When I think of Epiphany, I think of amphibians. The coquis (onomatopoetically named frogs) densely cover the Puerto Rican island, and when they leave for places like Hawaii, they often do so in packs overtaking their new digs, blasting their disyllabic cry as they did back home. That is to say they are quite loud at night and considered invasive by some. The same has often been said of the Puerto Rican people. Read More
Lonliness and Violence
We became friends in freshman honors Geometry class when Mark stood up to answer a Trigonometry bonus question that the teacher said was well beyond our ability. Mark was a strange kid: the kind of kid who wears snow boots in October; who had a mustache as a freshman; who transferred from another school and claimed that the other school was "St Mary's Over Looking the Thames." Read More
Church is for Children
Our mobile church has bought a building after about two decades in a high school. To consecrate the new church, we are reading through the whole Bible and broadcasting a live feed online. I have been fascinated with the live feed image of the new sanctuary. In the first moments watching the video stream, I saw one of our senior pastor’s children walk up to the font and dip in his hands. He was mesmerized by the water overflowing. I said to my wife, “Our girls are going to be playing in that water their whole lives.”
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A Very Guilty Advent 1.1
When I was six, I feared that I might become the antichrist.
I remember it vividly: that small house on Morgan Street; that living room where my father fell asleep to Sunday afternoon baseball games; that backyard with the swing set down from which I was too afraid to climb, when finally our mailman—a tall godsend who picked me up and slowly lifted me to the ground. I remember the laundry room vividly, and the bedroom that I shared with my sister. It is still in my mind, though we moved at six. But most of all, most often at least, I remember learning about Jesus Christ from the most influential and maybe greatest preachers that I have heard: my mother.
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Weeping Over Dido (Not that Dido)
As a child, I knew that I would be a pastor. It was crystal clear. I remember approaching my pastor as a nine-year-old, which was terrifying for an introverted kid, and telling him I wanted to be baptized. I believed this stuff. I wanted to show it. The Bible said to be baptized. I knew that much. It seemed like a good place for a future pastor to start. A few years later, I remember talking to my dad in sixth grade while walking into Jewel about how Christians didn’t take good enough notes on sermons. For me, sermons were serious business. Real Christians took notes. That same year I went to Wendy’s with my senior pastor. I met with him because I was called not to be a youth pastor, like my friends aspired to, but a Senior Pastor. After all, as a kid with no knowledge of elder boards or publishing companies or denominations or anything outside of my local church, I believed the senior pastor was the great guardian of the Christian faith. They were men who heard the very voice of God through following careful exegetical rules. I had to be one. Read More
Put Down Your Swag and Follow Me
As a follower of Christ how much should I care about my image? I certainly know I shouldn’t spend too much thought or money on clothes. Christ made that pretty clear. Thrift stores help with this. I get to spend my money on important things, like student loans, while maintaining swag. In fact when a student says, “Where did you get that knit tie?” and I say, “From the thrift store,” it builds my ethos and ego. Read More
Am I too Cynical for This: Evangelicalism
I knew it all. I was the king of my youth group, the king of Awana. I led worship (despite my voice). I taught Bible studies at my school. I planned on seminary. I went to a Christian college. I was cynical because I wasn’t sure that the God that was being worshipped (in between so many songs and verses about ourselves) could send the universe spinning and become man and die and be raised again. The God I kept hearing about was too weak.
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As Dumb as the Market Demands: How to Be a Crappy State
I spent my childhood summers at a Christian camp in Wisconsin. We made fun of these obese farm brothers Luke and Matt with stretch marks, and Ritalin. Let’s be honest, we thought the locals were dumb, with their stories of bull castration and horse insemination. So we imported 16 inch softball and Deans chocolate milk. We loved the land, but the people made it onto my dumb list at an early age. This year, the nice, but dumb people of Wisconsin have gotten dumber and meaner teaching us some key elements to becoming a dumb state.
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How to Run a Marathon Ironically: Part II-Run Home
Part II of the award winning story of Al Cedeno's victory at this weeks marathon. He was the only participant able to brave the storms of fate. (As told in Part I here)
Cue the sunlight. Cue the wind. Cue red leaves and soda-pop air and shin splints and luna bars, and Dunkin Donuts tuna melts. Cue comments that Elgin looks like a New England city from the bridge in the fall. Cue that conversation again. Cue the hope for redemption. Cue double entendre. Cue triple entendre. Cue horse crap and running tights and shirts that just so happen to say “Awareness Causes Cancer.” Cue all of that and more.
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How to Run a Marathon Ironically: Part 1-Truly Believe You Are Better Than Everyone at Everything
I never thought I would get this fat. Truth be told, I am a vain man. I love mirrors. And let’s face it, they love me back. But now I weigh 215 lbs (97.5) kilos. On my 5’11” frame, that is called, obese. You and I both know it is all muscle gained from my life of reading books and writing novels on my couch intermixed with grading papers, grading papers, grading papers, and teaching.
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Everyone Hates Marathon Runners
Everyone on earth hates marathon runners, including themselves. We hate their sanctimonious fundraising, their sub 20 BMIs, their comments like, “I just feel happier when I exercise.” Well, listen-we don’t. We hate exercising; we love eating food; we read too many books or watch too much TV or drink an extra beer or two without running it off in the morning.
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An Open Letter to Our Wives
It has been said that the two of you find our possible future quest tobe stupid. We will try to explain it.
Sometimes in life, we men need grand gestures or at least grand adventures. At our age our ancestors had sired children whom they carried on their backs across the Beiring Strait. They built walls and pyramids and, in general, got stuff done.
As you may have noticed, Lane and I have done nothing with our lives. Instead of the arena of hard work and discipline, we sit in cubicles and make stupid comments about things. I even go as far as to teach others how to make stupid comments successfully.
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The Gospel of Jesus' Wife
Note: Scholars BELIEVE this blog post was posted in September of 2012, but evidence suggests it comes from an August of 2012 Bokonon text. Scholars believe that this article can be attributed to Alfred Louis Cedeno or perhaps pseudo-Cedeno. Everyone is getting gospels published these days: Thomas, Mary, Andrew Lloyd Weber, and now Jesus wife. I think I’ll jump into the arena. I am going to model mine after Jesus’ wife because she got this cool write up by Harvard Magazine. Read More
On Being an Obese Minority
I always knew that being a minority in an affirmatively active America would bode well for me. In fact, that is the reason I never did my homework in high school and knew that no matter what, I’d make it into my “reach” school where I’d be an exotic “student of color.” I have always been a sort of statistical outlier, from my 1st grade reading scores (you’ve never seen such an asymptotic line from a brown [not academically good, Indian brown] but rather, Puerto Rican brown, kid in your life), to my astronomical blood pressure while running competitive cross country in high school (almost as high as my test scores). That is to say, I don’t always fall within the normal curve. Read More