Chip Shots

Without the benefit of knowing the whole story, we are not sure what to think of Strider when first we encounter him. He lurks in the shadows of The Prancing Pony, keenly interested in the Halflings and their songs. It is evident he knows more than he reveals. Is he friend, or is he foe? We are unsure. In time, we learn that Strider is in fact a friend, and will be a trustworthy guide for the hobbits on their journey. His true name is Aragorn, and as the story unfolds we discover there is much more to him than meets the eye. He is the heir of Isildur. He will not always lurk in the shadows. Someday he will take his rightful place as King of Middle Earth. When J.R.R Tolkien first placed Strider in “The Fellowship of the Ring,” he wasn’t quite sure what he would do with him. Although he had already invested twenty months constructing what would become an epic story, only later would Strider, the vagabond Ranger, become the central character in the climax of “The Lord of the Rings.” At th...

It is our twenty-eighth Christmas as a married couple. Twenty-eight freshly-cut Christmas trees. Twenty-eight years of hanging stockings. Twenty-eight Christmas mornings waking up together. In the early days we traveled to someone else’s home for Christmas. But for the most part, Christmas has been our own private family tradition, a blending of the homes we grew up in, as well as those habits unique to our own family. Growing up in Chicago, my wife never had a real tree. Every year her father pulled it out of the basement and plunked it in the living room. Consequently, one of the traditions in our home has been the annual trip to secure a live (or rather, dead) tree. While I once bemoaned the annual expense and the loss to the environment, I have come to enjoy our trees as much as she does. The traditions evolve as our family grows up. In the old days, each kid took a turn being hoisted to the top of the tree to place the star. Nowadays, our boys are taller than me. They joke about h...

Although baseball and football were my passion in high school, I have always enjoyed competitive sports. If it requires skill and a ball, count me in. That is why I was happy to pack my tennis racket when my friend and I went to a summer camp together. He was an avid player, and I was happy to give him whatever competition I could muster. When we headed out to play, however, we were dismayed to discover that the courts were in disrepair. Massive cracks cris-crossed the playing area. Faded lines defined the boundaries. Worst of all, there were no nets. That’s okay, we decided. We’ll just hit the ball back and forth. It will still be fun. Wrong. After fifteen minutes of futility, we gave up and found something else to do. I have often thought about this incident. Why did the game feel so futile? Was it that we could not bear to play without winning? It is a fair question. I have been accused of being overly competitive more than once in my life. But it was more than that. A primary ski...

I’d like to introduce you to some fascinating folks. I wonder if you can recognize them. These people are fanatical about living a good life. Models of personal purity, and careful to live above reproach, they are among the most respected persons in the community. They’re honest, hardworking, and conscientious. They take their spirituality very seriously. They are scrupulous about attendance at religious events. They give generously. They fast regularly. They pray faithfully. They have the utmost regard for scripture. They study it, memorize it, and conscientiously seek to apply it to their lives. They frequently gather to discuss its meaning and its application to their lives. Do you recognize them? Are they Christians? Are they Mormons? Are the Muslims? No. None of the above. They are Pharisees. Are you surprised? Pharisees were one of the most prominent religious sects in Jesus’ day. They were precisely as I described them, distinguished from their peers by their religious sincerity...

Tony had polio. I presume he was one of the thousands of children who contracted the disease during the epidemic in the mid-twentieth century. Like most self-conscious adults, however, I never asked him about it. His right leg was stiff. He walked with a cane. Once I got to know him, I hardly noticed it. His quick humor and keen insight quickly captured my affection. As best I recall, he only spoke about his condition once. We were camping together on the Mogollon Rim. Have you ever noticed that stepping out of the world of asphalt and concrete, and into the world of trees and cool breezes opens your heart and clears your mind? It refreshes the spirit like a dive in a pool on a sweaty hot day. Anyway, Tony and I were having one of those philosophical discussions that typically emerge in such settings. He was an avid reader and excellent teacher; I always enjoyed our conversations. I related to him a discussion I had with another friend of mine, who a hard time accepting the existence o...

