Chosen, Blessed, Broken, Food for the World

From Henri Nouwen:

"When Jesus took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to his disciples, he summarized in these gestures his own life. Jesus is chosen from all eternity, blessed at his baptism in the Jordan River, broken on the cross, and given as bread to the world. Being chosen, blessed, broken, and given is the sacred journey of the Son of God, Jesus the Christ.

When we take bread, bless it, break it, and give it with the words "This is the Body of Christ," we express our commitment to make our lives conform to the life of Christ. We too want to live as people chosen, blessed, and broken, and thus become food for the world."

The Simple Way, The Fire, and Hope

On June 20th, my birthday, while we ate cake and celebrated my 49th year on this planet in Southern California, a tragic event occured in one of the poorest neighborhoods of Philadelphia, the City of Alleged Brotherly Love.

A devastating fire occurred in the neighborhood of The Simple Way, a community of Christian folk, who have chosen to live out their faith by following Jesus as found in John 1. I think these idealistic folk may have a lot of very good ideas about building communities of faith, even though they style their hair slightly differently than I do (like if I had any hair to be styling!).

To support the effort to rebuild this community of hope, go here. To find our more about the Simple Way and its ideas, go listen to this. You will need an hour, but it is worth it. Watch the video of the fire and aftermath below. Your heart will be happy you did.

787 Dreamliner Debute

I have always loved to fly. Perhaps its because I grew up hearing storied of flight from my Dad, who was a B17 pilot in World War II.

Today was the debute of the Boeing 787 Dreamliner. Its looks completely unique, from the curved wingspan, to the open cabin, to the cutoff engine cowlings. I am psyched!

And check out this about the interior:

And oh my gosh, check out the flight deck:

A Day of Celebration, A Miracle, and a Responsibility

Day off work. A parade through the center of town. Red, white, and blue bunting. A barbecue. Fireworks.

But so much more. Its the 4th of July. Two hundred and 31 years ago, the Declaration of Independence finished with this paragraph:

"We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these united Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States, that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. — And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of Divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor."

To me, the formation and sustaining of this nation for all these years is at once a miracle and a responsibility. May I do my part to maintain the responsibility.

Pastor KC, A Journey Filled With Hope

When I wonder if God really can change people's lives, I have one direction I can point to with great confidence. Northwest. That is the point on the compass from my house to where Pastor KC Wahe lives.

Some 20 years ago, I met KC, who at that time, was one of the high school kids at my church. I did not meet his family, in fact, I never did. That is because his family was struggling with many issues, including alcohol and drugs. KC told me recently that he was recently overwhelmed when one of his boys, after an otherwise ordinary trip to the supermarket, told him that the family refrigerator was too full to hold any more food. KC then related how he, as a boy of his son's age, mostly remembered opening his own fridge as a child, and finding only an old jar of mustard, and lots of beer.

And now, he is a Princeton Seminary grad, and is pastoring a wonderful church in Little Rock, near Palmdale, amidst the rocks and cactus of the southern California high desert. This is not an American journey from rags to riches, but it is a journey from hopelessness to a place and time filled with hope. This is not a mega church in terms of numbers, but it is mega in terms of love, grace, mercy, and Christian community. I have been there, and I like those people!

What made the difference for KC? Why not more beer, a little apartment in Hollywood, and a downward spiral of life, just like others in his family? I think I might know why; I watched it happen. Relationships. Love. Involvement. People being there for KC. Christian community. Matter of fact, just like what God might be building in Little Rock.

I am thankful for my old friend KC today.

IPhone Day, Spoiled Kids, and a Yawn

Yesterday shall forever go down in history as IPhone roll out day. Although I am somewhat of a techno-geek, please pardon me while I don't wet my pants in hysteric anticipation.

My office is in Old Town Pasadena, and some 15 year old kid from La Canada has been waiting in line to get his phone for two days now. Fifteen? Where did he get the $500 from? Oh, wait, Mom is in line with him. Can you spell "indulged child"? But then again, perhaps this child will avoid therapy later life because his Mom shared his interests in life with him when he was young.


However, I am encouraged that Jesus still outranks the IPhone, over the long haul. Click the image to enlarge.


This video sums up all the hysteria.....with great humor. HT to Julie

Teens, Text Messages, Connecting

I have a confession. I get bored in church meetings. And waiting for planes. Standing in line at Starbucks.

Another confession. I love my wife and daughters more than I ever thought possible. And so, when I get bored in church meetings, or when I am waiting at a stop light, or when I am waiting for a flight at the airport, I text message my girls.

My friend Julie has some interesting insight into this phenomenon that I think bears a look see.

My take is that anything that keeps me connected to my family, that keeps some form of communication open between us, is worthy of consideration. I shall continue texting....and keep the lines of communication open.

Chaperone

I have two daugthers. I am going to get me one of these babies.

Transpac and the Morning Light Project

<< Click to enlarge.

