The Glowing Scroll

  Here's a quiz: Until relatively recently, it was illegal to read the Bible aloud in which country? Saudi Arabia Pakistan Somalia Great Britain Of course, you knew it was a trick question. And by "relatively recently" I did mean the 16th century. But it's true—at one time you could go to jail for reading the Bible aloud—in Great Britain ! That little episode began when Henry VIII withdrew from the Roman Catholic Church and assumed his role as head of the new Church of England. It only seemed right that the new church should have its own Bible—in English. So Henry authorized a new translation which came to be known as the Great Bible. But he didn't understand what he was unleashing. Having the Scriptures in their own language aroused a spiritual curiosity in the English populace. As one historian of the time put it, "Everyone who could bought the book and and busily read it or got others to read it to them." That posed a threat to the k...

It's the Womack Brothers out of Cleveland, Ohio. They became popular as a gospel group under the watchful eye of their father, Friendly Womack. After Sam Cooke heard them, he invited them to come record for his SAR label. So they drove a beat-up Cadillac to Los Angeles and recorded this gospel tune, "Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray" in 1961. You can already hear Bobby's dynamic, distinctive lead--with the sweet, innocent voices of Friendly, Jr., Curtis, Harry and Cecil backing him up.   1962. The Womack Brothers have followed the lead of their mentor Sam Cooke and gone in a secular direction. They're now known as The Valentinos. And "Couldn't Hear Nobody Pray" is now "Lookin' for a Love." Bobby still sings lead. It hits number eight on the R&B charts.   It's 1974—the Disco Era! And Bobby has released an updated solo version of "Looking for a Love." It's a big hit. Here he is, dancing and lip-synching...

Tell me if you've heard somebody say something like this: "The universe must be watching out for me!" Or, "The universe must have something in mind." Obviously, they're attributing personal, godlike qualities to the cosmos —usually without really examining their presumptions. It's actually a hangover from the sloppy pantheism and mysticism that were common in the '60s. But don't tell them that. (Thank you, Alan Watts, Allen Ginsberg, Timothy Leary, Paramahansa Yogananda, Steve Gaskin, Richard Alpert, etc.) But it's worth asking: Does the universe really care about you? Here's a thought experiment: Imagine you actually "slipped the surly bonds of earth" and ventured out into the benevolent universe, far from the atmosphere and gravity that we're all used to. What would happen? Your body would explode into billions of undetectable particles. And you'd be gone. And the universe wouldn't bat an eye. ...

–Winston Churchill

Bombast. Maybe it’s because it has that word bomb in it, but bombast is often misused to describe harsh, exaggerated, or over-the-top rhetoric. Actually, it refers to speech that’s pompous or pretentious. Originally, bombast was a name for the cotton padding used in clothes. So when you hear a speech with lots of padding or filler—that’s bombastic. Or, (ahem) it could describe writing that has the same qualities.   Hypocrite. We all know that a hypocrite is someone who says one thing and does another. Right? Well, actually, no. The word derives from the Greek word for a stage actor—someone who’s pretending to be someone else. So, if you‘re not living up to your own standards—that just means you’re human. If you’re pretending to do so—then yes, you’re a hypocrite.   Diffident. This word is sometimes used as a synonym for arrogant or aloof . Actually, it describes someone who is timid or shy ( dif -fident—the opposite of con -fident).   St...

People have spent years analyzing the song lyrics of Bob Dylan and the Beatles, looking for hidden messages. But the real deep content can be found in the pop and doo-wop records of the '50s and early '60s. Take a look at these lyrics. Recite them, out loud. Preferably with other people around. Do it over and over. Then, you'll understand ... Shoobie doobie wah doowop eewobbie wobbie Shoop shoop shanga langa shingabop Wop wop padda padda wop wop shoobop doobop Dum di di dee dum de dum dee dee dum di di dee dee dee dum Dum dum diddly dum Doo wah diddy diddy dum diddy doo Doolang doolang doolang Yakadula yakadula Dum dum dum dumbie doowah Sha la la doobie wah dum dum dum Bo bo bo dimbodeeay Da dee da dee da deeyah Dum dum dum dumbie doowah oh yay yay yay ah oh wo wo wo-ah Sha na na na sha na na na na Shoo doo shoobedoo Scoobie doo

Dying is easy. Comedy is hard. That quote has been ascribed to nineteenth-century actor Edmund Keene, and various other sources, but its truth is borne out by the many people who have tried to be funny and bombed. A corollary is that humor writing is hard too. Making people laugh at words on a page may be one of the most daunting tasks a human can undertake—right behind parallel parking. Fortunately, there are some words that make it easy. They sound funny all by themselves. Here are a few of my favorites. What are yours? Snorkel Brouhaha Gherkin Diphthong Hornswoggle Bungee Hooligan Aardvark Platypus Kerfuffle Carbuncle Pollywog Boondoggle The list grows. And life is funnier because of it.

