Tagged: Church
The Rumored Sudanese Family Budgets
The great influx of Africans, in this case Sudanese, is taking on an almost uniform shape at churches across our great country. The general situation is the almost dead whites have their Sunday services as they have for the past 80 years. But then the vibrant-seeming African redeemed, fresh off the airplane, bring out the whole family, extended family, and more and use the same church buildings for their Pentecostal services.
The white pastors, then, in talking to the African church leadership have their finger on this aspect of the immigration pulse more-so than you or I. (If any of this interests you, track down a pastor. He’d love to chat after such a long break.)
The specific heartbeat one pastor revealed to a friend of mine that I want today’s post to illuminate is family money.
Want to know how these non-Western families handle the family budget? I’ll tell ya.
Rumor has it, the fathers are slaving themselves out as their wives spend without limit.
The situation, surely applicable to more than just Sudanese culture, is the wives expect to never be told “no” when it comes to money and then the husband has to figure out how to pay the bill.
Worse, the Sudanese wives, like all you lovely ladies out there, really want to work and have their own money, money which the husband is never allowed to acknowledge exists.
Reader: you know my point. That’s right. The next time you see a midnight-skinned African-looking man whose every fiber screams high strung, summon your compassion. He needs it.
And to you readers who are American wives: if anything I have written remotely describes you, then, seriously, WTF?
I Am Never Ready
These last three days I learned that despite my training and full belief in the Boy Scouts’ “Be Prepared” motto, there are three things I am never ready for.
Firstly, America’s natural beauty, specifically the Rocky Mountains.
I drove to Salt Lake City from the Springs (and back) and while my eyes were necessarily on the road, I could’t help but marvel at the grandeur passing by my right and left.
I have decided that this area will be my kids and I’s new playground.
Secondly, folk’s response to, “What is the gospel?”
“You are insolent,” the friend of my buddy told me, as we sat next to each other late into the wedding reception. This was preceded by, “You are proselytizing.” Which was preceded by a three to five minute recounting of his entire childhood interaction with the Church which concluded, as he could tell he was avoiding the question, with a tremendously subpar answer, which he knew was subpar as he delivered it even before my eyes surely indicated so. This being preceded by his rehearsal of the lunacy of the concept of the “chosen people” and my, “Well, and to be sure—I am giving you my best now, no pulling punches—you must understand the gospel before you can understand or be at peace with any of the rest of it. There is an order of events, so to speak. So I would ask you (you don’t have to answer) what is the gospel?” And of course this was preceded by his, “You’re religious, huh? My problem is…”
I guess I am just an optimist. It’s my only explanation why I am always surprised that such a simple question can evoke such a dark response.
Thirdly, once in a lifetime offers of unimaginable wealth and luxury.
“Are you happy there? Are you happy with your job?”
I said, “Sorry what are you asking?”
“Are you settled in for good? Do you like your job?” the man repeated.
I had just met him. I learned he was a doctor. He was immediately kind. I believe his opening banter was complimenting the toast I had just given/hosted as best man. And, I never confirmed, but I am pretty sure he was a Mormon.
Do you see it now?
He saw what I had just accomplished in the other room and was ready to put those talents to work for the faith—and we all get richer in the process.
But I stumbled. Someone else was nearby and asking those around if they knew the movie that the current bluegrass band’s song was from, and I couldn’t help but ignore my new friend and lean over to answer, “O’ Brother Where Art Thou?!”
By the time that reverie ended, the moment had passed. The “doctor is out”, and never to return.
Oh well. I do like my house and I do like my job. But I also feel shame that I have acted in the same way during similar moments enough times to recognize the physical sensation I get afterwards as the “missed/blown opportunity” one. And this shame is only made worse in that these moments keep happening to me.
Maybe next time, I’ll be ready.
Some Thoughts On Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar in Genesis, the One that Played the Harlot (Not Absalom’s Sister Who Was Raped).
My wife uses the Bible to argue with me. Anyone else have a woman like this at home? It’s wonderful.
