Byron Borger wrote an article titled, "Making the Most of College-- Learning to Love Good Books," at Comment Magazine.

He writes:Read more

Earlier this summer I was privileged enough to hear the famous jazz musician Dave Brubeck live at the National Cathedral. Now lest you think I’m naturally this cultured and cosmopolitan, truth be told, I’m largely a cretin who just happens to get asked on dates from time to time by fellows who are either more culturally sophisticated or else trying very hard to make me believe they are.

And so it worked out, that I got to hear one of America’s best-loved jazz quartets allure and surprise an audience with numbers like Brubeck’s famous Take Five and his lesser-known musical hybrid cantata called The Gates of Justice that cross-pollinates the various strains and sounds of Hebrew liturgical texts and MLK speeches with Negro Spirituals, jazz syncopation, and Hebraic modes. Front-row seats gave me a chance to observe the pleasure, concentration, and at times pure mischief, on the faces of an 86 year-old Brubeck and the spritely, by comparison, saxophonist, bassist, and drummer.

The parts that fascinated me most, however, were the sections of jazz improv. A comfortable rhythm nodded a steady approval with a tip of the high-hat, and a tah----tah-tah-tah, before Brubeck, the composer would flirt with that saucy melody, whispering reassurances to her as he meandered down the cool ivory steps. The saxophonist would listen, and then beckon the melody his way, first teasingly, and then more forwardly, until soon he was twirling her, dipping her, and even vaulting her in the air. But before long the bassist would ease his way onto the floor, and with a gentlemanly tap, and a strong wrist, roll that melody into his arms, and fold her into a tight-hipped tango. And so the night went on, with music swirling around me, moving with the greatest ease and deference from one skilled player to the next.Read more

[Editor's Note: Tuck Bartholomew and his family recenty were sent out by Redeemer Presbyterian Church in New York to plant City Church in Philadelphia. This is Tuck's first report about the new plant.] 

Six weeks have passed since we started with our first summer "gathering." When someone asks me the church plant is going. I think -- "surprised -- especially on Sundays." OK -- lots of times I am anxious. I wonder what the heck we are doing -- I am 45 years old -- I have three school aged kids -- am I crazy? On Sunday mornings we visit other churches, and sitting in the pews or chairs our thoughts ramble… will we do it this way or that way? How will City Church look compared to _____? By Sunday afternoon I am asking if "they" will be back this week? It is all very ridiculous -- but this is odd work and we are surprised. 

Five weeks ago I was getting ready for our first "staff" meeting with the worship guy and our intern. I was thinking about what I would say to them. They have signed onto risky work and they need some reassurance that they aren't crazy. The Jedi mind trick came to mind, a slight wave of the hand, "I really do know what I am doing, I really do know what I am doing, really…. I do." You get the point. I settled instead for the sobering truth.

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I love the World Cup. Unlike most Americans, I am drawn to soccer's world championship where countries battle it out for national pride and four years' bragging rights. The patriotism, drama and personalities make for a spectacular theater of victory and heartache.

In 1998, I was in Paris and witnessed firsthand the artistry of the Brazilians; it took my breath away. In 2002, I'd set my alarm for 2 a.m., put on my U.S Soccer jersey and drive to an English pub to watch our national team progress to the quarterfinals. Then, I'd go back to sleep, rinse the pub's cigarette smoke from my hair and go to work.

With the American team out early this year in Germany, I needed another team to pull for. I chose France for one reason: Zinedine Zidane. Known for his sublime touch on the ball, “Zizou” was poised to make a stunning finish to an amazing career. Zidane had a rags to riches story to rival any Hollywood blockbuster. Read more

I have a convergence of two books on my desk right now. Like a sangria swirl, they mix together to form some sort of delightful goodness.

One is written by Kevin O’Keefe and entitled The Average American. O’Keefe sets out on a quest to find the most average person in
America, using statistics and interviews along the way.

The other is Eugene Peterson’s new one, Eat This Book, wherein he takes on the topic of spiritual reading. A slender book, it packs a wallop as he discusses meditatio, oratio and maybe some other atios I glazed over since I couldn’t take it all in.

O’Keefe rattles off statistics and draws you in as he looks for and finds his man. For example: The average American eats creamy peanut butter. He spends over $100 more each year on footwear than he does on fresh vegetables. The average American has sex 116 times per year and has 14.3 sexual partners in his lifetime (does this seem high to anyone?).