I have always loved Thanksgiving. I don’t know if it is the mild climate, the scrumptious turkey, the fall football, or the family gatherings – I’ll take them all! Growing up in Lake Havasu City, we’d squeeze the whole family, Mom and Dad, three boys and our little sister, into the ’69 Rambler wagon. Our goal was to reach Phoenix and my uncle’s Moon Valley home by noon. Upon entering Wickenburg we knew we were only an hour away. Somewhere near the tiny berg of Surprise, we’d make a left on Bell Road and head toward Phoenix. Other than the section that ran through Sun City, most of it was dirt back then. After arriving, we’d eat dinner somewhere during the end of the Lions game and the beginning of the Cowboys game. I hate to admit it now, but there were few options in Arizona back then: I was a Cowboys fan. Of course, God was a fan, too. The open domed stadium gave him a ring-side seat to cheer on his favorite coach and quarterback, the equally devout Tom Landry and Roger Staubach. Aft...

The picture commanded a torrent of memories. How old was she? Twenty-five, he guessed. He remembered those blue jeans like yesterday. High on the waist, loose at the hips, straight down the leg, folded at the ankle. Her waist-length golden brown hair rested casually over her shoulders, nesting on her tan knit vest and short-sleeved shirt. It must have been late summer, early fall. Hoisted upon her waist, in her favorite purple overalls, was their two-year-old daughter. They waved to the camera in the phony style of a princess on the back of a convertible. They both sported an impish grin. He had forgotten how bald his daughter had been. Still, no one ever mistook her for a boy; her beautiful eyes gave her away even as an infant. She stood in the kitchen of the country farmhouse where they lived while he was in graduate school. Linoleum flooring, Formica countertops, painted cabinets -- he loved that home. He smiled as he thought of its crooked floors. What a time he had jimmying ...

In the movie "Shawshank Redemption," Red speaks about Brooks, his beloved inmate friend. After a lifetime in prison, he was released -- only to take his own life. He couldn’t live on the outside. “Brooks is just institutionalized," Red mused. This is the sad state of many Christ followers. We have been “institutionalized.” Set free from the sentence of death, we have never learned how to live. Our lives lack joy, passion and peace. Sins continue to imprison us. We circle our wagons and decry the sad state of affairs on the outside. Like the sincere but misguided saints in "Babette's Feast" we are content to wait out their days until Jesus returns. We are institutionalized, and we like it that way. Another of my favorite movies is "The Dead Poet’s Society." John Keating is the new teacher a stuffy private school. In his first class meeting he asks his students to read aloud the introduction of their poetry textbook. After they have done so, he dema...

All right, brothers and sisters, it’s time for some straight talk. If you are serious about following Jesus, you will be active in a local church. Otherwise, you are only playing pretend. Period. The idea that you can follow Jesus without being part of a local fellowship of believers? Forget it. It’s not in the Bible. I’m not saying you’re not a Christian. I’m not questioning your faith. I am saying you ought to be in a church. What we self-absorbed, Lone Ranger-type, pick yourself up from the bootstraps, individualistic, consumer-driven Americans often forget is this: Jesus didn’t just die to rescue individuals; he died to create a new community. Whether you like it or nor, when you committed your life to following Jesus, you became part of a family. Other than that famous thief who died on a cross – and he had a pretty good excuse – there is no hint, not even a whisper, of anyone who followed Jesus without being part of a local gathering of Christ-followers. “Love one another. Admon...

James had a problem, and it was about to split the church. The good news was that hundreds of new people were beginning to follow Jesus. The bad news was that they were not the right kind of people. No one doubted their sincerity. No one questioned their devotion. However, their habits were disgusting. Their hygiene was despicable. Their respect for the traditions which had birthed their faith? Deplorable. Most people wanted them to clean up their act before being welcomed as bona fide church members. After all, for generations a definite separation had existed between them, affirmed and perpetuated by both sides. It was hard enough to accept them at all – couldn’t they at least clean up a little? A church meeting was called to resolve their differences. Respected leaders from around the country arrived to state their case. For several hours, James carefully listened to both sides. “The same God who sent Jesus gave us the rules of our behavior. God is not inconsistent. These new belie...

