with nearly all our mission commitments honored from the first of the year. All of this by praying for God to provide His part as we provide our part.

Now, such an approach strikes me as a way of thinking about this Bold Challenge of Dr. Everett's. However, when I think in those terms, I believe Texas Baptists may be bordering on presumption.

There is no doubt that God could bring the whole state to Himself without our puny help if He so chooses. There is no doubt that Biblically, God wants all of Texas to hear about Him and come to Him. There is no doubt that God grieves whenever a child goes to bed hungry in Texas, without the basic needs of life met. There is no doubt about any of this.

I don't believe there is any reluctance on the part of God to do what God has been doing for hundreds and thousands of years. So what are my reservations?

They actually run along several lines all having to do with this paradigm of our part, God's part. I am not saying this is the only way to think about something like this, but it is a way to get a handle on such a sweeping challenge.

First, our part. We are perfectly able right now to undertake part II of this bold challenge, except for one slight problem. Many of our Baptists don't have the heart for it. Our hearts are not broken but incensed at the poor. The poor combine all the groups we don't like as God-fearing Christians: those people that don't belong here; the mentally ill; and those who won't/can't work for a living. That is why we continually elect legislators who underfund Human Services to a damnable degree every time they meet. Only when they are driven by the courts or the courts of public opinion, does change finally come, and then it is with the foot dragging and grumbling of an obstinate teenager.

O.K. let's think about our part on the First Part: sharing Christ with 11 million unbelievers in Texas. Let me phrase these in terms of challenges not obsticles.

First, there is the challenge of culture. Over 100 different languages are spoken in Texas. I believe, we have small but vital works in most of these language groups. Some of these churches are more vital and alive than the English speaking churches that gave them birth. However, at least one ethnic group is a formidable challenge for several reasons. Hispanics now comprise over 40% of the Texas population. Not all of them are limited to Spanish, but many are. Basically, we are asking our Hispanic Baptist people to reach 40% of Texas. We can throw in a token amount of Anglos who understand the language and the culture, but mostly Hispanic Baptists are on their own. While work with and by Hispanic Baptists is old, it is still weak and uneven, with not enough good leadership to go around. 40% of Texas!

This doesn't even begin to address the other cultures of which we are less familiar.

Then there is religion. Sharing Christ in an understandable way is more than just going through the words. 100 language groups means a variety of religious experiences many of which have no real experience with Scripture or the concept of sin and the Savior. Communicating Christ in an understandable way to a Buddhist, or a Muslim, is not the same as sharing Christ with someone who has never been in church. Texas is now home to the religions of the world, and the home grown cultic religions of the United States. Can God break through and bring understanding--YES! But, this has never really been about God. The work of God is never about the willingness or the ability of God. The Work of God is always a saga about the willingness and the ability of people to be obedient: obedient to the will of God to do the work of God.

So, at this point, I think, we have ever so slight a problem.

Names are everything

Getting pregnant is fun.

Naming the baby after you have had your fun is not. It is one of the great, tortuous activities any marriage can experience and hopefully survive.

There is a reason why women are pregnant for 9 months. It takes that long for husband, wife, in-laws, and close friends to approve of what this little bundle of joy will be called. And then after all that work, baby gets a nickname.

Anna and I began our quest for the perfect name by purchasing books of names. This was before the internet, computers, or the advent of couples putting thought into the names of the children. Somehow, Chastity, Heather, Chad, and other names like that, left us cold.

My desire was to name my children with two goals in mind: First, I wanted to name my child something grand. So, I looked to the theologians I was reading and I noticed that anyone of note had three names before the last name. There was John R.W. Stott; D. Martyn Lloyd-Jones. Anna promptly vetoed that idea. She felt making our child fill out government forms the rest of their lives with such legal names would be a burden too great to bear.

More than that, those long names were probably family heirlooms, and looking back into our family, things were pretty sparse. My dad was named "J.L." That's all. Nothing else. Apparently during the depression his parents were too poor to afford a proper name. Imagine going through the Marines with your dogtag saying "J(only)L(only)Chancellor". It would not be long before he was called "Jonly Lonly Chancellor." So, back another generation and we picked up "Pickens." That was my grandfather's name and it always sounded too much like something else as in, "What is he doing?" "He's pickens his nose."

Anna's side was not much better. "Barnhill" was pretty much a non-starter for me. Naming your child "Barnhill" is what gets you murdered in your bed. A good attorney could get the kid off for that offense, as well they should.

So, that idea was vetoed. The next was not.

The other criteria I had was that what ever we named our child, it had to scream well.

I believe in "total depravity" and I believe we see it best in our children. There is not anything a child will not do, try, taste, or say. So, occasionally it becomes necessary to raise one's voice with emphasis. Years ago we called it screaming. I did not want to give my child a name that would not scream well. I had noticed the only time my middle name was ever used was when I was in trouble and being screamed at.(With three boys, that happened a lot--which may be where my hearing loss first started)

So, bottom line, I wanted names that I would not trip over when I needed to raise my voice with emphasis. Little did we know that we would have two boys, and such an endeavor would occasionally be necessary in the rarest of situations.

I won that argument. They are not grand names, but they do scream well. In marriage, 50% is always a win.

Stream of consciousness

My oldest youngest son told me yesterday my blog resembles a style of writing called "steam of consciousness." Apparently, people who write in this style go on and on with sparse use of punctuation or the rules of English.

I can live with that. After all, it is my blog, and I can write any way I want to. After all, no one is going to read it but him. It is like writing a diary and hiding it in plain sight. It's cool.

The truth is that my writing is like my life: a stream that runs where it will, when it will. I don't know that I would acknowledge to always being conscious during the process, but on life went anyway.

The fun thing about my thoughts is I never know where they will take me or where I will end up. But, that is all right, because I am not writing the great American novel--I've given up on that--it could be this stream of consciousness thing.

I have spent my life learning to follow the rules and to live by grace. Most folks call this a paradox. I call it silly. On the one hand, rules matter, on the other hand, grace trumps everything.

So, in this blog, how ever it comes out, wherever it ends up, however it sounds, it is because it is a stream, and most of the time, I am conscious.

Flying on a Lie

You do know that every time you get on a plane since 9/11 your luggage and only your luggage is supposed to be on the plane. I know because I have sat on the tarmac while the luggage hold was searched for some luggage of a person who did not make their connecting flight. No passenger--no luggage.

You also know we are experiencing one of the worst years on record for customer satisfaction, on time arrivals, and bags arriving with the passengers at their destination.

Now, think about this. I do because when the airline--any airline takes hold of my luggage, they misdirect it. Somewhere on the bag are specific instructions--misdirect this bag. It has gotten so bad when we left Prague, they sent my bag to Addison International Airport, Addison, Texas. The last time I checked, there was no international passenger service at Addison, but my bag went there, and languished there until someone realized it should not be there. It only took five days to catch up with me. Fortunately, we were at home.

Here is the question. If you can only travel with your bags, and no passenger, no bags, what happens to all the misdirected bags the airlines send to the wrong place every day? How do they get back to their owners? Do the airlines send them by FedEx?

Or, which is more likely, am I sitting on top of someone else's misdirected bag which means someone is sitting on top of my misdirected bag? Yep, you got it.

Now, our struggling airlines are going to charge us extra to mistreat our bags, shatter the contents,and send them to the wrong place.