Highway 40 is an engineering marvel, a four-lane thoroughfare running from California to the east coast, with rest stops all along the way. When I needed to drive to North Carolina this summer, I contemplated all the various routes I might take; Highway 40 was the obvious choice. It cuts a line as flat and straight as humanly possible through the high plains of New Mexico and Texas, the rolling hills of the Ozarks and on into the Blue Ridge Mountains of Tennessee. Meanwhile, along the western portion from California to Oklahoma, you can still see old Route 66 snaking alongside the highway, like a silent, forgotten companion. Probably most motorists don't even know it's there, or don't notice. But once, that little road was the main route for Americans heading west, including the Okies escaping the dust bowl.   Bobby Troupe immortalized it in a catchy song: Won't you get hip to this timely tip When you make that California trip Get your kicks on Route 66 Lots of...

During the nineteenth century, millions of rural workers flocked to the cities of Britain, Europe and America to take industrial jobs. The result was the poverty, disease and overcrowded slums portrayed by Charles Dickens and other chroniclers of the times. But at least the migrations were voluntary—more or less. Now, China—learning nothing from its own history or that of other nations—is forcing a migration on a scale unimaginable. According to this article by Ian Johnson in the New York Times , it plans to push 250 million rural residents off their land and into cities. Why? Because China's central planners think it's a good idea. The objective is to wean these ignorant peasants off their archaic lifestyle of subsistence farming and turn them into consumers —to spur domestic demand for Chinese products. What a great idea! Never mind that the peasants may not want to abandon their lives and land for some sterile 20-story tower in a faraway city. We'r...

My tortoise and I have a reciprocal relationship: I provide her with the foods of her choice (green and red lettuce, bananas, other fruit when available), make sure she's warm at night, clean her box, and put her in the yard during the day. And she teaches me about God. It's not just the exquisite design of her reptile body. Although that is a wonder in itself. Her shell is a variegated brown, to help her blend in with most vegetation. The top of it is segmented in raised mounds which could easily be mistaken for stones. The edges are scalloped and veined, in a perfect imitation of dried leaves. So God has equipped this most vulnerable of creatures with a wonderful disguise. When she retreats into her shell, as she does at the slightest hint of threat, only her head is vulnerable. So she instinctively wedges herself head-first against vertical surfaces such as walls or fences for protection. She can happily remain like this for hours or days. But it's the relationship...

Here's the best description I've read yet of the Lighthouse Ranch, where I spent my infancy as a Christian believer—complete with a cast of original characters, who are all my friends. By Heidi Walters of the North Coast Journal: The Light on the Bluff Photo by Gary Todoroff

So, I visited Centinela Prison last weekend with the Faith Community Prison Ministry team. It was a bittersweet trip, as I had been hoping to attend a reunion in the mountains that weekend with a bunch of old friends from the Jesus Movement. But then I realized I had a scheduling conflict. I had to go with my first commitment. It's a three-hour drive from Ontario to the depths of the Imperial Valley (depths, literally—it's 50 feet below sea level). From the bleak, dry squalor of the lower desert I could look up directly to the west and see the verdant 6,000-foot peaks of the Laguna Mountains, where the reunion was happening. Oh well. As it turned out, the prisoners turned the tables on us. We went there to minister, and we did: Janetta shared her incredible testimony of how God enabled her to get a kidney transplant against all odds. And Javier talked about his former life as an inmate, gang member and addict—and how God delivered him. And of course, there was music. ...

A few years ago I bought my wife a tortoise as a gift. Why? A fit of madness, I guess. Predictably, I wound up being the caretaker of this reptile, which will now be a burden to my family for the next 100 years or so. Anyway, I began to absorb some lessons about how God relates to us from this phlegmatic little creature, which my wife named Lulu. Lulu is inherently vulnerable, being small, docile, and extremely slow. Her only defense from predators is to retreat into her shell at the first hint of a threat. Sudden movement, noise, even a change in light will provoke this reflex. This makes her hard to approach. So instead of trying to come close to her , I’ve learned to pick her up from the back and bring her close to me . Somehow, this doesn’t provoke the defensive response: Suddenly I’m in her face, but she’s not freaking out. God has often done a similar thing with me; I wasn’t seeking Him and didn’t see Him coming, but He moved me around without my knowledge till suddenly the...