July 9th is the annual start again of the Transpacific Yacht Race, and this year Roy Disney will be creating a motion picture of the experiences of one crew. This is reality film-making as it was meant to be.

From Los Angeles to Honolulu, 2,225 miles. The open Pacific. Annoyingly calm waters, and 20 foot downwind swells.

The Transpac race has a bit of place in my life, as two of my cousins crewed on boats in the race during the 1970's. I will be watching this film project, and the race with great interest.

For more, go to The Morning Light Project, click on "The Transpac Race", and then click on "Movie Clip".

The Transpac. Now that is life abundant!

Can I Be Young At Heart, When I Grow Up?

Today is my 49th birthday....

I ditched work early, came home, and hung out by the pool. This song came on the radio; I remember hearing it as a kid.....it's true:

Frank Sinatra - Young At Heart Lyrics
(G.Leigh, J. Richards)
[Recorded April 29, 1963, Los Angeles]

Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you
If you're young at heart
For it's hard, you will find, to be narrow of mind
If you're young at heart

You can go to extremes with impossible schemes
You can laugh when your dreams fall apart at the seams
And life gets more exciting with each passing day
And love is either in your heart or on its way

Don't you know that its worth every treasure on earth
To be young at heart
For as rich as you are its much better by far
To be young at heart

And if you should survive to 105
Look at all you'll derive out of being alive
Then here is the best part
You have a head start
If you are among the very young at heart

Father's Day and Speaking in Portuguese

Sunday was Father's Day. We barbecued, and my oldest girl made the most amazing onion rings on the planet, I swear.

Being a father ranges the entire spectrum of emotions; from near vessel-bursting anger to teary-eyed sentimentality. Pain and joy, all rolled together. In my case, it seems like I experience both of these emotions on an almost daily basis.

Recently, I have been learning new things about my role as a Dad that I did not understand before. I was having a great conversation with a wise friend about parenting recently. I was musing about how sometimes I feel like I cannot have a decent conversation with my daughters, and how sometimes, it feels we are not connecting at all. They are 13 and 16, mind you, so this is tough work.

As most Dad of teenagers know, my name became a two-syllable word when my girls turned about 11 years old....from Dad - to Da - aad! Oh, that, and my IQ dropped about 100 points. I am now Frankenstein.

So, I learned something. I speak English, and much of the time it feels as if my daughters are speaking, well, Portuguese. When I was a kid, they called it "The Generation Gap". But I think it is not a phrase, or a phase, or a problem. I think it is a disconnect. And one that is largely of my doing.

More soon.....

Ruth Bell Graham 1920-2007

Ruth Graham passed away today. I feel a sense of loss.

My first thought was that Ruth spent much of her life alone. Alone raising babies as Billy traveled the world. Alone with teenagers, while Billy met with dignitaries. Alone. With five kids, alone with her thoughts. And then, after the kids were raised, again, alone. Billy kept on travelling. Alone. And yet, with Jesus there.

And now, Jesus is with her in a way she could only imagine before.

Ruth Graham lived an abundant life, indeed.

Model Homes, Difficult People, and Staying Put

I like to tour model homes. I have been recently reflecting on why this is so.

Last week, while in Phoenix, I needed to look at some model homes, as a part of my real estate consulting work. I spent the better part of two hours touring model tract homes, in part to understand things like product placement, new home absorption, and market behavior. This is some of the stuff I do at work.

As I went through my day, I found myself thinking that I really like to do this model home touring thing. Maybe I am partly voyeuristic, in an odd way. Partly I am amused by how perfect everything is presented to be. In model homes there are never any scuff marks on the baseboards or walls, no magazine fashion pictures taped to bedroom doors, like at my house of teenage girls. All the appliances are shiny and clean. No stains in the kitchen sink, or crumpled tortilla chips on the floor, fresh from the last kid attack of the snack cabinet. The perfect collection of farm tshatshke or modern Spanish decor to match the tiles and flooring. Nothing is out of place.

And then there are the upstairs. The bedrooms and bathrooms. The ideal collection of seaside trinkets happily arranged around the bathrooms. Kids toothbrushes all neatly aligned. A whimsical nautical theme. In the master bedroom, lovely photos on the bedside tables of the well tanned bleach blonde Handsome Family, taken last summer at "the shore" somewhere. Another mystical carefree vacation; not the kind we real world people have, where the teenage kids yell at each other and sulk for hours on end. These Model Home people are so handsome, so happy, so, well, serene and well adjusted.

Its all really made up though, isn't it? None of these homes are inhabited by real people. Well, if they are real people they suffer from a pretty mean case of obsessive compulsive clean-up disorder. Way too neat for reality.

After touring these homes I found myself thinking about the make-believe people whose pictures are scattered about the models. They appear, or look like, or represent the way our funny American evangelical church culture sometimes makes us think we are supposed to be.