Watching Cleveland in the playoffs is a huge memory jolt. In a story I’ve recorded here previously, my ten year old son and me had the privilege of attending a World Series game there in 1997. It was a gift from Major League Baseball – a prize I won when my wife entered me into a contest while we attended an Arizona Fall League game in Scottsdale. All I had to do was throw a strike between innings of a game. It took me two tries, but I did it, and three days later we boarded a plane for Cleveland. As you might imagine, it was the experience of a lifetime. Die-hard fans may recall that it was the coldest World Series game in history, even boasting a light skiff of snow. Despite the last-minute purchase of a blanket in Cleveland, we were embarrassingly unprepared for the cold weather. The kind gentleman next to us bought my son a cup of hot chocolate. Cleveland fans went home happy with a convincing victory. Bryan Anderson and Matt Williams, soon to join the fledgling Diamondbacks franch...

Writing during a period of philosophical and spiritual upheaval in Russia in the latter nineteenth century, Fyodor Dostoevsky brilliantly depicted the futility of a world view which marginalized God. I first read him as a young college student. Wading through “The Brothers Karamazov,” my primary motivation was to complete the weekly reading requirement as painlessly as possible. Only later did I realize the brilliance of his portrayal of the three brothers, the spiritual Alyosha, the sensual Dmitri, and the intellectual Ivan. Each one, in his own way, was responsible for their father’s murder. A Christian himself (admittedly, not a perfect one, like you!), Dostoevsky was once challenged to write a novel expressing the results of Christian worldview in contemporary culture. His classic novel, “The Idiot,” is the result. The protagonist’s name is Prince Myshkin, an epileptic who represents the ways of Jesus in the world. In many ways, Prince is too good for the world. Unerringly loving, ...

On the one hand, my editor wants this article by a certain date and time. She wants to make sure that everything fits, that nothing is objectionable, that all the words are spelled correctly, and that obfuscation is eschewed. I have no problem with that. In fact, I am grateful someone is willing and able to correct my mistakes before they become public knowledge. If only that were the case for the rest of my life! But this week is different. There are more important issues at stake. As much as I’d like to, I simply cannot turn this article in on time. I must make sure I do not offend the baseball gods. Everyone knows that you cannot tempt fate. If you are so brash as to make assumptions about what will happen next, sure enough, the baseball gods will come crashing down to exact vengeance. So as much as I’d like to meet deadline, I just can’t. If I dare to write as if the Diamondbacks had reached the postseason before it actually happens, it most definitely will not happen. And it will ...

Ivan gave his brother a penetrating look. “The question is this: is freedom a gift or a curse?” “Are you serious? Of course it’s a gift!” The provocative question unnerved Alvin. Why would anyone question the value of freedom? “Be careful what you wish for,” Ivan cautioned. “For if you embrace the gift of freedom, you can no longer blame God for evil. You can’t have it both ways.” Alvin was incredulous. “Wait a minute! How does freedom let God off the hook?” This was a sensitive issue for both of them. They had lost their sixteen-year-old sister to a drunk driver ten years ago. Traveling home from a football game, someone crossed the center lane and killed her. Alvin had been angry at God ever since. “Either God was not powerful enough to stop her death, or he was not loving enough to prevent it,” Alvin contended. “Either way, count me out.” And so he had. “No joke. Are you serious? Is there really a connection between freedom and evil?” Alvin asked. “Let’s suppose, for example, that y...

Milton Bradley was miffed. Not the company that makes the games. The athlete who plays the games. That Milton Bradley. Baseball players have some of the strangest names. What other sport can claim someone who is a toy-maker (Milton Bradley) and a breakfast cereal (Coco Crisp)? Anyway, Milton was miffed. “Strike Three!” said the umpire. Milton didn’t think so. He remained in the batter’s box, staring down the umpire. Moments passed. Finally the umpire had enough. “You’re outta here!” (I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone thrown out of a game without saying a word.) Bradley headed to the showers. The game continued without him. Milton Bradley is a temperamental ballplayer. Those of us who follow baseball can name several famous incidents involving his out-of-control antics. In comparison, this episode was a minor incident. All of which leads to an interesting question: why did Milton Bradley, despite his objections, acquiesce to the umpire’s edict? Why did he accept a call he disagreed ...