Once I went on Google Earth and tried to find the place where I used to live in the woods of northern California. My old digs weren’t near any major cities or landmarks, so I found myself scrolling over endless miles of nondescript wilderness on the computer screen. I couldn’t find it, and finally gave up. It was a lot like the dreams I have, where I’m flying over miles of terrain at night, searching for something or someone, though it’s never quite clear. Usually my dreams are little dramas that involve me trying to accomplish something, and feeling frustration and angst over not being able to get it done. In other words, they’re a commentary on my life. I think dreams are always about something. Don’t you?

Most of us think we are. But when someone is sharing from the heart, it's hard to resist a few things that can make us bad listeners: Talking over the other person Offering solutions Replying with our own experiences That last one is especially tempting. I indulged in it just yesterday. Probably will again. But nothing can make a person shut down more quickly than sharing about their upcoming cancer surgery and hearing, "Oh, I know! Last year I had surgery on my elbow. I couldn't write for two weeks ..." etc. Meanwhile, you're so involved in your own story that you didn't notice the other person quietly walking away. The classic complaint from women (usually towards their men) is, "I just want to be heard." What does that look like? I was talking (and listening) with my wife last night, and she put it this way: "We just want someone to be watching for the ball—and to catch it. Then, at some other time, they can throw—and we...

By coincidence (or maybe not), I'm reading two books right now about the church: one by a Presbyterian minister who converted to Catholicism, and one by an apostle of the current house church movement. They present two diametrically opposed views of what the church ought to look like. From the Kirk to the Catholic Church was written by Henry Graham in 1911. It describes in agonizing detail his journey from the Presbyterian kirk (church) of his youth in Scotland to his calling as a Catholic priest. That's quite a jump, and it was violent in many ways; he had to disavow the stern Protestant biases he had grown up with, and interrupt a proud family tradition of producing Presbyterian ministers generation after generation. He found himself enchanted by the beautiful aspects of Catholicism: its stately rituals, inspirational art and architecture, and the simple devotion of its adherents. But he was most attracted to the idea of the Catholic Church: One authority extending t...

A couple of weeks ago I wrote a piece for our church website on Disappointed Christians --believers who had lost their faith. I thought I was writing for those other poor souls who had strayed from the path. Turns out, it was for me. In just a few days, I was contemplating driving my car into a tree, just to ease the desperation I felt. That thought passed, but I found myself considering other, less violent options. Pills? Carbon monoxide? My cowardice ultimately won the day. Besides, what if the Catholics were right, and committing the sin of self-murder left no possibility for penance or forgiveness? I was going to throw away everything God had done for me and in me, just because things were tough? I also know what it's like to pick up the pieces after a family member commits suicide. No way I could inflict that on my loved ones. Alright, but I'm definitely quitting Christianity. No more church, no prayer, no Bible reading. It's all pointless! I'm just goi...

Two years ago this month, I called our mortgage company to check on the status of our loan modification. I had been told I'd receive a package within a few weeks, and should just wait. When it didn't arrive, I called the bank and spoke to a kind service representative. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said, "but your home was sold at a Trustee's sale—three days ago." Before I had a chance to recover from that news, I heard the doorbell ring. It was a real estate agent who worked for the bank—what we call an REO agent. "I'm sorry about what has happened to you," he said, "but your home is now owned by Fannie Mae. I'd like to discuss the terms under which you will leave ..." It was just the beginning of a long ordeal. We immediately began efforts to get the sale rescinded. But all the smart people I talked to—attorneys, bankers, real estate professionals—said we were wasting our time; Trustee's sales were vi...

Does it bother you that there are so many churches? It does me. As I drive from my home to my own church meeting I pass probably a dozen churches—some traditional buildings, some tiny storefronts, others hidden in industrial parks or rented schoolrooms. I don’t know the people who attend any of these congregations, and don’t have a particular desire to. That's odd, if you take seriously the prayer of Jesus that we believers should be one, as He and the Father are one. But there’s another way to look at it. In my cursory studies of church history, I’ve noticed a pattern: Spontaneous movements have always sprung up within Christendom, particularly since the reformation, but before as well. They defy all efforts by civil or church authorities to stop them; in fact they flourish most in hostile environments. In this sense, the church resembles a weed. Does this sound insulting, even blasphemous? Don’t be offended. I have great admiration for weeds, after decades of observing and figh...