Just this morning she brought up “Judas son of Jacob”, from which I can only assume she meant (talk to text doesn’t work well for those with heavy accents) Judah. We’re already in funny-land with this, as it clearly demonstrates why surnames ever came to be. Who? Judas? Which Judas? NT Judas? Iscariot? Oh, Jacob’s son? Oh, Judah. You mean Judah? Judah, son of Jacob? Judah Jacobson. Judah Ben Jacob. Ha.
Anyhow. So the story has it that Judah’s first son, Er Judah-son, is killed by Yahweh for being evil. Par for the course. And his second son, Onan, is unwilling that his biological son become his older brother’s heir and so he will not consummate the deed. Yahweh kills him, too.
Only then do we learn the full nature of the issue. It seems Judah has this idea, perhaps divinely inspired, perhaps not, and holds to it like his last breath, that Tamar (Er’s wife) is owed a son by one of his (Judah’s) sons. So he promises Tamar that when Shelah Judah-son grows big, he can donate his seed to the common cause.
Here’s where the story gets interesting, and not just in Azeem’s, “How did your uneducated kind ever take Jerusalem?” sense.
Er’s widow Tamar (Tamar has no surname, so “Er’s widow Tamar” will have to suffice…for now) hears that Judah Jacob-son is going on a trip. It is this moment of the story that deserves grave attention. Here is the focus of this exegesis.
So she removed her widow’s garments from herself and covered herself with a veil and wrapped herself. And she sat at the entrance of Enaim, which is on the road to Timnah; for she saw that Shelah had grown up, and she had not been given to him as a wife.
“For she saw that Shelah [Judah-son] had grown up, AND she had not been given to him as a wife.”
“Vindictive little hussy” Tamar sounds more appropriate than “Er’s widow Tamar” at this point. But let’s read on.
Judah, now a widower and past the time of mourning, apparently still gets the itch. So when he sees a harlot on his trip, he begins to negotiate. Unlike, or perhaps exactly like, men from every corner and age of the planet, he didn’t think ahead and so now he is stuck. “1. Get laid but have to give her my ID to hold until I can find my darn credit card.” Or “B. Don’t get laid.”
He gives her his ID.
She takes it, gives herself to him, and then runs, never to be seen again—even after he finds his credit card.
But this, to most illiterate preachers, is still merely the setup for the punchline of the story.
(Let’s pause here for an apropos Uncle Remus saying: “You can hide the fire, but wha choo gunna do bout da smoke?!”)
Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar is soon “showing” and the affronted Judah Jacob-son wants her burned.
She wants to live and so offers Judah Jacob-son his ID back.
The next killer-line is:
And Judah recognized them and said, “She is more righteous than I, inasmuch as I did not give her to my son Shelah.”
Oh, the qualifier.
We almost had a perplexing, a-historical, fantasy account on our hands. Without the qualifier, we might have real evidence that scripture is flawed, uninspired, and not the Word of God that we all believe it to be.
So thank the LORD and his precious son, Jesus, for the qualifier.
Judah Jacob-son does not elevate Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar unreservedly, no. That would be the work of the uninspired Woke mob, post-#metoo and George Floyd and all.
Instead, since we’re reading the Word of God—which was written by men who lived thousands of years ago at a time before Jesus fulfilled Yahweh’s plan—there is a qualifier.
Nowhere does the story suggest that Vindictive Little Hussy Tamar was righteous full-stop, but it does convey that Judah Jacob-son now recognized that he hadn’t fulfilled his vow. Or as Apollo Creed says, “Some people gotta learn the hard way!”
Granted, I still have no idea why my boo brought this up in the argument over the kids’ clothes today. And granted I honestly am not 100% certain I analyzed the right story, since “Judas son of Jacob” is not certainly “Judah Jacob-son.” But these are some thoughts on Tamar, the eency-weency-bit-more-righteous woman than the John, Judah Jacob-son, little horn-dog that he was.
Christian, You’re Wrong About the Rainbow Flag. It Is Wholly the Alphabet Mafia’s Symbol. Let Them Display it Proudly.