There are the Buffingtons, for example, who live in the model aptly named "Nantucket Harbor". Three kids, all skilled at snow skiing; one in college, and the two younger siblings in honors classes at Marlborough Academy for the Privileged. Phil Buffington is an investment banker, and his wife Jill is a neurosurgeon. And then, next door, residing in the model "Seaside Slumber" are the Farnsworthys - Jack, Susan, and the kids, Audrey and Trey. This family loves to vacation in Newport Cove, where they spend their summer hours sailing on the grandparents sailboat. No one in their family ever got cancer or had a divorce. The kids are in nothing but honors classes.

Oh, and if we listen to some parts of our church culture, we would believe that the model home people are also Perfect Christians, too. They never fight in their model homes. The parents have read all the Victorious Parenting books, and their children are so well behaved. Lovely, isn't it? Why can't we be like them?

And then, there are the rest of us. Ordinary people. Messy lives, unfulfilled dreams, unfinished business. Unkempt hair, cavities. Oh, and our churches look like that too! Messy, unkempt, unlovely.

As I drove back to the Phoenix airport, I reflected on my non-model home life. I thought about the disordered, confusing, sometimes unpleasant ways things happen in my world. I thought about church committees I have been on, sometimes with people that make me nutty, talking for hours about things that don't really seem to be that important. I remembered the difficult people.

And then, as I swerved to avoid a speeding tow truck on the freeway, took a deep breath, and gave silent thanks to God for my life, I thought again. I like my life, and I am thankful for my sometimes disheveled, bewildering, non-model home faith. And church.

I am not moving to the model homes. I am staying put.

Can I Please Go to "Big Church"?

We Need Therapy

Still Looking

I Haven't Found What I Am Looking For

We Christian folk often like to boast that, through our clean and shiny faith, we have found the final answers to all of lifes stress and problems.

We have happy, smiling lives, free from pain, free from struggle. We are victorious. We even make more money than most, because we subtly belive that God is blessing us. And if we do have "challenges", they are short lived and have a happy ending.

To this I say, baloney.

If my almost 49 years have taught me much of anything, it is that the struggle, the striving, the searching, in many ways, never stops. Its unavoidable. Its life. And guess what else? Following Jesus often makes the journey harder in some ways. A friend of mine wisely says that the Christian life is "living life on purpose, not just letting it happen to you". She is right. We have a dear friend who lost her battle with cancer several years ago. Her death was brutal, unpleasant, and not like a happy ending to a movie. She knew Jesus better than just about anyone I know, and she did not go peacefully. It was very messy.

We likely won't even find the perfect setting in which our faith can grow and be nurtured, with all the dials adjusted perfectly to our own wants and needs. In this regard, I often feel like a Presbyterian Catholic Baptist Emergent Post Evangelical Nondenominational Episcopalian, or something similar. I often feel confused, like I am a couple blocks from home in a dream, and can't quite make that last turn around the corner that gets me back.

And so, I have not yet found the perfect church setting. I am attracted to many things across the Christian spectrum, from the ancient liturgy of the Catholics, to the focus on the Eucharist of the Episcopalians, to the get-you-all-wet-because-you-really-mean-it dunking of the Baptists. I often find myself repelled by the Committee-centric mindset of my own dear Presbyterians, and yet I love the open way that people from my own tradition love others, regardless of where they have come from.

I am tired sometimes of the only "getting you saved" mentality of many evangelicals, but many of my best friends and most admired role models come from there. It seems to me that Jesus had much more in mind for his Kingdom than "getting people in". He wanted to come and live with them, everyday. How intrusive!

And so, you see, I still haven't found what I am looking for. Its ok, though. I am on the way there. I just wanted to take a minute and be honest. My life is no less messy than yours. Just providing full disclosure.

Next, why I am staying where I have been put, and why need to love the messy people God has placed me with....

Still Haven't Found What We're Looking For

U2 wrote a song:

I believe in the Kingdom Come
Then all the colours will bleed into one
Bleed into one.
But yes, I'm still running.

You broke the bonds
And you loosed the chains
Carried the cross of my shame
Oh my shame, you know I believe it.

But I still haven't found
What I'm looking for.

Here is what I am thinking these days.

These words are both antithetical to just about everything that I have become and am becoming, and at the same time, describes me quite well. If you like your life neatly defined, do not read on. I have found life to be very messy, so get ready to have me define some of my mess for you, and for myself.

I HAVE found What I Am Looking For

In my senior year at UCLA, my life seemed without reason. For 21 years, there had been a voice in my head which wondered what the heck was the point of life? Why was I here? What was my purpose on this planet? What was I to become? Why did relationships with women never work out? What was my carer to be? What would life after college look like?

In the midst of this wondering, and over the course of a year or so, in a story that is a bit long to repeat here, the words and life of Jesus became real to me in a way that was tangible, healing, transforming, and filled to overflowing with meaning. My journey in this Way has changed in many ways over years, but my focus on the beauty, meaning, and mystery of who Christ is has grown deeper in ways I would not have expected. In this way, I have found what I am looking for.

Soon, "I Have NOT Found What I Am Looking For"......