Another service that was once free!

Packing My Bags Yet Again

Yesterday, I was speaking to my oldest youngest son about our upcoming trip to Taiwan to meet the future in-laws. It seems it is customary to take lots and lots of gifts to the family and in turn they will spend boat loads of money hosting us. Don't you just love cultures? They offer a thousand different ways to look the fool, in languages you don't understand so they can talk about what a buffoon you are to your face all the while smiling like they like you.

If this sounds like personal experience, it is. It is not by choice that I have found myself the world traveler that I have come to be. In fact, my international traveling is proof positive that God has a great sense of humor--kind of like when you look at a giraffe.

I have no language skills, my luggage is uncontrollable, and I have been known to get lost in my own neighborhood. So, doesn't that sound like the makings of a world traveler? I am not a dietary adventurer, and prefer to eat only what I can recognize and what does not offend the nose. My nose goes with me everywhere and is easily offended by smell, and my mouth by texture. When out with English speaking folks in other cultures, I have learned the direct approach is best. "Go on Mike (Dad) try it, it won't hurt you." To which I have learned to say, "If you want to see me throw up all over this table, push that one inch closer!" The results are amazing.

I remember being in Lejuine, China, around an electric hotplate for "hotpot." I came to refer to it as "death in the pot." It seems the local custom is one gathers with one's friends around this hotplate with a boiling chicken broth in a cast iron pot. Then with menus in hand,members of the group decide what one wants in the pot. There are luscious things like rooster combs, chicken feet, and tree fungus. Being the simple man that I am, I vetoed the feet and combs, but stuck with the tree fungus. I noticed that a part of the ritual was alcohol for everyone in generous portions. There have been few times that I have envied the drinker, but I suspected that this was a dish that went better with being swashing drunk. It also helped if you had to go to the bathroom, which was a squattie. For you unfamiliar with such devices, they are quite simple. There is a hole in the ground that you have a variety of opportunities to hit. Most don't. So, going to the bathroom is really a great appetizer for an unappetizing supper. It will take your appetite away. Problem solved at both ends.

So, this week I go shopping for gifts to pack in my luggage which will magically disappear once it leaves my hands. If we are lucky, our luggage will show up some time during our stay in Taiwan. If not, all the gifts are mine--which is a great incentive to shop wisely.

Heroes of the Week

In the Baptist Building, there are men and women who have worked through the "Middle Ages of Spiritual Darkness" that accompanied the last failed administration. Most of them showed up with the right attitude, the right spirit, never losing sight of what was really important. They are my heroes.

In every large organization one has his personal favorites--his pet causes--and I have mine. Very close to my heart is Christian Education. I guess because I was turned in the right direction by a Baptist College. While I served on the Theological Education Committee, I saw the figures that indicated that 44% of persons headed to ministry and missions across the whole SBC came through our 8 institutions. I know Dr. Bruce must had been deeply frustrated at the extravagance with which the last administration burned through money with nothing to show for it. A million here and there could have really helped a lot of our 27 institutions.

I also love the Christian Life Commission. Chronically underfunded, my personal favorites of their job description is lobbying in Austin for those who have no voice, and the Texas Baptist Offering for World Hunger. (As an aside, I can just see Governor Pretty Hair announcing his re-election bid in the middle of the ashes of the Governor's home--sort of a metaphor of what he had done to Texas.) This Commission was almost "assimilated" during the last "mis-organization." But it did survive. A few million would have really helped in this area.

And then there is the area that does not exist any more: the Minister's Counseling. The first mis-step was calling it at some point "Counseling and Psychological Services." That pretty much killed it for a lot of folks seeking help. Even at this late date, many of our conservative pastors don't believe in "psychology." Following the adage, "What can you tell a Baptist?" "Not much." Far too many pastors are still suspicious of "psychology." Anyone really competent in working with ministry families in Texas would have known that! Things sort of went downhill from there, and now we are at the point of "outsourcing" this service.

I have this running conversation in my mind about that:
The phone rings in Calcutta and is answered by "Ben," which is short for Bensharaninisishahistan. At the other end is a distraught pastor who is turning to his state convention for help. Ben speaks in that nice, clipped, British, English accent that we have come to recognize as the sound of "outsourcing."

"Ben, I need help, my wife has just left me. . " To which he is cut off.
"Sorry, John, I am not equipped to help you but give me your zip code and I shall give you great help!"

"Well, my zip code is *****."
"Sorry, John, no counselor in your area. John, I can offer you one other option. John, Kit Kat bar has great bartender good listener. John, instructions say come between 2 and 4, sit at dark end of the bar. John, ask for a large Coke Light with a shot of Ginger Ale. This drink is horrible and will tell who you are. John,you can tell your problems to him. John, park in back. If listening doesn't help, John, he will switch you over to Vodka and see that you are dumped in front of your house. Your car will be hauled away and windows smashed to give evidence for your story of being kidnapped by aliens. Do you understand, John? Call back if you need more help, John. My name is Ben and I have enjoyed serving you today."

Doesn't that just make you feel warm and fuzzy all over?

Baptist Building employees, know that you are loved and appreciated and that perhaps what lies ahead will be better than the darkness through which you have moved. You are true survivors--and I don't use that word lightly.

"It was a dark and stormy night"

Those of you who are "Peanut" fans will recognize the title as the first line of the book Snoopy would start writing on his doghouse.

Sunday was not a dark and stormy night but it was Father's Day. Now, I have always had a love-hate relationship with Father's Day as have many men. First, I think I am jealous of the attention that is paid to the women in my life on Mother's Day. They get taken out to eat, preacher always extol them in sermons, and gifts, they get such gifts and flowers as to be shameless in their excess.

Then Father's Day comes along, and its like opening a "past sell date" bottle of pop. There is no fizz and no sizzle. For years, I got the mandatory tie that often glowed in the dark. I only know of one local funeral director who would wear such a tie and only if it had a semi-nude girl on it. I thought that when I died, I would ask the presiding funeral director (not the one with the semi-nude tie) to put all those ties at my feet, so that no other man would risk receiving such a thing. But time passed and largely Father's Day was sort of another day with just a touch of fizz to let me know I was appreciated in a semi-fizzle sort of way.

I also join a host of other father's who feel guilty about their presence and perhaps their lack of presence when their children were growing up. For me, I was gone a lot, and in the second church worked six days a week, early morning till late at night. I was not there as I should have been. I made adjustments, and was more present, but still not like I should have been. So the gaudy, garish tie was a commentary to me on my fathering. So, Father's Day is both envy and guilt--what a day to look forward to!

In my older years, I have grown, I hope, a little wiser.

For the problem of envy, I started shopping for myself on Father's Day. This year,Father's Day started with a new sport's jacket, three new shirts, and a beautiful tie. I might be buried in it, not on it, if that time comes soon.

For the problem of guilt, I sit back and listen to my children. It helps more than they will ever know. Last year the whole flock, brood, herd,(whatever one calls such a group)was home and it was the best Father's Day ever. The grandchildren peed in my bed, we laughed and had fun, and cooked outdoors and it was super.

This year, it was just the three of us,(Anna, myself, and the youngest youngest child) but it was good. The oldest son called. He works several jobs but mainly he is a police officer. It is always good to hear from my children. The oldest youngest child called and sent presents: hence the title of this blog.

