One of the things I love most about my job is learning that I have so much to learn. Often, I sit at the feet of those much younger than me for my lessons.
This morning I got the chance to speak to a couple of the students who led a trip to Africa that I was involved in sending. The team just landed at JFK this morning for a well-deserved day in the big city after spending the last month in not-so-big Malawi. They all loved their trip, even Emily.
Nobody would fault Emily, of course, if she didn’t exactly adore the experience. After all, a trip to the African ER because malaria chose to take up residence in your bloodstream isn’t most people’s idea of a good time. Add in South African Airlines’ conspicuous lack of knowledge as to the whereabouts of Emily’s luggage when they reached the country a month ago, and it seemed like Emily unknowingly signed up for the lead role in "National Lampoon’s African Safari."
Then, a couple of days ago, I found out that not only did South African Airlines not know where Emily’s baggage was in May, they weren’t any more knowledgeable about it at the end of June. Yup, homegirl lived in Malawi for a month without any of her luggage. Just the clothes she had on when she boarded the plane on May 27 and whatever stuff she had shoved in her backpack (much of which was emergency contact info and the team leader packet I foisted upon her). Most everything else she had to borrow. For a month. Recipe for disgrunt, I say. But, Emily seemed to be baking from a different cookbook than mine.
Emily: “Benji!”
Me: “Emily! It’s so good to hear your voice! Welcome home. I’m so sorry to hear about your luggage. That’s awful.”
Emily: “You know what? It’s not that big of a deal. I’m over it. I think God really used it to teach me. I needed to go through that.”
Emily was already on my short-list for “Least Materialistic College Student,” but now I was really impressed. She told me that it had been hard for her at first, but that she was fine now. She also said that if she never saw her bag again, not such a big deal. If ever someone deserved a New York City shopping spree as a reward for fortitude, it’s her. If ever there was someone completely unlikely to take one, her again.
I have much to learn from my students. I just hope I keep taking notes.
Do not worry about what you will wear…
Friday, June 27, 2008
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Dems the breaks, goyim...
Last Saturday morning Greta and I cruised to the fabulous Farmer's Market that descends on Santa Barbara each weekend. We often choose the Farmer's Market for our weekly supply of veggies and fruitstuffs.
As we cruised through the aisles, I noticed the Barack Obama supporters table, a fixture at the Farmer's Market (I can only assume the John McCain table was at a local gun show). As we passed the table the first time, I thought borderline pleasant political thoughts. Later, after picking up a heavy supply of strawberries, we passed the left-wingers again. This time, someone spoke to me.
I heard, "Excuse me, sir? Excuse me?" Immediately my "run-away-from-cell-phone-pimps-at-the-mall" defenses went up. For some reason, I ignore my defenses. Although everything inside of me did not want to turn around in the middle of the Downtown Santa Barbara bastion of liberalism and explain to the kindly people behind the card table why I would not, in fact, be voting for their version of change, I turned anyway.
Democrat guy: "Um, excuse, sir?"
Me: "Yeah?"
Democrat guy: "Do you know Hebrew?"
Me: "Um, kind of."
Democrat guy: "Could you read this? We just got them in and nobody knows what they say."
At this point Democrat guy extends a bumper sticker to me with something scrawled across it in unpointed Hebrew. Unpointed meaning without the vowels. Further meaning not the kind I learned how to read. Fortunately, as with most things in the political realm, this was lowest-common-denominator kind of stuff.
Me: "It says 'Barack Obama.'"
Democrat guy: (to his Democrat buddies) "Oh, it says 'Barack Obama!' That's great! Thanks, man. You should take this bumper sticker. Since you're the one who read it, you should have it!"
Me: "No thanks, that's alright."
Democrat guy: "No really, man. How about this button, then? It's the only one we have in Hebrew, but it's yours. Really, I insist."
Me: "Uh, thanks."
With that I slipped the button into my pocket and walked away beside my beaming/laughing wife. The button is now prominently displayed on the cork board beside the microwave.
So, how did Democrat guy single me out to begin with, you ask? Why not grab some other schmuck and ask him to translate the button? Well, everyone else must have left their Hebrew-language shirts from the Dallas Seminary bookcenter in the closet that morning.
As we cruised through the aisles, I noticed the Barack Obama supporters table, a fixture at the Farmer's Market (I can only assume the John McCain table was at a local gun show). As we passed the table the first time, I thought borderline pleasant political thoughts. Later, after picking up a heavy supply of strawberries, we passed the left-wingers again. This time, someone spoke to me.