O’Keefe notes from his studies that 80 percent of married men would wed the same woman if they had to do it all over again. 50 percent of married women would marry the same man. The average American discards 8 batteries annually eats 4.2 meals outside the home per week, and consumes 255 eggs, 2 pounds of lard and 25 pounds of candy per year. Sort of disgusting.

Eugene Peterson’s book could, by the cynic at least, be considered an apology for his translation paraphrase, The Message. Indeed, the last few chapters are fairly explicit about this. He explains that the Bible was written originally in a common language and in a shared culture. The findings in the town of Oxyrhynchus surprise us because we discovered there was no “sacred” Bible language (Holy Spirit Greek), but one of normal, everyday words found in a dump. In Ugarit, we are shocked to discover the lifestyles of the neighbors, the surroundings of Canaan, and how “borrowed” the concepts are into the Hebrew Biblical culture.

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John Schroeder, who is a PC(USA) elder in California and well-known blogger, has written a post engaging my questions from earlier in the week.  This is the sort of insight that I was hoping to have from PCUSA folks, and part of his insight is to challenge some of my assumptions.  This is good stuff and worthy of interaction.Read more

This past Sunday, August 6th, was the Feast of the Transfiguration of Christ.

I know that, because—though I am not Episcopalian—I have come to treasure the daily prayers and Scripture readings in the Book of Common Prayer (1928 or 1945). So, on Sunday last, the Collect for the Transfiguration of Christ came as a pleasant surprise to this liturgical neophyte.

And yet, on another level, I was a bit disappointed as well. It seemed to me that the Collect, while beautifully crafted and deeply true, actually missed the main point of the transfiguration, a point suggested by the very Scripture readings mandated for the day (in the 1945 BCP).

Put simply, I am convinced that the transfiguration is not so much a revelation of the deity of our Lord Jesus as it is a preview of his coming human glory in the resurrection and ascension. The transfiguration is not so much a call to escape this world into the worship of the divine (“being delivered from the disquietude of this world”) as it is an astounding picture of God invading this world and imbuing it (and us) with his transformative presence. Read more

The Jollyblogger has posted a review of CJ Mahaney's well-received book, titled Humility: True Greatness.   For Jollyblogger's review click (here). 

Suppose that you were orphaned as a baby, and then, say, at the age of 10, were adopted into another family. The people who adopted you were now your new parents, your only parents; their children your siblings, their extended family yours, their ancestry yours. This new arrangement spells your deliverance from the hardship and abandonment you’ve experienced until now, bringing you into a gloriously freeing and loving home.

Even as this delightful adoption comes about, you would be learning and locating yourself in your new family’s old story. You might pull the family record of genealogies off the shelf and study it, adding your own name to the empty lines near the bottom. You might sit enclosed gently in the arms of your new father as he tells you his story, joining your new brothers and sisters in hearing tales of what are now your great aunts and uncles, getting a deepening sense of the way your new family views the world and its place in it.

It would be your growing delight to come to own that this is MY father, MY people, MY story. This is who I am and where I belong. Imagine the sense of identity and significance that would be yours as a result, and the sense of purpose as you enlist body and soul in the family’s mission in life.  [1] Recently an adoptive father told me that the adoption must occur in both directions: while he had adopted his son, his son had to come to the place where he adopted him as his father.Read more

     The Soldiers of the 80^th Division are returned home!  Over the last month, I was part of a team that welcomed our 700 Soldiers home from Iraq.  They had spent nearly a full year training the Iraqi Army.  Some had worked in palaces and slept in hard-top buildings overlooking man-made lakes; others had worked out of their vehicles and lived in Iraqi dwellings in the countryside, providing for their own creature comforts and security.  It was something to hear their stories and it was a privilege to minister to them and help them prepare for the return home.

     Wherever they were in Iraq it seems, they were all used to the distant thumping of mortar rounds.  One friend in the division is from Ghana.  Now a U.S. citizen, Mathew (spelled with one “t”) is an officer in the Army Reserve.  We had spent many long nights in prayer together the previous summer.  As we sat for lunch on his first day home, we talked about the experience.  His job was to travel around the Baghdad area installing ID Card machines and teaching the Iraqis how to use them.  One of the challenges of the Iraqi Army is keeping track of its Soldiers, who often bounce from battalion to battalion to sign up and receive the enlistment bonus again and again.  He enjoyed his job, but the travel was dangerous.  He was constantly aware of the protection of the presence of God.

     As we ate, he jumped a bit.  I didn’t know what it was that startled him.  Read more