Joe(the child formerly known as Joseph and formerly the only youngest child)had sent his mother a hand decorated mug for Mother's Day. Joseph is an artist and a wonderful cartoonist. So, he sent his mother a huge mug with a black and white caricature of them on it. This year on Father's Day, I GOT A COLOR mug with a caricature on it! As we say in my family as one sticks one's tongue out, "Nanny, Nanny, boo, boo." It is usually followed by something like, "My gift is best!" So much for the envy.

However, the handle was broken, but the caricature was priceless. Joe has his arm draped over my shoulder in a male token of affection, while, when you turn the mug around, he is lifting my wallet.

Now, Joseph and I have always (until the last few years)had a stormy relationship. Everyone says it is because we are so much alike. I beg to differ. I think it is because he is so much darn smarter than I am that it brings out the worst in me. Before the words are even on my lips, he has anticipated them, and spoken the rebuttal. So many of our discussions were not discussions, but rather me sputtering, "But, but,but, but wait just a moment, slow down!"

However, this picture on the mug, brings back an ongoing conversation that Joseph and I had across the years of his youth. He would ask for money, I would say, "Where am I going to get that kind of money? Do you think I have a tree in the back yard that I go out and pick dollar bills off of?" To which he would reply, "Show me the tree and I can do it myself!" So, Joseph began to ask for money like this, "Dad, you know that tree in the back yard?" To which I would say, "What tree?" To which he would reply, "You know, the tree that grows money! Well, I need a little off it."

Fast forward a few years and Joseph is in Chiang Mai, Thailand and he has miscalculated his bank balance, so from half way around the world, Joseph(name change has not happened yet) I get this short e-mail: "Dad, have miscalculated my bank balance, am out of money, can you deposit some money in my account till I get paid."

Now I have to tell you that such a message could have said several things and not cut to the heart as deeply as that note. It could have read, "Being held by a band of renegade mobsters with low monetary expectations, please put $50 in my account for ransom. All I could see was my poor child homeless on the streets, half way around the world starving to death. Quite the opposite, he had a nice bachelor pad, transportation and a world of really cheap food. But, that was the note. So, I rush out and put some money in his account, and send the following message back, "Have gone out into the back yard and picked off a couple of leaves, you are safe for now!"

The response I get back is one sentence,(did I mention he was the IT guy for his office) "Thanks Dad, is that tree still alive?"

So, the mug tells the story. At the bottom of his box were two "Peanuts" books that he had found out shopping. He wanted me to have them for all the ones he and his brother destroyed. Enclosed was a deeply touching note(the best part) and what was left of the mug handle.

Then, in irony of ironies, James and his mother bought me a wallet with gift card in it. I had the fleeting thought, "I am so glad Joe is half a continent away!" But frankly, he is well past those years and the money now flows the other way.

So, it wasn't a dark and stormy night, it was a wonderful Father's Day. "Nanny, Nanny, Boo, Boo!"

The BGCT and the worm in the Apple

There is a worm in the apple from yesterday's post.

This money did not start out as our money. It was God's money. The misuse of God's money is called "robbing God." (Malachi 3:8)

I find, for me, at least two times in Scripture that parallel our times in the BGCT.

The most obvious time is the time of Nehemiah who came to be given an awesome task. Years of petty infighting, enemies outside and within, and weak leadership had left the remnant paralyzed and defeated sitting on the very land that a once great city and temple had stood. While conventions are not mentioned in the Bible, they could be see as a quasi-nation. Called into existence for the purpose of glorifying God, and doing His work at home and around the world. God as Sovereign, Scripture as truth being our guide, we join together for this great task. What happens when a convention, once great, having lost its way, sits in the rubble of the past?

The second time was the time of Josiah (II Kings 22) Again, years of bad leadership had taken its toll. The very nation whose existence was for the praise and glory of God had so lost its way it was like all the other nations around it--only worse. How could they be worse? Surely they were not as brutal, as corrupt, as heathen as the nations that surrounded and conquered them? Yet, they were worse because the nations around them were doing exactly what they committed to do. Judah did not. She was rotten to the core. And then Josiah found the scrolls of the law.

What do these incidents have to do with the BGCT? Before we can ask for one another's forgiveness, we have to ask God for His. After all, it was His money set aside, His money sent to Dallas, His money siphoned off and squandered for purposes other than what they were intended. In other words, while there has been a breach of trust with Baptists of the BGCT, there has been a great breach of trust between the BGCT and God. Woops! That is the worm in the apple.

There are two different but similar approaches that Nehemiah and Josiah took.

Nehemiah repaired then called the people together for a festival of the Word of God. Why did he do this when so much time had already been lost? Perhaps it is that Nehemiah learned by spiritual instinct what we come to see later articulated in the Word of God. Ephesians 5:26 uses the analogy of "cleansing her (the Bride of Christ--the church)by the the washing with water through the word. . ." So Nehemiah calls the people together for a festival of the Word of God. From daybreak until noon Scripture tells us that Ezra and the priests read the Law and the people cried. Why did they cry? Because they were inwardly being washed by the Word. Guilt and rebellion and sins of every description were being washed away in the flood that only comes from the Water of the Word. When a nation or convention betrays the Lord, by misusing His money, betraying His trust, disregarding His Word, and basically betraying their spiritual charter, the only way back is for God to wash us clean through the Word of God.

But Josiah had another approach, similar but different. Josiah called the leaders of the nation together (II Kings 23) and renewed the covenant with God. It was a moving time of confession and repentance that signaled his intention to lead the people rightly.

So, in my previous post, I stand by what I said, but first, we have to deal with God. We all have to deal with God. Every leader for the past eight years collectively has to move through a time of renewal and repentance.

After all, it was all His, and remains so; misused as it was.

The BGCT and the world of Tomorrow

Although an obscure blog, the invitation to receive any information about outstanding fiscal improprieties has not been taken. So, I will move on. But how shall we trust a convention that has so blatantly betrayed the trust of the people it was created to serve and channel important gifts to entities congregations and pastors support?

For pastors and churches, I would say, "Go slowly and cautiously!" The problem with corruption and incompetence is that it takes root quickly and is rooted out slowly. I have no doubt the BGCT has some distance to go before it is completely trustworthy again. Years of fiscal responsibility have been wrecked by a "Middle Ages" of dark misuse of God's money. Slowly proceed, and slowly trust.

For the administrative employees of the BGCT, this fiasco is not of your making but you knew about it when you came to the position. No whining about mistrust! What the churches and pastors of Texas have experienced is a supreme betrayal by the least likely entity--their own convention. There are those of us who risked much to keep Texas from the grip of fundamentalism. It was a joint effort. Now those who were trusted and elected and paid to served betrayed the leadership of churches and the churches themselves. If you do your job well, live transparently, tirelessly work at building relationships damaged or destroyed by the last administration, then you will see fruit. I am afraid I remain skeptical of the new emphasis because I don't think there has been repentance.

I believe the leadership(paid and elected)should release an apology that runs something like this: "We recognize that we have all come through a difficult time that has brought division within the camp. We also recognize that some of that division was our fault for allowing monies entrusted to us to be diverted and perverted for other causes. We stand before you to ask your forgiveness. We stand before you to pledge that on our watch such things will not happen again. As much as is humanly possible, we will vigilantly guard each gift as a sacred trust and it will go where it was intended for the purposes for which it was intended. With your forgiveness, we will move forward. With your forgiveness, we will do our part to rebuild trust and unity. With your forgiveness, we will pray together to ask God to once again bless our efforts and endeavors."