I heard, "Excuse me, sir? Excuse me?" Immediately my "run-away-from-cell-phone-pimps-at-the-mall" defenses went up. For some reason, I ignore my defenses. Although everything inside of me did not want to turn around in the middle of the Downtown Santa Barbara bastion of liberalism and explain to the kindly people behind the card table why I would not, in fact, be voting for their version of change, I turned anyway.
Democrat guy: "Um, excuse, sir?"
Me: "Yeah?"
Democrat guy: "Do you know Hebrew?"
Me: "Um, kind of."
Democrat guy: "Could you read this? We just got them in and nobody knows what they say."
At this point Democrat guy extends a bumper sticker to me with something scrawled across it in unpointed Hebrew. Unpointed meaning without the vowels. Further meaning not the kind I learned how to read. Fortunately, as with most things in the political realm, this was lowest-common-denominator kind of stuff.
Me: "It says 'Barack Obama.'"
Democrat guy: (to his Democrat buddies) "Oh, it says 'Barack Obama!' That's great! Thanks, man. You should take this bumper sticker. Since you're the one who read it, you should have it!"
Me: "No thanks, that's alright."
Democrat guy: "No really, man. How about this button, then? It's the only one we have in Hebrew, but it's yours. Really, I insist."
Me: "Uh, thanks."
With that I slipped the button into my pocket and walked away beside my beaming/laughing wife. The button is now prominently displayed on the cork board beside the microwave.
So, how did Democrat guy single me out to begin with, you ask? Why not grab some other schmuck and ask him to translate the button? Well, everyone else must have left their Hebrew-language shirts from the Dallas Seminary bookcenter in the closet that morning.
Monday, March 24, 2008
Life on the road, part I...
My swanky job requires me to do a fair bit of traveling over a week typically dedicated to drunken parties in tropical locations. No, I'm not a cameraman for MTV. My traveling has a rather more sober and "did not come to be served but to serve" feel to it. 200+ of my students chose blood, sweat and tears while some of their peers around the country opt for drugs, sex and beer. A few stories from the week...
Started off visiting Spring Break in the City, a group that works in inner-city San Francisco. They serve alongside--not in place of--long-term workers who are seeking to save the lost among the lost. My students served meals, removed graffiti, ran youth center programs and generally poured themselves out as offerings.
Some SF highlights:
-walking through the Mission District and the Castro, seeking to understand what makes the City one of the most unique anywhere.
-having my first impressions of "the street kid with the glare" blown up when we played basketball together. (Nice kid. Quick first step.)
-being told by "random homeless guy in the wheelchair" that I was well-dressed and that he loved me.
-watching the group lay hands and pray for the suddenly grandfatherless girl just before she left to drive to Arizona to be with her family.
-watching leaders emerge when sickness struck.
-losing to "the kid who seems to get picked on" in foosball.
-losing to the girl nobody dares to pick on in ping pong.
Random SF story:
-I leave the City on Tuesday morning for the second leg of my excursion (more on that in part II). I get on the road early in order to A. not get stuck in traffic, B. not get stuck in the middle seat on a Southwest flight (No assigned seats? Really?) Apparently, nobody leaves San Francisco to go to Oakland (with good reason, too). With so little company in the lanes beside me, I cross the Bay Bridge rather quickly in my "world's smallest car" entry. Plenty of time for a real breakfast. Not a fast-food, let's grab a bacon Mcsomethin and then run to the terminal type of breakfast, but a sit-down, use a fork and a ceramic coffee mug breakfast. Problem: someone with my depleted supply of attention-span needs something to read. So, I cruise outside of Carrows and survey my newspaper options. San Jose Mercury-News, Oakland Trib, SF Chronicle. Chronicle it is (my condolences to the Hearst family).
I open it up and find soon that I'm flipping through the obits. Not really steady reading for folks in my age bracket, so I'm just about to turn to the sports section when I see a name I know. Yeah, that's right. One of my high school baseball assistant coaches died and I randomly saw the obit in the Chronicle at a Carrows in Oakland. Coach Z--I had to read closely to make sure it was really him because I only knew Matthew J. Zidich as Coach Z--lived an incredible life. He played baseball in the Pacific Coast League with Joe DiMaggio. He owned an Oyster Restaurant. He taught me the hitting philosophy that trumps all others: "You gotta be a low ball hitter and a highball drinker." Mom said the funeral was huge. No surprise there. One of those folks you just assume won't die had just died and I read the condensed story of his life, kinda shook my head and took another bite of bacon, avocado, jack. On to the airport...