Remembering a Very Good Neighbor

WWFD - What Would Fred Do?

My daughters both loved Mr. Rogers. During their younger years, I often found myself late for work in the morning, because I wanted to linger just a moment or two on the couch and watch Mr. Rogers with my little girls. It was calming, heartwarming, and the most emotionally healthy stuff on TV.

The other night I had the time to watch the DVD of "Fred Rogers: America's Favorite Neighbor". It had been recommended to me by a friend. This is one of the more memorable films I have seen in some time. This is a film that stays with you. It sticks. In your soul.

I will tell you why. Watching Fred Rogers makes me feel just a bit uneasy. Maybe it was because he wasn't assertive or macho enough for our world. But really, I think it is because he was such a completely genuine and kind man, with very little guile. He really did not seem to understand or tolerate sarcasm, the way all of us "modern" people do. Rather, he really believed in everyone he met, and felt that they were each a special miracle, never to be repeated.

He seemed to be emotionally way ahead of his time. He thought about and cared for children in a way that, even today, is quite remarkable. He was altogether kind, gentle, perceptive, and loving.

As I watched more of the program, I started to figure out both why I felt slightly uneasy, and also so very fascinated by this man. There was something else motivating him. Rogers attended both the Pittsburgh Theological Seminary and the University of Pittsburgh's Graduate School of Child Development. He graduated from the Seminary and was ordained as a Presbyterian minister in 1963 with a charge to continue his work with children and families through the mass media. He was ordained to care. To sit on the floor and listen to little kids; to respond and communicate to them love and understanding, sometimes with puppets.

I felt strangely moved because Fred Rogers was motivated by the Gospel, but in a different way that our culture is used to. He did not shout, or color his hair, or write a book about six magic ways to success, or start a big shiny church with his name on the marquee. He did not parade his faith about town, carrying a bullhorn. As I listened to him speak, and the words of the many songs he had written for his television show, I sensed that virtually everything he did and said was motivated by genuine care. A care that is not anything like what our culture is used to. Fred was very counter-cultural. Emergent and missional, if you will.

I would have loved to have known Fred Rogers. I think it would have been a bit like knowing Jesus. Slightly troubling and wonderful, together at the same time.

For the past couple of days, as I recall this great biography I watched, I have been thinking to myself, "I wonder what Fred would do?"

Underwater Fun

May I offer a thought?

I learned several years ago that schools for Down children are starting to take children with other syndromes since Down is becoming so rare. Now that tests can tell so early in pregnancy that a baby has Down, fewer people are choosing to have them.

My heart breaks when I think about what our lives would be like without our friend Molly.

Memorial Day 2007

Coming to the Aid of a Friend

Within the past hour, I have been asked to come to the aid of my college chum Julie. There is a serious crisis affecting her home, a trauma so severe it borders on the cataclysmic. The future peace and harmony of the Bogart family is in jeopardy.

And so, my considerable experience as an amateur family therapist has, once again, been summoned to the rescue of this fine Midwestern family. I also have experience as an amateur sushi chef, but more on that another time.

However, in this instance, my gut tells me that the drama in the Bogart family is far more serious than just family therapy.

Julie and Jon, I am quite concerned what you may have in your home is a demonic possession of Jacob's saxophone, and, more likely, his entire high school band. Pictured above is another unfortunate manifestation of this type of poltergeist. This is not the USC band, but is, in fact, the Smithfield Elementary School of Ottumwa, Iowa in 1997, shortly before the band was exercised of their demonic possession by a trained professional clergy person at the local shopping mall. This event has now become known as "The Iowa Redemption".

There is only way to solve this situation. Tough love, holy water, and heavy construction equipment. May I recommend the Hubbard Construction company for the necessary equipment. Pictured at left is the result of the "band instrument exorcism process".

Julie, I know this may be painful, but there is no other way. Bill Bright would agree. God help you.

My Generation in the Year 2033

We Are All Connected

Arggg...Bible Fight!

Remember those felt board Bible stories in Kindergarten? Several summers ago, my wife and I taught Sunday School together. It was a blast, we had great group of kids.

Every Sunday, without fail, we would unload the plastic bag full of felt board Bible characters, and reenact Biblical history, right there in the classroom. Animals of all sorts, villagers, wise men, the Prophets - all floppying and felt covered. I wanted to add some realism, like bringing in the wet fire control standpipe hose into the classroom, and turn it on to relive the Great Flood. No luck. Fire code and safety violation. Darn rules, darn LAFD!

I have now found, through the unsolicited assistance of a pastor friend, who will remain nameless, a great new teaching tool for kiddos.

Bible Fight, baby. Check it out. It rocks. Now all your favorite Bible characters can duke it out. Ever wonder if Moses could kick Satan's booty? Try this game and find out.

Before your eyes, I have just revolutionized elementary Sunday School everywhere. My modesty is only exceeded by my humility. That is all for now..