To the elected leadership and the Executive Board, I would say, "Lead and govern!!" It is sad that you were elected to govern during an administration that could not be trusted, but you were elected and you accepted. So, on your watch, you allowed corruption and perhaps even graft and surely incompetence to continue unabated. That is not good enough. You are the ones that carry fiduciary responsibility for all the monies entrusted to the BGCT. You must make the paid staff account for every penny. And, no excuses. Be deliberate and skeptical and meticulous of everything until this administration has shown themselves worthy of trust and confidence. Let your guide be transparency. Let no question be unanswered or squelched. You are elected to govern, then govern!!"

To Texas Baptist Committed, I would say that your inaction because of your wide influence has cost Texas Baptists millions. You knew early on a bad choice had been made and yet TBC Board continued to prop up a mediocre (at best) regime. All the time they were burning though money faster than a contractor in Iraq. The only problem was this was not tax dollars, this was God's money. You allowed an administration to lie to pastors, to churches, to elected leadership, to its own employees, to its Executive Board, and I guess ultimately to God. You cannot escape some of the responsibility for what happened during the Dark ages of this convention. You must decide that incompetence and corruption are as large an influence for evil as is fundamentalism. So, if we are going to move forward, TBC needs to regain some trust throughout the state that has been lost through inaction and cronyism.

If I sound harsh, it is because I have watched a convention that started my ministry become something I neither recognized, trusted, or looked at with pride. All my pleas and all my efforts to get answers were rebuffed, redirected, or passed off as just an old sore head. Now, we are about $30,000,000.00 down and counting. This was God's money and at this point we have no idea where $27,000,000.00 went.

I have a single, pensioned, childless widow in our church who walked with pain and a cane. She is faithful in Sunday School and church. She lives in a modest home yet is always faithful to give. When I think of how she struggles to live during these days, I am furious at how our gifts and tithes to God were wasted.

So, Dr. Everett, you want to reach Texas for Christ by 2010? You would be wise to have us all with you because we trust you and our churches trust you. For me, I am not there yet!

So, from one Texas Baptist, that is the shape of the BGCT and world of today. What is done now, for me, will shape my relationship with the BGCT and the world of tomorrow

The BGCT and its Phobia of Fundamentalism

When one survives the big "C" as some of us have done, there is often an interesting reaction that plays out in some folks. Some get hyper-vigilant and afraid. Every change in their body, every change in their fluids, every change, may mean a return of the dreaded disease. So, they worry, they fret, and they may worry their physicians.

Other folks look on survival as the end of a successful war campaign. The battle is over, they have won, now on to other things. They ignore signs and new symptoms, they miss their checkups, they get on with their lives often with tragic results. The cancer rebounds with a vengeance.

So, which is the BGCT? The title would seem to indicate the former while my experience says that some are very much the latter.

I believe the BGCT does have a phobia about fundamentalism. It is fueled in some measure by Texas Baptist Committed that despite all its talk of "free and faithful Baptists," I have found at points we are neither "free" nor "faithful." In order to protect the right to be different, we have to curtail the rights of some who are different. That may not make sense, but look at our whole world-wide discussion of immigration issues. Countries are becoming less free in order to protect the freedoms of those whose liberty is "being" threatened.

So, "free and faithful" has a look about it. If you are an "inerrantist"(my word processing dictionary tells me I cannot even spell the word) you are suspect. If you hold strong views of creation vs. evolution weighing down on the anti-evolution side, you are suspect. In fact, if you don't fall within a preset narrow range of views, you may be a fundamentalist. Following the dictum: "if it walks like a duck, smells like a duck. . ." And after all, it is better to be safe than sorry. So, we cut them off and tell them they have a convention go there. It reminds me of a Hispanic man who came to see me in my former church. He began the conversation with, "You don't know how hard it is for me to walk into this church." I asked why. He said, "I got saved and just wanted to worship the Lord so I went to the biggest Baptist church in town thinking I could worship there. They told me, "You have a church across town, go there!"

Such is the phobia of the BGCT. The memory of the wars, the battles, the tensions, the pressures, all haunt some of us older folks, and we had rather have less, than return to those days. The only problem is that we really don't have a lot to talk about or discuss if we all hold the same views. Perhaps that is the one thing the last administration figured out. We had become so homogeneous we could sweep away everyone but a disoriented Executive Board who hadn't learn to watch for the slight of hands about everything.

But, then there are others who believe the battle is over. The only problem is that SWBTS is turning out far more graduates( or disciples) if you please than the BGCT. And I am sorry to say, some of these graduates share a common trait. They are so convinced that doctrinal purity is foremost in the heart of God, they will lie to achieve their ends. Now, I kind of think a lying pastor, or youth minister can undercut one's ministry, but apparently, fundamentalism does not. It is the cause, not the methods that matter.

I believe there is a way to move forward without fear, without letting our guard down, and frankly without demeaning "tokenism." If (as is often said) fundamentalism is more a state of mind and a way of looking at the world, why do we continue to punish those whose opinions and loyalties vary from our own. Right now, at this very moment, even as I write, I correspond and help IMB missionaries who look to me for spiritual counsel and psychological counsel. I also volunteer my time with CBF to be one of their Member Care team(as does my wife) providing free counseling and support services for CBF missionaries overseas. We love our work and God continues to send us opportunities.

Isn't the Baptist Way, the way of furious discussion, open debate, consensus and compromise? Then why are we not sifting for that instead of checking personal views. With over 3,000 churches in 3,000 different situations, it is about time we started talking to each other about the issues that face our churches and building alliances to address those problems and issues. Frankly, I don't care if the Baptist pastor down the street is an inerrantist(he is) what I care about is that he loves Jesus, tries to support the Texas Cooperative Program, and has a heart for the neighborhood that is beating us all.

I don't go to meeting much and it is not the high price of gas. We all look alike, talk alike, and really have nothing to say to each other unless we talk about our families and what is going on with them. How very, very foolish to have it come to this.

One final note which I am sure I will live to regret. If you have solid, information about more financial maleficence in the BGCT, you are free to forward it on to me. No rumors, no punitive agendas. Solid facts and information. Why would I do this? For 34 years, I have pastored churches and done my part in the BGCT. I cannot add up how much money has gone from the churches I have served through and to the BGCT. If my folk's dollars have been more misused than already exposed, I want to know about it. I also don't ever want this to be repeated.

My Hero of the Week

You know those letters you never, never want to get from the IRS? I got one last week, after I got my "stimulating" letter. This letter was not stimulating except in a bad way.

I have only gotten three of these letters in my adult life. Each is etched in my mind. The first came shortly after I came to Abilene. It noted that I had declared some farm income on which I had not paid taxes.

I scratched my head. I have, over the years, enjoyed my yard, but anything I would do would not rise to the level of calling it a farm. So, off I go to the filing cabinet and pull my return. It did not take long to spot the error. There was not place on the social security form to declare the fair rental value of my house for social security tax purposes. So, I scratched out a line and replaced it with neatly written words, "Fair rental value of parsonage." Well, the amount I put down was picked up and the words I had scratched out was "profit made from farm." Or, something to that affect.