Started off visiting Spring Break in the City, a group that works in inner-city San Francisco. They serve alongside--not in place of--long-term workers who are seeking to save the lost among the lost. My students served meals, removed graffiti, ran youth center programs and generally poured themselves out as offerings.
Some SF highlights:
-walking through the Mission District and the Castro, seeking to understand what makes the City one of the most unique anywhere.
-having my first impressions of "the street kid with the glare" blown up when we played basketball together. (Nice kid. Quick first step.)
-being told by "random homeless guy in the wheelchair" that I was well-dressed and that he loved me.
-watching the group lay hands and pray for the suddenly grandfatherless girl just before she left to drive to Arizona to be with her family.
-watching leaders emerge when sickness struck.
-losing to "the kid who seems to get picked on" in foosball.
-losing to the girl nobody dares to pick on in ping pong.
Random SF story:
-I leave the City on Tuesday morning for the second leg of my excursion (more on that in part II). I get on the road early in order to A. not get stuck in traffic, B. not get stuck in the middle seat on a Southwest flight (No assigned seats? Really?) Apparently, nobody leaves San Francisco to go to Oakland (with good reason, too). With so little company in the lanes beside me, I cross the Bay Bridge rather quickly in my "world's smallest car" entry. Plenty of time for a real breakfast. Not a fast-food, let's grab a bacon Mcsomethin and then run to the terminal type of breakfast, but a sit-down, use a fork and a ceramic coffee mug breakfast. Problem: someone with my depleted supply of attention-span needs something to read. So, I cruise outside of Carrows and survey my newspaper options. San Jose Mercury-News, Oakland Trib, SF Chronicle. Chronicle it is (my condolences to the Hearst family).
I open it up and find soon that I'm flipping through the obits. Not really steady reading for folks in my age bracket, so I'm just about to turn to the sports section when I see a name I know. Yeah, that's right. One of my high school baseball assistant coaches died and I randomly saw the obit in the Chronicle at a Carrows in Oakland. Coach Z--I had to read closely to make sure it was really him because I only knew Matthew J. Zidich as Coach Z--lived an incredible life. He played baseball in the Pacific Coast League with Joe DiMaggio. He owned an Oyster Restaurant. He taught me the hitting philosophy that trumps all others: "You gotta be a low ball hitter and a highball drinker." Mom said the funeral was huge. No surprise there. One of those folks you just assume won't die had just died and I read the condensed story of his life, kinda shook my head and took another bite of bacon, avocado, jack. On to the airport...
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Hope in the ashes...
This week, fire has me thinking about rain.
In 2005, I couldn’t believe the vitriol of “religious” pundits suggesting that Hurricane Katrina was an expression of God’s wrath on New Orleans. At that time, I argued that such statements are preposterous coming from finite creatures lacking access to the motivations of God.
This last week, we have watched as walls of fire have consumed significant parts of our beloved Southern California. Some structures destroyed by the inferno—like Malibu Presbyterian Church—held a special place in our hearts. We have received many phone calls from across the country wondering if we were out of harm’s way. We are. What we didn’t receive was the same condemning attitude expressed post-Katrina.
This reality has spawned several questions that refuse to leave my mind. Why would we pick and choose our natural disasters, interpreting one here as a deliberate and message-bearing act of God and one there as a consequence of human negligence? What gives us the right to play prophet, especially when we have proven over and over that we play that role so poorly? Perhaps an even more important question: what reading of Scripture would ever justify such expressions of animosity and hopelessness in a time of great pain and loss?
In Romans 8, as he and the Roman Christians around him suffered incredibly, Paul’s words were not condemning and judgmental. Rather, the apostle called everyone’s attention to hope. The hope of glory that lies beyond this fallen and broken world with its imperial persecutions, hurricanes, and fires. We, as the body of Christ, ought to radiate hope in all circumstances, and uniquely in times of national pain. We must keep our eyes focused on “the glory that is to be revealed” and call others to match our gaze.