I put My bow in the cloud, and it shall be for a sign of a covenant between Me and the earth. And it will be, when I bring a cloud over the earth, that the bow will be seen in the cloud…
So the bow shall be in the cloud, and I will look upon it, to remember the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all flesh that is on the earth.
(The above should be thought of as “axioms” or “definitions”.)
What is most curious, to an Eagle Scout/combat veteran’s mind like mine, is the use of the word “bow”. It really drives home how early man was always struggling to find analogy for their language. They saw in the sky something new and in the shape of, well, what object would ancient man have had to analogize from? The shape of…hmm. Oh, I know. It looks like the bow and arrow’s bow! Perfect.
But more importantly, for you, Christian, is that nowhere is fabric or any tangible good mentioned.
If this doesn’t add divine peace to your life, something is wrong with you and you should use this moment to align yourself with some truth.
The Living God is not messing around, nor ever has, with his creation or his plan.
If you see a bow in the sky, like an archery bow, then be thankful that Yahweh is God (and a faithful one at that), and not some other punk deity.
If you see a colorful flag, then…do whatever conscience dictates. It really doesn’t matter and shouldn’t disturb you.
I Present the Latest Sham Holiday: Mother’s Day
Christmas, especially in its commercial sense, is at least pure and focused. Mother’s Day, on the other hand, has become a sham entirely. Worse than Kwanza. Worse than Juneteenth. Worse than whatever the heck Easter is supposed to be.
At church today a very old “Dr.” lady gave the sermon. She talked about how hard the job of “mother” is. That is to say, she talked about how hard the job of “mother” used to be.
If you send your kids to daycare so you can go to work to pay for daycare, is that noble?
If you are so tired from this unnecessary job that you feed your kids processed food, junk food, and fast food on the regular, is that noble?
If you spend any leftover income from your job on TJ Maxx and Ross for yourself instead of, I don’t know, saving for future expenses, is that noble?
This poor old lady, dignified and noble as she was, was so out of touch that she described my mom, who finished up 20 years ago. But today’s “modern” moms? They look and sound nothing like my mom.
It’s disturbing. And it’s another example available for use when instructing children to not be slaves to the sound of words but to consider concrete context too.
Having a baby doesn’t making you a mother anymore than being female makes you a woman.
Funny thing is, I, one of the last men raised by a mother (and father), didn’t get my mom anything on this holiday. But I did buy some over-complimentary cards (from me and the kids) and pointless gifts for my wife. What a sham.
There is nothing outside the man which can defile him if it goes into him; but the things which proceed out of the man are what defile the man.
One One-Liner Heard Inside Mardel’s and Why Seminary Costs Money—and Should
Here in Colorado Springs, the “Sierra” store is in the same spot as a “Mardel Christian and Education” store. I needed Mother’s Day gear, so after perusing Sierra to price compare “Expert Voice” “deals”, I took the kids across the lot to Mardel. (Sierra seems to be winning on every level, if curious.)
While perusing the Bibles (specifically interested to learn the LSB has made it to retailers yet), I passed by a couple of ladies (the types which strike everyone as just as permanently affixed to the spot as the bookshelves behind them) who were putting on a show of “enjoying” some restful repose inside a great store.
I made eye-contact with the elder and listener as I heard the other one say, “I am done reading theology. I tried for a while but, honestly, just give me Jesus.”
It’s a fairly trite and common assertion among under-achieving wives and over-achieving baptist ministers, so I cannot say for sure whether she was the echo chamber or in earnest. But it called to mind a conversation I had with my mom the other day about church.
Sunday School was the topic, or the setting of the topic. The real topic was the morons who lob terribly uninformed opinions about terribly vague and uninteresting parts of scripture at all comers.
I told my mom, “Remember when Charlie Sheen was in all that drama and his show fell apart? At one point he said, ‘You don’t pay prostitutes for sex, you pay them to leave.’”
“Oh, yeah. I remember. Ugh.”