So, I get to call the IRS and explain to them that I have never owned a farm and frankly have never known a farmer who said they made a profit. We got that straightened out after I wrote a letter explaining how I did not acquire a farm during the previous taxable year and how it didn't make a profit because I didn't have a farm to begin with. What I did have(really occupied)was a parsonage and I was making an honest effort to declare its fair rental value.

My second letter came the year after we adopted James. It noted simply that Jame's social security number did not exist so send them boatloads of money. I panicked. I don't own a boat and certainly could not fill it with money. If pennies would work, I could possibly fill up a small children's bathtub dingy, but beyond that, nothing.

I called the IRS again. There was no such social security number. I rummaged through all the paperwork I could find (and there were tons) and the one social security card I could find had been copied so many times all one could make out was a dark spot on one side of one page. The lady at the other end said, "Mr. Chancellor, we will work this out, take a deep breath, let it out, take another deep breath, let it out." She gave me the procedure--which always involves writing a letter and twelve weeks to process, all the while you are getting these increasingly threatening letters from the IRS. I was told to ignore them. But I ask you, when they promise to take all your money, your family, and do unspeakable things to your body, how can you ignore such letters?

Last week was the third letter. It seemed I had made no quarterly payments and therefore I owed the IRS(that is you and me buddy!) more money than I care to write down. I puzzle, I ponder, I panic. So, I pick up the phone and I get Mrs. Tucker. Mrs. Tucker had the misfortune of getting me in the rotation. I try(without hyperventilating) to explain the letter, and having previously pulled up my return I found the problem. I had written the right amount on the wrong line. It appeared on the line below where it should have appeared.

Now our tax return is about a half a ream of paper because my wife and I do counseling in addition to my pastoring. She makes money, I do not. However, the paperwork is enormous. I am glad I came along after the "Paperwork reduction Act," or I would send my return by truck. I also use a tax program that I have grown to love because, well, it helps with the countless hundreds of pieces of junk that goes into filing our return. However, this year, the right amount got put on the wrong line.

I don't know if you have ever had nothing to do and counted the lines on an average tax return but there are a few hundred, most of which don't make sense. "Put in $1800 on line 26. On line 26A put in a round number from one to a thousand. On line 26a, put in another number. On line 26aa break your pencil in half, etc." So the right amount on the wrong line equals nothing. The money one paid in does not exist. It vanishes from the vision and records of the IRS.

I start breathing like I was coached to teach Anna how to breath during our Lamaze classes. And then I begin my story. Mrs. Tucker says, "Well, Mr. Chancellor, let's take a look." Her voice was soothing and encouraging. She comes back and says, "I see the statement you were sent and it says you paid no quarterly payments." To which I respond, "Can you look at the return itself?" She surprising said, "Just a moment and let me pull it up." Elevator music for just a few minutes. "Yes, Mr. Chancellor, are you still there?" (It sort of depends on what 'there' means) "Yes, I am."
"Mr Chancellor, I see the problem. I think I can fix this right now. Can you wait just a moment?" Can I wait just a moment? Can I wait just a moment? She can fix it now! No letters, no waiting, no threats. Can I wait just a moment? "Mr Chancellor, I have the problem fixed and everything will be processed in about three weeks. Is there anything else I can help you with?"

Mrs. Tucker, you are my hero of the week, but just in case, I will keep your badge number a secret. I want you around the next time the wrong thing ends up on the wrong line. I'm asking for you in person.

To Hell and Back without leaving town

I have been to hell and back and I didn't even have to leave town.

Rather, I answered my jury summons. It seems that jury duty is getting so popular in these parts, the county has to send out 1500 "invitations" in order to impanel four juries totaling 48 people.

But, one only has to take a stroll through the process to see why when the oversized green form makes its way into one's box, one runs the other way or puts one's house up for sale.

And quite a stroll it will be. The only place that moves slower than a county courthouse on impaneling day is the trauma center at midnight. We were admonished to show up at 8:30a.m. While we wait like opening night theater goers, the judge comes in at 8:45a.m. to announce the bench is now open to hear good reasons why someone should be excused from this plague upon their house. Most of the reasons the judge allows are rather intractable reasons and could have been handled in a more efficient way: some way invented since the telegraph. But no! The three hundred or more (not 1500) wait as the Judge listens to each person state the reason why they are better than the rest of us and should be excused. Such a parade takes about 45 minutes.

At that point, we take a break. Judges are fond of breaks. I don't know if they have weak bladders, or they get a part of the concessions in the courthouse. The alleged reason for the break is so that everyone who is left, can be entered into a computer where they will be randomly sorted for the four juries to be picked. Apparently, numbering 1-2-3-4 in not judicial enough. So, we take a thirty minute break.

Forty minutes later we are asked to take our seats, where we are promptly reshuffled according to the computer's random picking. I get picked for the first pool. I have rarely been so honored. Every name is called, every person seated, every person put in their proper seat. Then having labored so intensively, we are directed to the court room where we are to appear, and we take another break. Our courthouse is four stories tall and can be reached by elevator or stairs in a matter of minutes. There are rest rooms on every floor so long breaks are just wasting time. But we take a 20 minute break which gives us time to reach our destination.

Then we are seated, where we undergo a group cross examination that is a cross between a poorly done lecture on the judicial system, an informational session on what the case is about, questions to prospective jurors that go from the mundane to the insane and chit-chat that will help us like the attorney. Then, because we have taken so many breaks, we break for lunch. But, only for an hour.

One hour later, we are in our places outside the courtroom: all except the token later arrivals who are compelled to be late. Just as surely as the judge must be late, the process slow, the seats uncomfortable, these folks must be late. And they are. Now if the judge were on time, it would be a true act of justice, perhaps the first in the history of the courthouse, to fine these people for wasting our time, but if he did that, then he would have to fine himself, and where would it all end?

The defense attorney starts her list of questions, but since the prosecutor has done such a good job of asking her questions, the defense attorney only has about 400 more. Things do not appear to be going well in the Chancellor seat, and it appears for the first time in his adult life, he might be picked to serve on a jury. So, with a careful slight of hands and crafty words, he looks the defense attorney in the eyes--all three of them (oh wait, that is just my glasses on crooked), and tells her why he would not feel himself willing to serve on this particular jury at this particular time. So what do we do? We take a break. Everyone is to stand outside the court room until we are summoned back in. We leave like sheep and return like sheep.

Each person is sitting waiting to see if they have won the jury lottery. Slowly, the names are read. Slowly the person's shoulders slump and they slowly rise from their seat and glare at the defendant. (He is already guilty, and you can read it in their faces) Slowly the twelve chairs fill up and just before I pass out from holding my breath, the last name is called and the jury death angel has passed over once again.

I have no problem with serving on a jury. But this particular jury, on this particular subject was more than I could handle.

So, after wasting a day,(I exited the building at 3:00) I went to my car knowing that I had contributed to the convoluted system of American justice by sitting in several chairs, using the concession machine, using the facilities, and walking up and down the stairs. And best of all, taking breaks!

Did I mention I also earned $7.50 to boot?

Spiritual heavy lifting--not!

