Hi, the title is actually a little misleading — I’m going to leave out the part about the time when I tried to light a sparkler using the spark from a lawn mower engine. You know — those pyrotechnical toys with the metallic paste on the outside and the wire running down the length?

Never try that with bare hands. You might be surprised how strong the galvanic response can be. That day, I needed a cape.

You should also probably never ride past your house on your bicycle while standing on the seat with one leg straight out behind you. Moms don’t take that very well.

And don’t let her look out the kitchen window to see you, with her best towel tied around your neck, jumping from the roof. That day, I had a cape.

What I needed was butt armor.

I somehow survived to be a 56 57 year old father of two, grandfather of two (hi, Avery K. and Ryan M., Grandpa loves you!) and husband of one really good wife. (This is my fourth marriage.)

I have been a railroad conductor, a newspaper boy, a thief, a truck driver, a green grocer, a machinist, a retail clerk, a prep cook, a landscaper, a painter, a teacher (computers / adult education), a preacher, a Dad, a hero and a coward. And that’s just the stuff that I’m willing to tell people I’ve never met.

I once quit a job because, just this once, I wanted to beat the boss to the punch.
I have been paralyzed, twice, by a back injury. I have survived drowning and Legionnaire’s disease and a racially motivated, but otherwise unprovoked, assault. I have the lacuna where the muscle was ripped out to prove it. “Lacuna” … you’ve no idea how long I’ve waited to use that word.

I know, from experience, that I have the will and the ability to take a human life with my bare hands. If I had realized how long it takes to strangle someone, I’d probably still be in prison. But, thinking the job done, I walked away too soon. I was 16 years old and, well, it’s a long story but my actions were provoked by an attack on my sister that I had just observed as it occurred. None of those four brothers, who had so frequently assaulted my sisters and I (mostly me), ever crossed the line again. They were always polite afterward.

Except that my parents forbade me to fight, ever, under any circumstances at all, I’d have done that job years earlier. For me, that day marked a rite of passage. We can not stay in the present moment and we can never relive the one just past. That day I crossed lines that would forever shape who I would become, who I am. Who I will be tomorrow.

In April of 1968, I was old enough that I no longer cared what my parents thought about fighting. I was big enough to make my own decisions and to live on my own if that was the outcome of those decisions. So I jumped that fence and I got the job done.

Indeed, on that warm afternoon, I was attending to another rite of passage – I was filling out my first federal income tax form. I thought about the irony of that as I finished the return and sipped an iced tea. I waited for the police to arrive. It was during that mist-shrouded time before cellphones. I didn’t know how to pack for prison and my parents were gone for the afternoon, so I simply waited for the police car to pull up outside. And had a couple more iced teas, since I figured it might be a while before I got another one.

They never came.

Just so you know that I am not some inherently vicious monster, I’ll also mention that I have also twice saved lives at great risk to my own.  I’m just a man who knows what his limits are. I know them with the certainty of anyone who has visited those limits and tested their strength.

I have nearly starved to death. Now, that would make an interesting chapter in a biography but it doesn’t make me unique. Death by starvation is fairly common on our planet. It is nearly as common in first world countries as third world backwater nations. In a city of any decent size, several people will die that way today. Calcutta, to be sure. But also Detroit and Houston

But all of that is in the past.

I am presently overweight. This turn of events is greatly troubling because I am eating a vegetarian (lacto-ovo, but not quite vegan) diet these days and should be losing weight. I am doing something wrong. I think my mistake looks like a plate that is too-full too often and tastes vaguely like pasta. Or, maybe, creamy colcannon soup.

Today I am a blog writer. This is not the only one that I maintain and not my only source of income. I make wooden pens, most of which are simply given away, and sturdy walking canes (inherently distinctive and incredibly beautiful) for friends. I am hoping to launch a small product line for other ministers. I’m not certain that it appeals to me, but it is an occupation that I can pursue from home.

I take an active role as a Christian. I preach, I teach, I attend to congregational needs, I study and I try to lead by example. A young man I’ve been working with has just been approved to start preaching himself. Makes an old man proud. Another man, much nearer my age, has just re-started his lapsed study (having corrected some issues in his life in the interim). I am pleased that Jehovah has trusted me with such a serious assignment.

Today, though still a Dad, my sons are grown and long gone. There is an achy loneliness for those days when we used to tussle on the floor together or talk quietly as they fell asleep on my lap. But there is also a quiet pride in the men they have become. They have challenges – like I did. They are facing them squarely. There isn’t much more a Dad could ask of his sons than that they become men when it’s their turn. And my sons have done this, so I am content.

But enough about me. This blog is about you.

Among other things, I am hoping that it will make you a more effective Christian. Scripture that lays on the page is of very little value; it has to be lifted up from the page and have life breathed into it. Perhaps, together, we can do just that.

The book itself is not holy … the book is made on machines that were made by men and operated by men. It is manufactured following much the same process as a dictionary. The ink is no more than a part of that process and, if you consider the existence of Braille or audio tapes, not even an essential part of it.

If scripture is to have any value at all, it must be allowed to express itself through our lives. Then it has a power we scarce dare to imagine.

So, let’s take a look at how we can do our part in giving life to those words by the way we live, preach and teach them.

And keep in mind that this is a privilege; we are no more essential than that ink is. (Luke 19:40)