Loosing the Bonds of Earth

Several weeks ago, British astrophysicist Stephen Hawking experienced a long sought-after freedom. Freedom from the wheelchair that has bound him for so many years. Freedom from the complete inability to move. Floating, free.

Mr. Hawking had long waited for the chance to float free with Zero G -a commercial weightless flight company. The cost of a normal flight is $3,500, but this flight actually raised $144,000 for charity.

Mr. Hawking, who is arguably one of the greatest scientific minds of the century, is constricted by ALS to a wheelchair, and is unable to communicate without the use of a computer.

After the flight, Mr. Hawking said, through his computer translator, "The zero G part was wonderful, and the high-G part was no problem. I could have gone on and on. Space, here I come!"

I am not sure why this event seems so wonderful and poetic to me. I feel joy and frustration mixed together. Joy of watching a man, so long confined, finally able, if only for a moment, to loose the binds of earth and float free, unfettered. Frustration, in knowing that it will only last for a moment, and soon, Mr. Hawking must return to his still life in a wheelchair. And, I remember my friend Frank.

Why is life like this for this great man? Why is this man, with this amazing mind that has studied and helped to define the cosmos, so held back, so restricted here on earth? I have no idea.

But watching him loose the bonds of gravity is wonderful.

Vodka, Hookers, and Grace

Julie Riggs is one of the people in this photo. I have no idea which one, and it really does not make any difference.

What does make a difference is what this college senior is choosing to do when she is not preparing to graduate from the University of Georgia.

Read about it here. Oh, and read about the Vodka, at the end.

Beautiful and Obscene

A couple of weeks ago, we went to the birthday party of a dear friend, who is turning a significant age marker, which will remain classified. Ok, its 50. A good man, indeed, someone I have known and loved for many years.

The party was held at the home of friends in Corona Del Mar, close to the beach, a lovely setting indeed.

But across the street was this. The Portabello Estate, on the bluffs. For Sale. Yours for only $75 million dollars. Eight bedrooms, 10.5 baths. Bowling alley. Private theater. Pool complete with tube slide. 2,000 square foot master suite. In total, 20,000 square feet.

We walked down to the tide pools with the kids right beside this house. After viewing the web site of this amazing home, I feel two things:

First, attraction. I mean, what a totally cool pad. Imagine the barbecue parties we could throw at this place. Imagine the youth group meetings. Think of all the people we could house at this place. The perfect entertainment house. Beautiful. Stunning. Not a bad pad, man.

The next feeling is one of repulsion. This is American excess at its apex. Too much, too many, too flashy, too expensive. And in a way, this house is obscene. Vulgar. Excessive. Greedy. Self absorbed.

Beauty and obscenity, all in one place.

Bruins Make History

First National Championship - 1950

May 13, 2007 - UCLA Women's Water Polo won the 100th UCLA National Championship. Thirty of those championships were by women.

The most accomplished athletic program in the history of the NCAA. Bar non.

Jackie Robinson, John Wooden, Rafer Johnson, Dwight Stones, Evelyn Ashford, Florence Griffith Joyner, Bill Walton, Kareem, Anne Meyers, Karrie Strug, Lisa Fernandez....the list goes on, and on, and on.

Go Bruins!

Late Night Reflection

One night last week I awoke at 3:00 AM sharp. I have no idea why. I usually sleep through the night with little interruption; a Divine gift to my simple and naive soul, perhaps.

Our family had enjoyed Mexican food the evening before, and lying there in the dark, I realized I was thirsty. After thinking about getting up and heading downstairs for a drink for maybe five minutes, I got up and headed to the fridge, quiet and night all around me.

I am not sure why, but I sat down with my glass of water in the living room by the front window. The house was darkened, it was completely still outside. Only the street lights illuminating the street on this moonless night. All the hurry and rush and static of everyday life was gone. It was if time had frozen, as if this hurried life I lead had, for a moment, been put on hold. Still green trees out the window, soft street lights, and only the sound of my own breathing.

And then, there was another sound. Breathing, but not my own. The soft, rhythmic breathing of Heather, our 13 year old, in the bedroom close to the living room. Deep in REM sleep, lost in a dream place likely far from this quiet night time living room. And then, another soft sound. The soft rolling-over-rustling of her sister, Kelly, now 16, in the bedroom down the hall.

Albert Einstein once said, "A human being is a part of a whole, called by us 'universe', a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest... a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and to affection for a few persons nearest to us. Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty.

May I love well those nearest to me, and create a life that widens its circle of compassion.

I Cook For the Family Sometimes

New Internet Friend

If you look a couple posts down, you will see that I have a new occasional reader of my blog. Greg Lang is an author who lives in Georgia who writes about the amazing bonds between, and importance of, Dads and Daughters. Anyone who has chosen a life of writing for this cause is, in my mind, a good guy!

Greg joins a significant list of regular readers of this blog, which include a genius home schooler, a USC sycophant, a dentist, a pastor who is the descendant of Italian immigrants and loves to make lattes, and about 6 guys in Italy who keep querying my blog about the "average attendance of a papal mass". I am awash in admirers. Greg, you are in good company.