Some have visited this blog and found it strangely remiss of anything spiritual. Since it is being authored by a pastor, the assumption is such a blog should be full of Scripture, analysis, uplifting thoughts, and sermons out the wazoo.

Sadly, they have been disappointed. Aside from a few articles about the Baptist General Convention that I once knew and loved, mostly I have written about the quirky side of life. I have lots of gifted friends whose blogs are helpful in profound ways. One friend is so profound I have yet to figure out what he is talking about, but I am sure that like my blog, he knows and understands.

I have always looked at life through a different lens. Call me a Christian absurdist if you will. I am a devoted follower of Jesus Christ and that gives my life meaning and direction. But I also notice things in a rather different way. I notice the use of language, the way people relate, the things people say, and the interesting way some things happen and signs--I love signs and bumper-stickers. I chuckle a lot and laugh even more.

I have learned in my travels to see the humor of the situation. If I did not do that, I would probably have a stroke. So, that is what I write about: the quirky things that keep me from stroking out in life, but keep me chuckling instead.

I also feel no need whatsoever to end up where I started or to use perfectly good grammar. I am old enough to thumb my nose at the grammar teacher. I only care if it makes sense, not if it is grammatically correct. I try to save that for sermons.

If you are along for the ride, welcome. I hope you enjoy some of what you read, and perhaps leave with a chuckle yourself.

And always feel free to drop me a note.

Memphis instead

I went to a spiritual awakening conference and ended up in Memphis instead.

Now I have absolutely nothing against Memphis, nothing! It is a beautiful city and some of the best ribs I have ever tasted. I wore several away on my shirt.

Now, it wasn't just that I ended up in Memphis, I ended up in front of Elvis's house( or as some of us like to think "the house formerly occupied by Elvis"). And I was not alone. I was with about 300 other kooks--yes, I would classify myself as a kook for being talked into going to Graceland. Judging from the crowd there were at least two different groups at Graceland, some staring through the fence. First, there were those older women who were in the audience years ago swooning over Elvis when he would sing and shake his hips. These women have since grown old, but they have not let the fire of devotion die for Elvis.

The other group I noticed were husbands humoring their wives. You could see the glazed look on their face, the smirk that sometimes passed between one knowing man and another, and the camera in the relaxed position. These men had been dragged against their will to Graceland to see the sacred place where Elvis lived. By the look on some of the husband's faces, it was a good thing Elvis was already dead. They had murder on their minds.

Middle aged men have a rather curious place in modern America. The guys I know have been married long enough to know certain things. I call them survival skills for the jungle of marriage. What are those skills, you ask? Are they skills you might need to know and practice? Well, I don't know but after 34 years, I know they work for me.

I have learned that sometimes the pants aren't worth fighting over. Who wears them is immaterial. The man who brags that "he wears the pants in his family" is delusional and is married to a very sly wife. Unless you are a part of the YFZ compound, women have gone to this secret school where they learn to get their way and make us think it is our idea. Now, I just accept that and take credit when things go well.

I have learned the wonderful value of an enduring phrase, "I'm sorry, I'm stupid." Now, you may think this is horrible to say, but the truth is your wife already believes this about you. When you say these magical words, every thing begins to be set right. The world returns to its natural orbit, and you go on with your pathetic life. In addition, this confession endears you to your bride. She doesn't think less of you, in fact, she thinks more of you because you finally understand your limitations.

I have also learned the value of division of labor. When we are traveling, and we do that (unfortunately) quite often, we have arrived at an understanding that is both trend setting and in way, self evident. When we are lost, and my wife realizes we are lost, and alerts me to what I have been trying to deny for the last four hours, then we stop and she goes and asks for directions. This is great!

When we were dumped in the town square of Bergen, Norway with only our luggage and the name of our hotel, I was clueless as to which way to proceed except that at that point any road led to "more lost." Foreign country, foreign language, strange city, heavy luggage, streets running everywhere, what was one to do? My wife agreed to go into this swanky hotel(obviously not ours) and ask for directions to our not so swanky hotel. Five minutes later, we were looking up at our place for the night. Wife happy, Mikey happy, problem solved.

I don't know if most husbands realize this or not about their wives, but most of them have a real soft spot for hopeless cases, lost animals, wounded pets, and generally the helpless. The more helpless the better. Now some women take this nurturing to the extreme and actually marry helpless, lazy, useless men. However, I am not talking about that population.

Rather I am speaking of the hardworking, hard charging, get things done kind of guy. Sometimes, you just need to slow down, be lost and helpless, and let your wife come to the rescue.

That can be a real turn on!

Between the Devil and the Deep Blue Sea

For some years, the Radical Right has had a strangle hold on politics in the Republican Party, which by association became the party of God.(Does that sound eerily familiar?)

However, with the ascension of John McCain as the Republican choice and Barack Obama as the Democratic choice, some things may change in Washington. Now, I am a cynic. I wear the badge proudly and it is deep in my DNA. So, I believe not much will change but some things might change.

For one thing, in a McCain presidency, pork barrel projects might be spotlighted to the point that some get vetoed and that money gets redirected to domestic programs like health care for the poor. Bush's "no child left behind" actually meant,"no child left behind as they were marched into a big closet where they were promptly forgotten." Texas Governor "Pretty Hair" did a better job than most in forgetting the poor. So, there is hope--not much hope, but a little hope.

With an Obama presidency, there could be a return to Democratic values that push the poor forward and start initiatives to help them in school, in health care, and in jobs. For the middle class, we might begin to fix health care in such a way that people can once again afford insurance and not go bankrupt getting medical care.

What ruined the Radical Right was their unwillingness to compromise in a city where things get done by compromise. When one gets their marching orders from God, there can be no compromise. Compromise is sin, and sin is to be avoided at all costs.

That is part of the problem of wedding religion and politics which our wise forefathers carefully avoided. Personal holiness must be without compromise. But personal holiness is something Christians strive for, not require of a nation of pluralistic religious experiences. My definition of personal holiness, and Islam's definition of personal holiness are worlds apart. So, there is the problem of the failure to compromise. No compromise, no moving forward, no moving forward, boondoggle.

And that is what we have had in Washington for far too many years. Too many people with very narrow agendas that will settle for nothing less than getting the whole list.

Perhaps now, everyone will get to play and everyone will have to compromise and we will learn to play together nicely. If not, perhaps we should send in a few 5 year olds to reteach that basic lesson of life.

James

We have two youngest children.

It is not a Larry, Darrell, and Darrell sort of thing. It is rather an interesting story of the heart. One might say that my wife and I had a heart attack at the same time.

My wife Anna is an Amazing woman. It is widely held that many men marry up, but I freely admit, I got a 12 foot ladder to reach her and climbed all the way to the top. At least that what her step-dad thought. He though I was as far down as I thought she was far up. Over the years, Anna has endured so much suffering and tragedy, yet she has allowed it to shape her into a lady of unusual grace.

When we married, she worked for the Welfare Department while I finished seminary. We moved to the first church and she never finished her Masters. When we moved to Abilene, I asked Anna to go through the counseling program with me and(and get this, I promised) if she did, I would carry her books. Lame, but we were already married so one doesn't work so hard on one's pick-up lines. We graduated with counseling degrees--she did better than me.
And then she went to work. She worked with some of the hardest people in the world to work with--poorly motivated mothers who are about to lose their children for abuse or neglect. From there Anna went to private practice where her clients were foster children, shelter children, and a few odds and ends for good measure.