We didn’t know any better. After all, what kid would question the opportunity to go play at a friend’s house? “I’m going to drop you off at so and so’s for a while. You boys play while I go shopping,” Mom said. “Does that sound like fun to you?” What’s not to like about that? After all, these were the days (please don’t call Child Protective Services) when it was fairly common for Mom to leave us three boys in the car while she bought groceries. (Not that I recommend it, mind you!) Even so, playing at a friend’s house beats shopping any day of the week. (Come to think of it, that’s still true.) She dropped us off, we played together, she came back, and we went home. End of story. A week later all three of us had the chicken pox. Why would Mom play such a sinister trick on us? Why would she deliberately expose us to disease? Because she knew that this short-term childhood pain would result in long-term physical health. Moms have a way of knowing such things. I often wear a T-shirt that ...

Eschew Obfuscation. Two words, bold white letters, light blue background. I saw them on a poster while studying in my high school library. Eschew I thought I knew; obfuscation was unclear. Ever inquisitive, I looked it up in the dictionary. Thirty years later, I have forgotten neither it nor the ironic library poster. In an effort to eschew obfuscation, then, let me be perfectly clear: the key to Christianity is found in your honest answer to this question, “Who is Jesus, and how will I respond to him?” Jesus is a universally admired figure. Virtually every religion or spiritual belief system acknowledges his life and teachings. Many consider him a prophet, a visionary, a great teacher, a worthy example. Christians acknowledge these things. But we go a significant step further: we believe Jesus was God Incarnate. Jesus was unique in all history: no one like him before or since. He was fully human and fully divine. He died, was buried, rose from the dead, is still alive, and will someda...

Some people swear because they are angry; others swear because they are stupid. That at least is my opinion. I state it merely for shock effect, for calling someone stupid is practically the same as swearing at them. Angry swearing I can understand. I can see why, for some, “shoot!” just doesn’t capture the moment of frustration. For my part, the guilt of saying something unseemly would outweigh the satisfaction in saying it. Ned Flanders would be proud. Mindless swearing is simply … mindless. It’s the kind used so commonly that it loses all meaning, the kind that merely evidences a lack of vocabulary, the kind that loses all sense of propriety in a public place. I encountered it while traveling home from vacation yesterday. We stopped into Arby’s for a bite to eat. The gentleman in front of me, and I don’t dare try to publish the words he used, was frustrated because the person across the counter didn’t catch his order the first time. In edited form he said, “Isn’t there an American w...

In her novel, Death Comes for the Archbishop , Willa Cather crafts a fascinating portrait of a nineteenth century Jesuit priest. Born and bred to a scholar’s life in France, Father Latour served instead in the obscurity of the wild and woolly New Mexico Territory. He battled harsh conditions, primitive superstitions, and renegade priests while building a thriving diocese in the greater southwest. Now retired, he enjoyed a life of repose in his desert hideaway, the fruit of a long and productive ministry. Unfortunately, due to bad weather and an ill-timed trip, he picked up a terrible, hacking cough. Calling his loyal assistant to him, Father Latour asked him to secure permission from the current Archbishop, his successor, to return to his old study for a few days. It is apparent that Father Latour believes he does not have much longer to live. His assistant is happy to oblige but says to the aged Father, “You should not be discouraged; one does not die of a cold.” Cather’s text continu...

Let’s just say it wasn’t a good day. The beautiful monsoon storm that dumped 1 ½ inches of rain in Cave Creek? I loved it, but my septic tank certainly did not. It will cost me several thousand dollars to have it fixed. Ouch! I feel like suing somebody. I am really angry to be put in this situation after less than a year in my brand new home. In times like these, my Christian faith is decidedly inconvenient. I rather wish I had no conscience. I want to lash out, to make threats, to rant and rave. I see people do it all the time and it doesn’t seem to bother them. Why should I be any different? That little voice inside my head, the one that says, “Be careful, Steve. You don’t want to go there” – you know that voice, don’t you? – it drives me crazy. I wish it would just go away. But it doesn’t. So I fork out money I do not have to pay for problems I did not create. And it makes me mad. Does that ever happen to you? I suppose it does. In times like these, I derive a lot of help from the r...