Greg has enjoyed some of my posts about being a Dad of daughters, and might include a couple of my thoughts in his next book project. For more on his work, go see this.

More Cool Missional Stuff

Go here. This is very interesting. I am completely excited! Thanks to my good buddy KC for this tip!

Being 13 - To Do List

Its Saturday. Heather made a list. Here it is.

Click to enlarge. I love my daughter.

My Funky Bunch

Being 48 years old and working at a desk job can sometimes be a bit dull. What to do? Since I cannot get a crewing job on the Time Bandit, I have another idea.

Remember the Rat Pack? I have decided that I need my own personal Pat Pack, or posse, or entourage, also know as a Funky Bunch. The Funky Bunch would be by personal advance team, but also serve as a squad of advisers, confidants, and guys to hang with.

My Funky Bunch would be distinct, and somewhat eclectic; a unique blend of individuals that would hang with me, where ever I go. And so, presented below is a brief summary of those I would choose for my own personal Funky Bunch:

John Wooden: A man of great integrity, and the greatest basketball coach of all time. He would be our personal sports advisor, character and morals leader, and generally wise sage. At 96 years old, he adds need maturity to the Bunch.

Fred Rogers: A lover of children, man of caring and compassion, and ordained Presbyterian pastor. He would be a wonderful advisor, even for a guy with teenage daughters. Its a beautiful day in the neighborhood....what more can I say? I know he is not alive anymore, but I still admire him tremendously.

Eugune Peterson: pastor, theologian, and one of the few guys who has ever snubbed Bono. I think he could read the phone book, and translate it into something profound.

Frank Sinatra: with the Chairman of the Board in your Bunch, you will always have plenty of good tunes around you. And mixed drinks. And large Italian guys.

Mr T: Protection. With this man on board, I pity the foo that messes with us.

Emeril Lagasse: Joy. Enthusiasm in great measure, and great food. Always.

Oh, and one more thing. This would be the Steve Norris Funky Bunch theme song, played when ever we entered a room. Or exited, for that matter.

Where did I get all this from? Go here to find out.

Celebrating Creation

For quite some time now, I have struggled to find words to try to articulate those things that stirs within the depth of my soul. How can you articulate what is deepest within you, and make what you write or say meaningful to others, rather than sounding like another spiritual seeker full of meaningless prattle?

Maybe words are not needed. Maybe words in general are not what is best. Perhaps I should just shut up, and let the Creation speak for itself. And lately, it seems to have been doing a marvelous job, through the remarkable series Planet Earth, on Discovery Channel.

One of my favorite authors is Frederick Buechner, and he wrote something in Longing for Home, that profoundly affected me, because he described so well those fleeting moments I have had in my own journey. In short, Buechner described an otherwise ordinary day at Sea World with his family, in which he had the sense of mind to recognize that it was perhaps God that was behind the wonder of Creation he was a part of.

The Peaceable Kingdom, if you will. The Scriptures tell us it is like this. Take a look!

Down, But Not Out

A Public Confession

I must confess. I can hold it in no longer. In a former career, I was a very hip keyboard player in the Seal Beach area.

This is my second album cover, which followed my first release, which was entitled, "Getting Partially Down".

Pictured here with me is my faithful Labrador mix, aptly named "Whitey". He is now in Dog Heaven.

Signed copies of this album are available for a modest fee. Proceeds go to the Steve Norris Hair Replenishment Fund.

WWII Memories in Tucson

This past week, I was in Tucson, Arizona for work, and was pleasantly surprised to find a reminder of my own father's service to his country.

While driving to a meeting with the Tucson Airport Authority, I spotted signs by the roadway that read, simply "WWII Planes" with arrows pointing the directions to turn.

After several turns, I found myself standing next to the plane my father flew from about 1942 to 1947, they B-17G Flying Fortress. This plane, sitting on the tarmac at the Tucson airport is one of only 15 remainging flying B-17s, from a complete fleet of 12,700 B-17s built during and after the war.

The "Nine O' Nine" is in mint flying condition, and to my glee was completely open for interior inspection. Not a single detail has been missed, and this plane is remarkable to behold, more than 60 years after being constructed. The nose contained a real Norden Bombsight, all the cockpit controls are vintage, with the exception of modern radios, and the waist guns have real ammo clips. Remarkable.

Yesterday, I showed the photos I had taken of my B-17 visit to my Dad, who is now 87. In his near constant state of mild dementia, not a lot makes Dad smile these days. However, my photos brought a big smile to Dad's face, and afterward, a new war story I have never heard before - of flying General Ennis Whitehead from Manila to Kansas City, stopping only for fuel, as they island-hopped through the South Pacific heading east, avoiding tropical storms all the way.

Just imagine it. Being 24 years old, and flying a four engine bomber with a crew of seven around the South Pacific to rescue downed flyers. Its amazing to me. My Dad will always have my respect for his service to our country.