At the time, Anna and I were practicing out of the same office (yes, at different times)in a small practice. Anna was seeing this child whose deepest desire was to have a real home. CPS's deepest desire was to dump him on someone, anyone who would take him and they thought they had a taker. Against policy and good judgment, this child was making home visits and had begun to bond with the family when the wife called the adoption off.

Anna and I were eating at a local restaurant when she got the call the adoption was off and like the bungling CPS that they are, Anna got to tell the boy. She broke into tears. "Mike, if you could see this boy, and hear him talk about what he wants, it would break your heart." We sat in silence for just a while, as I dipped chip after chip in hot sauce (nothing like chips and hot sauce to put things in perspective)"Well" in a voice that sounded strangely like mine, "we could always adopt." She looked up at me and said, "You would do that?" (Now talk about a pick-up line) And that's how it started.

This blue eyed boy and I met in a casual way at the office. He was coming for his appointment and I made a point to be there. When Anna gave the sign, I opened the waiting room door and looked down. The chair by the door was occupied by my future son. He stuck out his hand and said, "Hi! I'm James!" I said, "Hi, James, I'm Mike" He said, "Yea, I know."

And that is how we got two youngest sons.

Mom but mostly Dad

Mom has been a widow since 1982. That year was when she lost the love of her life to cancer and I lost my dad. I was 32 with a wonderful wife and two boys four and two and pastor of an amazing church that knew how to love and minister to their pastor. The boys don't remember their Grandad, but I do.

I would tell the guys stories as they grew up about my dad, about growing up in a service station, about my love of cars that grew out of that, and about the quirky things that happened in a place that sold gas and offered service with each purchase no matter how small.

Dad was a pretty amazing person. He served in the U.S. Marines in the South Pacific, was awarded a Purple Heart, and came back home to marry and raise a family. He birthed three boys and he was the youngest of two boys. Something in our family about boys and the women who must suffer raising them.

After a stint in the oil field, Dad went to work for himself in a service station and that is where we were raised. There are times when I think about my experiences and laugh. There are other times when I get just a little sad. Life played out before my eyes in ways that I was often too young to understand. With years came understanding and a quiet appreciation grew for my dad.

I noticed that widows trusted him. I noticed that Dad would go the extra mile to make something right with a customer. Even if the customer was difficult and belligerent, he would do what he could to make things right--then he would tell them never to come back to his station! I like that part of his pluck. I once watched him cold-cock a man who took a swing at him after this man caused one of his employees to get burned. I decided then, I would not pick a fight with the "old man." Dad was generous and supportive of his children and did his best to teach us how to be men of integrity and faith. And at work, he was a hard task master. He wanted from his children a hard day's work for paltry pay. But years later that paltry pay would pay rich dividends.

Dad was diagnosed with cancer around 1980. Then what followed was a stream of radiation, surgery, more surgery, a promised respite of cure, and then a vicious return of the cancer that chemo could not touch. Hospice was a Divine gift. Long before anyone was sold on the idea, Midland had a volunteer program. Those were the days of no government money or interference. The people were great and Dad stayed home until it became obvious we needed him in the hospital.

Cancer is a dark, mean disease. It plays with your body, it plays with your mind, it plays with your emotions, and for the person and the family it is an endless roller coaster ride to who knows where. Are we going to beat this? Are we going to lose?

For many cancer patients, it is a slow, painful, way to die. That is what it was for Dad. That is what it was for all of us: a slow, painful, death that would leave a gaping hole in our hearts for years.

I think that is when I decided for sure that what mattered most is not how long one lived but how well one lived. The decisions to put that reality into practice took several years. It took time to slow the pace of ministry where I had time to pick up the boys from school and take them for a soda. It took time to realize that every emergency was not a crisis and most emergencies had been weeks in the making. That is when I began to sift what made my father the man he was and desire in my heart to be a man like him.

I am a year older than my father was when the cancer finally won. I think about that from time to time and wonder if I am the man now my father was when he died?

She Found It!

Well, Mom found my "blob" as she calls it. And, she was not too flattered about the way in which I spoke of her.

I don't understand the problem. However, speaking of a vintage woman as "the old block" somehow rubbed her fur the wrong way. So, I must do penance of some sort. At this point, I am not sure what form the "sort" will take.

I have lived through a lot with my mother--and every moment has been one blessed second after another--not!

Perhaps, the Seven Dials fiasco is an example of what Mom has put her son through. Mom loves birds, but not all birds. Only some birds. She likes birds that are potty trained for the outdoors, birds that know their place, birds that have good table manners in the wild, and most important, birds that clean up after themselves when they use her bird bath. She especially likes the kind of birds that don't leave a ring around the bath.

She so loves birds, that she must have been one of the first to buy a "bird clock." I affectionately call these devices such because in my mother's mind, when they chime, they sound like birds chirping in the wild. When first I visited my mother after she acquired this device, I was scared out of my wits--what few I have--when it went off. I did not hear birds chirping. I heard a turkey in its last moments of its miserable existence. Although I cannot with certainty speak to the whole of the turkey's existence, I can speak to this turkey's death. And a horrible death it must have been. Then every 15 minutes, this same turkey died. And every 15 minutes I jumped five feet in the air. And Mom laughed.

When I commented on the screeching sound, Mom explained it was a cheap clock but it did sound like birds when one got used to it. That was when I had my first clinical evidence that her hearing was going. Well time passed, years melted into years, and Mom found a better bird clock. By this time she had moved from her home into an apartment and this bird clock actually approached the likeness of some birds in the wild. The better sounding birds would actually leave bird poop on the floor beneath the clock.

That Christmas, when I unwrapped my present from Mom, I got the dying turkey.
So, you wonder why I speak of Mom as I do? And you wonder why I am like I am?

A Sad Day

I checked Spiritual Samaria this morning only to find that David Montoya was true to his word and had taken his blog site down.

I feel some sadness, although others will, I'm sure, shout with glee. David was, in my mind a radical made more so by the corrupt times in which we live. Before we give radicals a hard time, our very nation was imagined and founded by "radicals." I don't have a problem with radicals as long as they don't shoot people and blow up things.

Now, that may put me in the minority, but I understand some of David's frustration and anger. Whether we like to acknowledge it or not, good people become more radical when other folks are not truthful and forthcoming. Instead of honest dialogs, one gets smoke and mirrors, half-truths and half-answers. When this happens with institutions that exists solely because of the gifts and contributions from generous Baptists through their churches, this is more than disconcerting, it is inexcusable.

Let me tell you how David Montoya helped me personally. First, I became aware of the Valleygate spending spree--all the while I was attempting to get a few morsels of money from the BGCT for Ministry family care. (Did I mention that while millions were being handed out in the Valley to non-existent churches and non-existent pastors, ministry families were being put on waiting lists for assistance with their counseling?)

Second, I became aware of what I had long suspicioned but refused to believe: our paid leadership was untrustworthy with our finances; our confidence; and their positions. I also learned there is an institutional response that involves all of those involved with the institution, whether paid, elected, or supportive (TBC)that attempts to change the subject. Additionally, they attempt to minimize the problem (I count the problem to be at least $30,000,000. and growing), demonize the ones who continue to raise questions, and marginalize everyone who does not seem to be on board.