Two years later, Katrina’s effects continue on. Continue to pray for the city and people of New Orleans, especially areas such as the Lower Ninth Ward which still lie in shambles. Similarly, California will feel the effects of these fires for years. Continue to pray for the people of Southern California, many of whom face a long road back to normalcy. Two thousand years later, the Church is still wrestling with what it means to be light in the darkness. Continue to pray for the Church, that we would take our role as imago Dei seriously, and represent well the God of love, mercy, and hope in this desperately painful world in which we live.
In 2005, I couldn’t believe the vitriol of “religious” pundits suggesting that Hurricane Katrina was an expression of God’s wrath on New Orleans. At that time, I argued that such statements are preposterous coming from finite creatures lacking access to the motivations of God.
This last week, we have watched as walls of fire have consumed significant parts of our beloved Southern California. Some structures destroyed by the inferno—like Malibu Presbyterian Church—held a special place in our hearts. We have received many phone calls from across the country wondering if we were out of harm’s way. We are. What we didn’t receive was the same condemning attitude expressed post-Katrina.
This reality has spawned several questions that refuse to leave my mind. Why would we pick and choose our natural disasters, interpreting one here as a deliberate and message-bearing act of God and one there as a consequence of human negligence? What gives us the right to play prophet, especially when we have proven over and over that we play that role so poorly? Perhaps an even more important question: what reading of Scripture would ever justify such expressions of animosity and hopelessness in a time of great pain and loss?
In Romans 8, as he and the Roman Christians around him suffered incredibly, Paul’s words were not condemning and judgmental. Rather, the apostle called everyone’s attention to hope. The hope of glory that lies beyond this fallen and broken world with its imperial persecutions, hurricanes, and fires. We, as the body of Christ, ought to radiate hope in all circumstances, and uniquely in times of national pain. We must keep our eyes focused on “the glory that is to be revealed” and call others to match our gaze.
Two years later, Katrina’s effects continue on. Continue to pray for the city and people of New Orleans, especially areas such as the Lower Ninth Ward which still lie in shambles. Similarly, California will feel the effects of these fires for years. Continue to pray for the people of Southern California, many of whom face a long road back to normalcy. Two thousand years later, the Church is still wrestling with what it means to be light in the darkness. Continue to pray for the Church, that we would take our role as imago Dei seriously, and represent well the God of love, mercy, and hope in this desperately painful world in which we live.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
The playoffs...
I'm not usually one to attempt to trumpet my own humor (that would be a rather infrequent endeavor). But the other day, I was actually pretty funny.
My blessed wife wrote me the following email on behalf of her office:
"Hi,
Can you give us a brief summary of the Indians, Rockies, Sox, and DBacks play-off and/or World Series History? We'd like to make some informed decisions about who we support based on under-dog status."
I replied as follows:
"Here are your brief histories:
The Diamondbacks came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1998. Although they revealed the type of poor taste that could only be accepted by doddering retirees in Arizona when they named the franchise after a venomous beast first made famous by embodying the Prince of Darkness, nonetheless, God granted them mercy and allowed them to win the NL West in only their second season in the league. Stunningly, the D-Backs won the World Series in 2001, led by future Yankees-washout Randy Johnson and future Boston loser Curt "I Love Being in the Limelight and Will Say Anything Necessary to Anyone Around in order to Keep Myself There" Schilling. In that series, they beat the New York Yankees, 4 games to 3. Although they likely cheated to do so, investigations have yet to uncover any wrongdoing. Clearly, the D-Backs are not a team that fans should support, given their already obvious run of success and shameless tactics of bringing in pricey free agents in order to compete.
The Rockies came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1993. They originally played in Mile High Stadium, home to the NFL's Broncos. The spacious setting allowed them to set somewhat dubious attendance records early in their existence. In 1995, the Rockies moved into Coors Field, a beautiful park disgracefully named after the devil's drink. They first made the playoffs in 1995, winning the National League wild card. They were subsequently beaten by the Atlanta Braves. Pitching has always proven tricky in the Mile High City, given that baseballs tend to fly very far in thin air. In response, the Rockies began to place baseballs in humidors in hopes of keeping them in the park. It has produced favorable results, although too late for once promising pitchers whose careers have gone to Denver to die (see: Neagle, Denny; Hampton, Mike; Kile, Daryl). It seems logical, given the options, that the Rockies are the preferred choice in the National League, although since they play an inferior brand of baseball in which the pitcher bats, thereby sacrificing quality for a weak attempt at a bunt once every nine batters, that's not saying much.