Its Baseball Season in Town

I find this rather sexist. I mean, where are the girls? Did our Lord not like them? In addition, our league will not let you coach in flip-flops.

In Memoriam

Click on the photo....to remember.

We are surrounded with folks like these every day. Take time today to love a friend.

Viginia Tech - How Should We Feel?

Here is a helpful way to begin to attempt to deal with the tragic events of Monday of this week.

Deadliest Catch

Its April, and you know what that means! Baseball season, yes. But even more important, at least for the next couple of weeks, is a new season of "Deadliest Catch" on Discovery Channel.

The series details the journeys of five different fishing boats in the Bering Sea of Alaska, during the annual season for King Crab.

This is documentary TV at its very best. I watched last season religiously, and highly recommend it again this year.

Why do I love it so much? I think I know. Picture this: middle-aged balding white fellow with a relatively mundane office job, sometimes feeling as though his own life is a bit too routine, and musing over his place in life, sits on his family room couch in warm, temperate Southern California, feet up on coffee table. On the TV he is watching a bunch of men about his age and younger, daily risking their lives in the near-freezing Bering Sea. I am vicariously reveling in a life style I would never choose, but nevertheless respect.

And, as I watch, I am reminded of this. An old profession, indeed.

Doonesbury Gets It Right

I usually am bored by Gary Trudeau's humor. Not today. Click to enlarge.

Finding Solitude, Amidst The Rush

Humming. Honking. A rush, a sort of buzz in the distance. Never a quiet moment, a constant under current of noise. Subtle, yet pervasive.

One of the memories that I always have carried with me of New York City, both from our recent visit, and that of many prior trips, is the constant city noise. It is as if you are living in the midst of a gigantic human body; always hearing the noise of blood rushing around you. A massive organism that indeed never sleeps.

These are the sounds of most of our lives. Unrelenting sounds. White noise, in the midst of the constant rush. Come to think of it, my own life is nearly constantly accompanied by sound. The clock alarm awakes me, most days at 6:40 AM to the sound of classical music. From there I enter the shower, listening to NPR as I rinse and repeat. Then on to getting dressed while watching the Weather Channel ("It Could Happen Here!) or MSNBC, if only for a moment. Then off to work with more sound in the car, albeit Pray-as-you-go (which is wonderful). Then to confirm my crazy need for noise, I arrive at my office, where I immediately switch on the classical music again.

I have been like this for nearly every day of my 48.5 years! What happened to quiet? When was it decided that noise rules?

What about the Desert Fathers, and leading a life that learns from the "alone" parts of Jesus life? Where is silence, reflection, solitude? Where have they gone, and why are our lives like this?

Wholeness from Emptyness

It is a mystery and a paradox that from an empty place can come wholeness, healing, life transformed. Two of my friends....both very different fellows, have some very unique ideas relating to Easter.

First, Rob Asghar talks about his thoughts on an empty tomb and reconciliation with his Muslim mother.

And then, Tod Bolsinger has an interesting reply, if you will, to Rob's thoughts about that empty tomb.

My take is this. For far too long, we Christian folk have let the facades and organization of the organized church speak for us. This may be why Rob is so troubled by the way Christianity in the west seems to have been hijacked by politics. Rightly so, Rob! I can't stand this. However, I am not sure abandonment of church is a solution, we need folks like you with your contrarian views. We are not all loons, and you surely know this.

But I do know this, the tomb was empty, is empty, and offers great hope. If we can just carve Jesus loose from the confines of the church and politics, then there is a pure message of Gospel hope.

Christos Anesti!

What's so Good about Friday?

Total loss. Complete dejection. That knot in the pit of your stomach. That sense of dread, of fear, of uncertainty, even about tomorrow.

It's the phone call in the middle of the night that you did not expect. That relationship that seems irreversibly broken, with no possibility to mend.

Holding the hand of a dying parent, with no hope in sight. The inexplicable loss of a child. The end of the road. Ruins.

Last Thursday, I stood at the edge of Ground Zero in New York, the sight of the greatest single catastrophe in our country in the past 50+ years. Even as someone whose job deals with large real estate developments constantly, I was surprised at the scope of it all.

On that September day now more than 5 years ago, the weight of shock and loss in New York was beyond comprehension. This was a depth that seemed insurmountable. In my conversations with New Yorkers this past week, the topic of 9/11 would come up in the natural coarse of conversation; "ever since 9/11", or "since the tragic events of 9/11". 9/11. That is all you need to say. And I detected a momentary pause in the conversations, when the events of that day were, only briefly, recalled. But in that pause, volumes were communicated. All the pain, all the loss, all the despair.

And so, its Good Friday. And what is so good about this day? What is so good about a single purported Jewish mystic loosing his life more than 2,000 years ago? Is it just another death, another loss, more ancient pain, leading to nothing today?

Or might it be more, might it mean so much more. Might it not be the beginning of the most significant turning point in a remarkable mystery?