Additionally, I personally experienced the heavy hand of the "Building" in the worst of times. It seemed I was like a pesky gnat that was too small to swat, but too noisy to ignore. Somehow it did not sit well with me the convention I have spent all my adult ministry with and when asked, done what I could for the task at hand, now to be treated like dirt and have rather feeble attempts made to silence me. Unfortunately, I have too much to do to become a "Montoya" but as friends and foes alike have discovered, I don't go "quietly into that good night." There was a time when the BGCT valued my writing skills and my courage against the fundamentalists. When the same skills and tenancy were turned on them, well, that became a problem. As long as the dog bites the folks you dislike, you like the dog. When the dog bites you, well that is another story. I like to call it "in house propheticism." When one finds a gem like "Montoya" we gleefully set him loose. Then when he turns his moral rectitude on the ones who cheered him on, well, that hurts. However, I personally like that. I like the person who holds his own to the same standards as he holds others with whom he may not agree. Texas Baptist Committed might learn that lesson.

Good rest my friend. Thanks for the good you did. Perhaps, your pen will return again. There is always a need for prophets but sadly, they generally end up being treated the same way!

Smiles and Wailing all in the same box

Today, in the mail, I got my IRS letter telling me they were going to "stimulate" me. I must confess whenever I get a letter of any kind from the IRS, I find it stimulating for all the wrong reasons. Somehow I have grown up with a healthy fear of "death and the IRS" not so much "death and taxes,"--and not so much death.

In typical "IRSese" it took two pages to tell me I am getting $XXX. back. However, even though the notice was timed to coincide with the "stimulus," the note arrived first. I guess of all the things the IRS can tell one, sending one money that last year they ruthlessly collected from one's trembling clutches ain't such a bad way to begin the day. I know it's "middle class" welfare, but this is the first time I have been really sure I was a "card carrying" member of the middle class.

The second thing in the mail counterbalanced the first. I was being summoned for jury duty. Officially, it is "Legal Petit Jury." I am not sure what an "illegal Petit Jury" looks like, but governments are all the same--use three words when one will do.

So, because I don't qualify for any exemptions, I clear my schedule and go through the same drill of not getting picked. Here is another example of government or lawyers gone crazy. They send out notices to 500 people, looking for 12 and then settle at the last minute. I am not against capital punishment, but I would generally restrict it to lawyers and judges.

As I understand it, (and my understanding is always subject to change in the face of accurate information or semi-accurate information), I am guaranteed by the Constitution--you know the other document that was not stolen by Nicolas Cage--a jury of my peers. Now, here is where it gets sticky--apparently. This is most likely why I am not a lawyer. I would interpret a jury of my peers as "twelve people with whom I reside in the region in which I live." What could be simpler. So, the first twelve people to show up would win the prize.

However, I can see how that might skew the jury if someone were being tried for being too early for something. And being early was a criminal offense of some kind or another--which would explain the cosmic significance of waiting rooms. Waiting rooms are not where one waits until one's appointment, rather, waiting rooms are where one languishes after one's appointment time has come and gone. However, in the unlikely event (like a water landing in your commuter aircraft somewhere in Texas requiring you to use your flotation device) one was being tried for being too early to some event, all the jury would be in totally sympathy and would slap the hand of the judge who is chronically late for court.

Alas, that is not how lawyers interpret "a jury of your peers." "A jury of your peers" today means the carefully strained (both meanings)pool of potential jurors for those most likely to give the attorney what he or she wants. Given the adversarial system of our justice, one can begin to see a slight problem.

I always spend about two hours in the holding tank before they release me.(which helps me empathize with fish who get caught in "catch and release" programs right down to the hook in the mouth!)
Why am I never chosen, you might ask? I have too many strikes against me. I am a pastor; my wife and I are counselors who may actually know the defendant and tried to help them; my wife works with victims of neglect and abuse; we have been victims of violent crime, and our son is a policeman. That is not even to mention that I believe every defendant's attorney should be hung by his/her feet until he/she promises to not waste our time and insult our intelligence. Unfortunately some of them would be upside down for a while.

People who call for tax reform are as likely to get that as those of us who call for judicial reform. Some years ago, I remember hearing the quip, "if you took all the lawyers in the world and laid them end to end--that would be a good thing!"

All I've got to say is, they wouldn't be in court that day or the following day to waste my time and yours. They would be screening their fellow lawyers for who would be at their head and at their feet.

Seniors at YFZ and Seniors in our Midst

O.K. Mom, I asked the question about the women past child bearing age in the Fundamentalist Morman church and I have heard nothing. That could mean one of several things: first, perhaps they are not computer literate, unlike you (ha!,ha!,ha!,) and don't know they are missing. So they have not turned themselves in. Or, which is more likely, they have been beamed off the planet at a secret site in Utah that is known only to the most devout of the followers all of whom are child-bearing age.

My question is: what about the seniors in our midst? What are we doing to help and preserve the freedom of these folks? You are asking about the folks we don't see. I wonder about the folks we do see. Everyday, a part of our job as a church is seeing that our older people are not scammed or manipulated, or forgotten by what remains of family and friends. The tragic fact is that when dementia runs it course--which is more common among the older folks in our population, they tend to withdraw and have less to do with less and less folks. If one does not know them, dementia can look pretty strange. So, these folks, cut off from everyone become targets for just about anything.

Despite our vigilance, we have had four or more of our folks scammed in the last few years and the symbiotic twin of CPS is APC. In the language of those who do not know the acronyms, that is Adult Protective Services. This erstwhile group is about as helpful as a $1.00 umbrella in a Katrina like hurricane. These folks are also funded by (surprise, surprise) the Legislature of Texas and they don't turn loose of money easily when it comes to social services. So seniors are evicted, live in rat infested homes, have their social security checks regularly stolen, and on and on and on.

If one is fortunate to get someone on the phone at APC, there is no guarantee anything will be done. One of my favorite experiences relates to a woman who has died, but at the time was living alone. She was estranged from much of her family. Her mental illness stretched back years. There was reason to believe she was being conned. She was delusional at times (unless you really do believe really big men were coming in her really small window with a gurney to take her to the hospital and doing their work so well, there was no trace of anything. Her home was a poster for the un- sanitary landfill. I called APS and was promised the case worker would make a visit and get back with me. I had been in the home several times, (once with my wife who seemed to be frightened of rats perched on filth sticking their tongues out at you with their fingers in their ears). Anyway, when the woman called back, she informed me that she found a perfectly rational person in acceptable surroundings, without any problems they could help with. My first thought was to reach through the phone line and strangle a poorly trained government employee who would not be missed by client or administration and might have met some secret mandate in the face of overwhelming need to cut employees. But I did not, mostly because logistics would not allow.

I asked her to read me the address. She did, and it was the right one. I asked how she determined the woman was in her right mind? She administered a three question exam, which this lady got two of three questions right. Apparently, she was not in one of her moods about remarking about the men coming through the window to carry her to the hospital. Basically, there was nothing they were going to do and I had wasted my time yet again.

Adult Protective Services is an agency that is designed to reassure Texans their senior adults are safe and being cared for. However, I believe they are not as safe as the women past child bearing age of the Fundamentalist Morman church. And who knows, it could be APS who are beaming our seniors off the planet from a secret location in Utah.