The Cleveland Indigenous People Group were a charter member of the American League in 1901. They have a long, if not very successful history. Originally named the Cleveland Blues, they later switched to the completely insensitive and geographically ignorant nickname Indians (the racially offensive mascot/logo was still to come). Since the Indigenous People Group has such a long history, it would follow that there would be much success to celebrate throughout the years. Unfortunately, this is Cleveland we're talking about, and such success is rare. Speculation remains that the city was built on a landfill, but soil samples are inconclusive. Cleveland first played in the World Series in 1920, defeating the Brooklyn Dodgers. The team's only other World Series win came in 1948, giving them the second-longest span since World Series victories of any team in baseball. Their place is safe, however, since the longest such streak belongs to the Cubs (1908), who are an entirely awful impersonation of a baseball franchise. Although the Indigenous People Group had an opportunity to end their years of misery in 1995 and 1997, instead they lost to the Atlanta Braves and the Florida Marlins, respectively, thereby besmirching the World Series crown by allowing it to be worn by a team from the vastly inferior National League. Cleveland, given its history of losing and racial insensitivity, would not seem to be a good candidate for your American League support, however...
Boston sucks.
Hope this helps,
Benj"
My blessed wife wrote me the following email on behalf of her office:
"Hi,
Can you give us a brief summary of the Indians, Rockies, Sox, and DBacks play-off and/or World Series History? We'd like to make some informed decisions about who we support based on under-dog status."
I replied as follows:
"Here are your brief histories:
The Diamondbacks came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1998. Although they revealed the type of poor taste that could only be accepted by doddering retirees in Arizona when they named the franchise after a venomous beast first made famous by embodying the Prince of Darkness, nonetheless, God granted them mercy and allowed them to win the NL West in only their second season in the league. Stunningly, the D-Backs won the World Series in 2001, led by future Yankees-washout Randy Johnson and future Boston loser Curt "I Love Being in the Limelight and Will Say Anything Necessary to Anyone Around in order to Keep Myself There" Schilling. In that series, they beat the New York Yankees, 4 games to 3. Although they likely cheated to do so, investigations have yet to uncover any wrongdoing. Clearly, the D-Backs are not a team that fans should support, given their already obvious run of success and shameless tactics of bringing in pricey free agents in order to compete.
The Rockies came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1993. They originally played in Mile High Stadium, home to the NFL's Broncos. The spacious setting allowed them to set somewhat dubious attendance records early in their existence. In 1995, the Rockies moved into Coors Field, a beautiful park disgracefully named after the devil's drink. They first made the playoffs in 1995, winning the National League wild card. They were subsequently beaten by the Atlanta Braves. Pitching has always proven tricky in the Mile High City, given that baseballs tend to fly very far in thin air. In response, the Rockies began to place baseballs in humidors in hopes of keeping them in the park. It has produced favorable results, although too late for once promising pitchers whose careers have gone to Denver to die (see: Neagle, Denny; Hampton, Mike; Kile, Daryl). It seems logical, given the options, that the Rockies are the preferred choice in the National League, although since they play an inferior brand of baseball in which the pitcher bats, thereby sacrificing quality for a weak attempt at a bunt once every nine batters, that's not saying much.
The Cleveland Indigenous People Group were a charter member of the American League in 1901. They have a long, if not very successful history. Originally named the Cleveland Blues, they later switched to the completely insensitive and geographically ignorant nickname Indians (the racially offensive mascot/logo was still to come). Since the Indigenous People Group has such a long history, it would follow that there would be much success to celebrate throughout the years. Unfortunately, this is Cleveland we're talking about, and such success is rare. Speculation remains that the city was built on a landfill, but soil samples are inconclusive. Cleveland first played in the World Series in 1920, defeating the Brooklyn Dodgers. The team's only other World Series win came in 1948, giving them the second-longest span since World Series victories of any team in baseball. Their place is safe, however, since the longest such streak belongs to the Cubs (1908), who are an entirely awful impersonation of a baseball franchise. Although the Indigenous People Group had an opportunity to end their years of misery in 1995 and 1997, instead they lost to the Atlanta Braves and the Florida Marlins, respectively, thereby besmirching the World Series crown by allowing it to be worn by a team from the vastly inferior National League. Cleveland, given its history of losing and racial insensitivity, would not seem to be a good candidate for your American League support, however...
Boston sucks.
Hope this helps,
Benj"
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