If you ask New Yorkers how they feel today about the events of the past 5 years, they would like have a million different answers. But I can tell you this, Ground Zero is now fully of cranes, trucks, construction workers shouting at one another, concrete trucks, noise, and the sounds of rebuilding. Its a nearly constant hum, which is the sound that all of New York gives off, 24 hours a day. That is what New Yorkers are, if nothing else. Rebuilders, renewers, movers, shakers; a city that recovers. And they are clearly recovering.

A whole in the ground. Immense, immeasurably, permanent pain. And strangely now, rebuilding, rebirth, renewal.

Maybe Good Friday is really, in the end, Good News.

Oh! The Humanity!

People. Everywhere. Above ground and below it in subway tunnels. Hurtling forward, like the rest of this city. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, millions. Overwhelming. Huge. Massive. All sizes, shapes, ages, nationalities, and every type of mental and emotional disposition. Buildings stacked one against another.

Welcome to New York City, baby. This city defines so many terms; urban, megalopolis, the city that never sleeps, high density development.

Being here for four days leaves me thinking about the way that I view life. I am a Southern Californian, born and raised. I come from the land of the great sprawl, which is the exact opposite of this city, which really is the great compaction, if you will.

After an absence of many years (I used to visit here often in the 1980s), I have come to New York with a new perspective, willing to learn and experience.

Bottom line, I love it here. There is so much to offer; in spite of the crime, the crowding, the noise, it is after all, one of the greatest concentrations of humanity on the planet. I also wonder about the Christ followers here, and what their lives are like. I plan to do some searching around for Manhattan bloggers that I might enjoy reading.

And in a new way, I have been reminded of this. More soon, as time permits. Home to Southern Cal tomorrow.

By the way, we had a blast!

The Big Apple Adventure

Monday morning at Oh-Dark-Thirty, we Norris' are off for four days in New York City, baby!

I hope to blog on my impressions of New York, after an absence of 13 years. Much adventuring with lovely wife and teenage daughters!

Stay tuned.

Shift Happens

I find this....fascinating:

Going Solar in South Pasadena

Last summer, I came home one day to find a $550 electric bill for our home. After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I was on the Internet looking into solar power.

Now, since I am in the commercial real estate business, I am not always the environmentalist NIMBYs best friend. But when it hurts my wallet, I can hug a tree, or sit in one, with the best of them.

And so, we are in the process this week of installing solar panels on the roof of our home. Being pretty much of a geek, I am jazzed about this. Our 5.2 KW system should roughly cut the "carbon footprint" of our home by about 50%. The payoff for the cost of the system should be approximately 8 years, and the internal rate of return of this investment is about 15%, based on current utility rates, and factoring modestly for inflation. I will even have the system report to my PC each day, so I can come home and obsess about my power savings. Matter of fact, now that I have this system, bring ON the global warming, baby!

Take that, Al Gore!

Christ Killer to Christ Follower

This past Sunday, I listened to a remarkable story. One I have heard before, but never grows old. Its the story of the journey of one man's life, of great love and great loss, and of redemption.

My friend Frank was asked to share his "testimony", as we church folk call it, at a meeting of our congregation. We should have all gone home as soon as he was done; nothing else we said or did or voted on afterward seemed to matter after we hear Frank's story.

Frank was born more than 80 years ago, and grew up in a Jewish family. The first time he ever heard of Christ was in Kindergarten, when one of the other kids called him a "Christ killer" on the playground.

Like my own father, Frank enlisted to serve in World War II, and right as the war ended, he married his bride of more than 60 years, Jane. They moved to Southern California and started their life together. Kids came along, and it was time to find a church. Jane came from a Christian family, and they ended up at our church. There, Frank heard the preaching of Ray Lindquist, and heard about Christ in a way he never had before. Soon, Frank found himself at a church retreat, listening to Major Ian Thomas. His life had become changed, permanently.

Frank went on to tell how, after the raising of his family, and being rewarded with success in business and life, along with many grandchildren, "everything seemed to fall apart" in the last couple of years. In the past several years, Frank and Jane have witnessed the death of their oldest daughter Jan, a wonderful wife and mother of a beautiful family of her own. She was too young to die, too full of life and hope and joy. It was brain cancer, and it was not pretty.

And then, at about the same time, Frank found out that he had ALS, Lou Gehrig's disease. There was nothing he could do about it. His body would continue to deteriorate, but his mind would remain completely alert. Just like Stehphen Hawking. Since then, Frank has spend a week in a coma, and in various hospitals for nearly six months. He is back at home now, enjoying mornings by his pool in his wheelchair. Thankful.

Frank spoke to us from his wheelchair, with his breathing controlled by a ventilator. He cannot move at all, and requires nearly constant assistance. And yet, he spoke to us of hope, and love, and God's care for he and his family.

I have always said, I want to be like Frank when I grow up. Thank you Frank, for your story, for your life, and for the joy you still radiate to everyone around you.

From great pain, great faith.