“Well, with that nature of flip-sided perspective in mind, as I get farther and farther from my time at Seminary, I believe that is how the money part works. If churches aren’t doing it for ya, you finally decide to pay money to try to find meaning in silence. The nicest way of putting this perspective being that seminary students want to be around other people as serious as themselves (calling or no), but the truth (and cynical perspective) is that seminary students want to be around people who are able to keep their mouth shut when they don’t know what they are talking about. And the money has something to do with segregating those two groups.”
Oh Give Thanks Unto the LORD. Six Figures is Enough.
If you happen to run into me while we’re out and about, the conversation—after weather—will likely turn to cost of living. It may be me, it may be you, who brings it up. But if we’re out and about, then we’re probably spending money and so the topic is at hand regardless.
A common refrain you’ll hear me utter, “My whole life six figures has meant, ‘You made it,’ and, ‘That’s a good job.’ But the truth is in 2024, while six figure jobs are still hard to find, it isn’t enough.”
(Forgive me, Father. It is enough is the biblical sense. But you know what I mean. The amount isn’t enough to live like six figures has allowed others to live.)
****
I remember one of the first times I heard six figures was from a knucklehead kid, probably in middle school. He said, “Well your dad makes six figures doesn’t he?”
It seemed like so much money. Six figures.
Most of my time in the Air Force I made six figures but I never knew it. I always guessed I was around $70k for some reason. I think it just seemed so out of reach for a measly military member, and I never really cared about money so I never totaled it up.
****
But something funny happened to me the other day as I had time to consider my life. I support myself and my wife and her son and our two toddlers. (That’s five.) Then, I support my ex wife, her husband, our daughter, and their daughter. (That’s four more, for a total of nine.)
Six figures in 2024 can support nine people, four adults and five kids. Maybe six figures is enough. Maybe I need to shut my pie-hole and stop complaining.
****
For he is good. Yes, he is good.
The White Devil
Now the serpent was more crafty than any beast of the field which Yahweh God had made…And the serpent said to the woman, “You surely will not die! For God knows that in the day you eat from it your eyes will be opened, and you will be like God, knowing good and evil.”
“Come on!” he smiled mischievously, “Come on, just tell me. It’s not like we don’t know the nickname. I just want to know it in your language.”
“Oh, no,” the brown mohammedan said, head-shaking, embarrassed and uncomfortable. “It is not right.”
“Seriously, just tell me. How much have we shared with each other so far? I only want to know it to make people laugh. It’s not like I mean any harm to anyone. It would make me betam yetek’eburu if I could whip out that phrase when appropriate. Ehbakahin? Please?”
The mooslims are different in this respect. They are Old Testament in their belief in the power of utterances. The man wouldn’t budge.
“Oh well. Here comes another,” he said to himself. “Hey!” Pointing back down the hall towards the man he just left, the same smile still on his face, he said, “Abdi there won’t tell me how to say White Devil. How about you? I need it for purely social reasons. Please?”
Stonewalled again, and this time by a Christian no less.
That was six years ago.
Today, he knows the real meaning of White Devil. He had always assumed it had to do with brown people being more “spiritual” on the whole and white people being less “spiritual” on the whole. There also was the ever present, at least in recent centuries, technological advantages inherent to the (renowned as white) West that surely must have bedazzled outsiders into believing them to be derived from the dark arts.
Wrong on both points.
His own culture lauds literacy and learning. The greatest shame is an unexpected and unavoidable public display of illiteracy. If one can’t read, they hide that fact from everyone—and if it happens that they come to a moment when they decide to learn, upon taking that step, the choirs of the West rejoice more joyfully than the heavenly hosts when a new believer is baptized. Who, then, wouldn’t want to learn how to read?
But that is the White Devil describing itself, the White Devil marveling at its reflection in precious stones. As described by illiterate cultures, the ones who are lauded today for having “oral histories”, the White Devil is the absolutely ignorant and unfounded fear of what these cultures do not yet understand.
The truly ignorant are not the West’s unwanted newborns put outside to die by exposure like our own illiterate, no. He now sees that the truly ignorant are Adam and Eve, shortly after getting the boot from the garden. They know something is different. They know there is another power. They know they don’t have the power. And like Adam and Eve, they conclude those that do possess the power must be the enemy, the adversary, ha-satan. Or, plainly, the White Devil. And the only idea that populates the uninhabited landscape of their brain is to tell their children the story of the crafty serpent.