It was 4:30 in the morning. I was driving down Cave Creek Road. Half asleep, I balanced a hot cup of coffee in one hand and the steering wheel in the other. I was traveling 62 miles per hour. I know, because that’s what the officer told me. He also mentioned that I had neglected to signal when changing from the left to the right lane. He gave me a little piece of paper to remind me never to do it again. As you might expect, I wasn’t too pleased. Are we ever? I suppose it’s therapeutic, but I’ve been musing (and commiserating) about this experience for a few weeks now. Why do we need speed limits? Why do we blatantly violate them? And why are we so offended when we get caught? What does it say about human nature? I can name that tune in one word: Depravity. Or two: Original Sin. I know these are not very popular ideas today. We prefer to think that humans are inherently good. We like to believe that self-centeredness is the result of poor upbringing, or poor education, or poverty, or su...

Tamar. Rahab. Ruth. Bathsheba. Mary. These extraordinary women are members of an exclusive club, one usually reserved for men: they are listed in the Bible as ancestors of Jesus (Matthew 1). You might imagine that these women had to be pretty special to be included in the official record of Jesus’ lineage. And they were. But not for the reasons you might expect. For example, Tamar got on the list by disguising herself as a prostitute. She did this to trick the father of her dead husband into having a baby by her. She succeeded; the resulting child became one of Jesus’ early ancestors. (The boy’s name was Perez. His father and his grandfather were the same man!) And Rahab? Whereas Tamar only pretended to be a prostitute, Rahab made a career of it. She left her wayward ways behind before she became one of Jesus’ grandmothers, but she never lost the nickname, “Rahab the Harlot.” Perhaps even more startling is the trait that Rahab shared with her future daughter-in-law, a woman named Ruth....

What responsibility does a Christ-follower have toward the government? If you think this is a difficult question in today’s arena, consider the quandary for believers in first century Rome. They had no rights, their government had no conscience, and their religion was virtually illegal. What was the appropriate Christian response to such a godless government? The answers were not easy then – and they are not easy now. At the risk of oversimplifying a complicated question, may I offer a few suggestions? Among other things, I have found it helpful to hold two complementary principles in dynamic tension. Like twin ends of a pole, keeping them in balance has helped me walk the tightrope of Christian conscience in the face of competing political viewpoints. In the first case, for example, we are to respect the authority of the state. “Everyone must submit himself to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established” (Romans 13:1). No doubt, these wer...

Among other things, I am a substitute teacher. Most of my time is spent at public schools. I rather like it, to be truthful. I hear all manner of profanity, see all states of dress, encounter every level of interest, and receive every shade of respect. “Whaddup, Dog?” when I call the roll, is my favorite. Recently I was invited to substitute at a Christian school. You might think it would come naturally to a pastor, but I found it a rather other-worldly experience. Bible is a standard subject at the school I visited. It was my first opportunity to teach it outside the church setting. In my week with sixth graders I taught the book of Ruth (a favorite of mine), as well as the rise and demise of King David. I was amazed at how much the students already knew about the Bible. Most of them were familiar the rudiments of Ruth’s adventure with Boaz and David’s misadventure with Bathsheba. Some of them even knew about David’s kindness toward Mephibosheth! In contrast, I was once asked to give ...

After a while she got used to her situation. But she never got used to the stares. In time, she forgot about her misshapen body. But whenever someone’s eyes averted after meeting her own, she remembered. That’s when she realized that her condition was more than a daily nuisance. She was a public eyesore, a person to be avoided. People viewed her with pity or revulsion, or both. She was on the outside looking in. Her crooked back was not just uncomfortable for her; it made others uncomfortable around her. So she learned to cope. She tried not to stick out. She entered late, stayed in the background, and left early. Word spread that a local celebrity was returning to her small town. As anxious to see him as everyone else, she slipped into the meeting unnoticed. He paused for a moment, looking intently at her. Or was it her imagination? “Woman, come here,” he said. Attention was the thing she feared most. Did he really mean for her to stand up in front of all those women and men? Tremblin...