On Baptist Preachers Continuing the Invitation
Not because I can’t or wouldn’t or won’t share the gospel—including asking the question, “Have you decided to follow Jesus?” with my kids, but I really want my family to join me in attending a small-ish Baptist church which still sees the preacher invite the congregation to salvation before concluding the service. “Why?” you ask. “Why, Pete? Why go backwards? Everyone knows that denominations are dying/dead, and never to return. They are a failed experiment. It’s non-denominational, one-church-multiple-campuses-small-groups-for-those-interested-and-no-invitation-messages from here on out.”
I’ll tell you why. And this is close to the heart, so please go easy on me. I want my family to join me at the Baptist church because the invitation is my answer to the infamous “how do you know you’re saved?” zinger of a question.
Many, many Sundays of my childhood and youth, and nearly every time I heard the invitation ever since, Sunday after Sunday after Sunday (if I was in a Baptist church), I knew it was directed specifically to me. I knew I was the sinner. I knew I needed salvation. I knew Jesus was the way, the truth, and the life. Moreover, I knew I couldn’t hide behind anyone, nor did I want to hide. I wanted salvation. Who wouldn’t?
For most of my life, I have not treated this response as anything noteworthy or indicative of eternal spiritual matters. I had accepted Jesus Christ as my lord and savior at a young age and was baptized later on and the rest of these times I chalked up the feeling to “powerful preaching.”
As I have gotten older, as fewer people come forward, I have to say that it seems like most people don’t take the invitation as a literal invitation.
But as a father, I take my young daughter (A- this time, H- in times past) and the two of us sit there, and I imagine what H- and my step-son, both 14 and not present—would think during the invitation. Would they think, “My parents are good (believers), so I am too.” Or, “He’s not talking to me. This is just the end of the service.” Or maybe, “My phone, my phone, my phone, my phone…”?
I honestly cannot imagine them saying, “Uh, I am a sinner. I need Jesus. Dad, what do I do?” in any capacity. Mostly, that just seems in line with the more rare emotions, like achieving a lifelong goal, that I can’t imagine what it might look like. But we all talk such nonsense, so much of the time, that it feels fair for a kid to say, “Oh. You were serious about that? I thought that was just part of the ritual.”
Anyhow, we’ll see what the family decides to do. As for me, I am redeemed by the blood of the lamb, no turning back. So I’ll see you at the Baptist church.
What Exactly Do You Want Me To Do?
“Join me in lifting up these heroes and their families in prayer.”
That’s what Nikki Haley tweeted.
I’m not stupid and I’m not tone deaf. I know that this is the appropriate statement for public consumption after tragedy strikes.
But I am serious and earnestly want to know. It is tragic that Americans are being killed overseas because they’re Americans and I would like to do anything I can to support those who agree that it is a tragedy. So again, what, Mrs. Haley (et al), exactly do you want me to do? Turn agreeable? Blithely nod?
You want me to close my eyes? You want me to close my eyes and bow my head? You want me to talk with my eyes closed and head bowed?
You want me to close my eyes, bow my head, and think thoughts?
You want me to keep my eyes open and look towards outer-space and think thoughts?
You want me to talk to some named, but never seen, invisible being that folks write about, but never see?
You want me to, while thinking about the three dead and dozens injured, speak words in the hearing of others (or no one) that request something of some deceased-but-still-powerful ancestor?
How could I possibly join you if I do not know what you mean?
****
Wouldn’t it be nice if people actually said something that meant something?
Something like, “If, like me, you believe that there is only one god powerful enough to comfort mourners, meter justice, and grant forgiveness, one living god that was, is, and is to come, the King of kings and Lord of lords, that his name is Jesus Christ, then join me tonight, at 8pm EST in reciting the prayer he taught us to prayer.”
Yeah, that’d be something worth posting.
Captain’s Log 