My grandmother’s name was Ruth. I always thought she was the best grandmother in the world, but then, you probably thought the same thing. Born in the Netherlands and reared in the Michigan, she bore all the stereotypical characteristics of her Dutch ancestry: obsessively clean, famously frugal, affectionately reserved, and religiously devout. Whenever we visited I saw her and Grandpa enjoy coffee, read from the Bible and a devotional book, and pray together. Every single morning. As an adult, I remember asking her, “Grandma, how many times have you read the Bible through?” She said, “Oh, I don’t know. Our church had a campaign called Read it through in ’62 . I’ve read it every year since then, but how many times before that, I can’t recall.” I helped her wash dishes when I was five or six years old. She said, “Steve, say the books of the Bible for me.” When I told her I couldn’t, she was alarmed. “Well then, we’d better get started. Three sets of books begin with the letter ‘T’: The...

Karen went to work just like she always did. She kissed her husband good-bye, wiped the dew off the windshield, and made the twenty-minute drive to Oklahoma City. She arrived in her office around 8:30. At 9:02 a.m., a rental truck blew up on the curb outside, killing her and 167 others. It was April 19, 1995, the date of one of the most horrific crimes in our history: the bombing of a federal building by an American citizen. Karen was my cousin. I vividly recall the moment, exactly twelve years ago, when I learned she was one of the victims. It’s not something I like to talk about, even now. Karen was the youngest of five girls, daughters of my father’s sister. My brothers and I were always proud of our beautiful and athletic cousins. Between the four kids of our family and the five kids of theirs, we enjoyed some fantastic volleyball games in their front yard. Time spent at their rural home in Midwest City is among our family's treasured memories. Now she is gone, the victim of a ...

Substitute teaching is one of the things I do to support my church habit. It’s been, if you’ll pardon the pun, quite an education. Take today, for example. I write these words on Maundy Thursday, the evening Jesus shared the Last Supper with his disciples. In a minor nod to the fading influence of Christianity in America, it’s also the end of a four-day school week for students. I’m subbing for a high school science teacher. While students casually attempt their worksheet on flatworms (we both know it’s just busy work), I pick up on an interesting conversation at the back of the room. “What do bunnies and eggs have to do with Easter?” a guy says. A girl in the next row replies, “They’ve got nothing to do with it. Easter is about the resurrection of Jesus from the dead.” “I don’t believe that story,” another girl volunteers. “I think they just made it up. Didn’t they find his bones somewhere?” I couldn’t resist. “No, they didn’t. It’s one of the reasons people are convinced it was true....

What is it that separates the ethical advice of the Bible from that of other forms of spirituality, or, for that matter, Dr. Phil’s counsel on television? After all, don’t most religions and self-help books generally say the same thing? At first glance it might appear to be so. However, the difference is not so much in what they say, but in the foundational truths that support their ideas. For example, a book might encourage you to cultivate a positive self esteem, to refuse to be bitter about your past, to believe the best will happen even if things look gloomy. These are all good advice. A religious or spiritual teaching may encourage you to accept others, to be a giver rather than a taker, to honor your marital vows. Again, excellent counsel. But what is the basis, the foundation, the root of all this helpful instruction? Is it valid simply because we think it’s a good idea, or is there a deeper basis? More to the point, how am I to manufacture these good attitudes and habits when e...

As a child, I loved Bible stories. Who wouldn’t be enchanted by the little guy beating the big guy in David vs. Goliath? The scriptures are chock full of stories like that: shipwreck and adventure, adultery and murder, passion and lust, conquest and failure. It’s fascinating reading, really. But you wouldn’t know that by visiting most churches on a Sunday morning. It seems we preachers view these Bible stories only as repositories for “principles” and “promises.” Like scientists working on a cadaver, we dissect the text, extracting tips and techniques for congregational consumption. If we can’t turn a story into three points and a practical conclusion, we haven’t any use for it. In so doing, we often obscure the very truth we seek to proclaim. For God works in a full palette of colors, not simply black and white – no matter what we’d like to believe. Life is a story, not a formula. It is not tidy; it’s complicated. It’s got rough edges. You can’t reduce life to principles and promises...