Abusive Evangelism

First of all, let me say I'm glad to be back. (I think!) I would feel more guilty about my two-year hiatus from the blog if I didn't know that nearly all of the bloggers I followed two years ago are still on their own hiatuses...er, hiati? Facebook has managed to steal the wind out of many a blogger's sails. I hope I can remember how to do this.

I probably wouldn't have returned to the blogosphere today if I hadn't gotten a little "negative inspiration" at the gym this afternoon. I'd honestly been dreading sitting down at the keyboard to attempt conjuring up a blog post--mainly because I just didn't think I had anything of substance to write about. That all changed about 3 o'clock today. I knew a simple little Facebook post wouldn't cover it.

It all began, oddly enough, in the shower room. There are 16 men's shower stalls at the gym I go to. When I got ready to clean up after my workout, I discovered that there wasn't a drop of soap in ANY of the bodywash containers. Nada. Sixteen dispensers. All empty. Thankfully I had some Head & Shoulders shampoo with me, so I just converted that into an impromptu zinc-y bodywash.

As I was bathing, I noticed a guy going into a shower cubicle across from me. I smiled to myself as I observed him trying to get some soap out of the dispenser--to no avail, of course. Anyway, he came to the stall next to mine and repeated his attempt, only this time with GUSTO. He was banging the crap out of that dispenser handle. Must have hit it 35 or 40 times. I hope he managed to garner at least a nickle-sized dollop of foam for his efforts--but I doubt it.

After our respective showers, we were dressing in the locker room. I assumed he, like me, was a little annoyed about the soap situation, so I just casually commented, "I can't believe there wasn't any soap today in any of the showers." To which he quickly retorted--loudly--"But we had hot water, didn't we? Lots of it. Ninety per cent of the world's population doesn't have a nice gym like this with so much hot water in abundance." Of course he was totally correct in his observation, but the tone of his comment caught me off-guard. I was suddenly feeling like an Ugly American with entitlement issues.

He then started preaching me a sermon about contentment, etc., including an illustration about his recent shopping spree at a 99-cent store. On that occasion, he was in an aisle with a lady who was reaching for something that was displayed on an overstocked rack. Because the rack was so full, when she tried to remove her item, the whole rack collapsed spilling whatever was displayed all over the floor. He was appalled when the woman "complained" about the display being overstocked. He couldn't get over her audacity of complaining about something so trivial in the midst of all that abundance. He said he'd lived in third world countries where a "store" might have only 5 or 6 things available for purchase, and that "shoppers" in those stores would be overwhelmed by the enormous quantity of merchandise we have at our fingertips.

Again, he was absolutely correct.

But by now, I was really getting annoyed with his preachy condescension. Granted, my frustration about the absence of shower soap and the overabundance of goods in American markets might be things to be pondered, but I didn't need to have this total stranger banging me over the head with the concepts.

So there you have the context for what happened next.

Right after he finished his sermon to me, a sweet little Vietnamese man (who speaks very little English) was about to exit the locker room to go home. As he approached, Preacher Man bent down and appeared to pick up what looked like a dollar bill from the floor. He asked the Asian guy if it was his. The little guy smiled really big and said, "No." The Annoying One said, "Are you sure?" and handed it to the man, who looked a bit confused, but was still smiling. Preacher Man said, "Why, that's a million-dollar bill!" They both laughed. Then PM said, "Of course it's fake. Too bad it's not real. But notice the 'million-dollar question on the back of the bill."

Oh, Lord, NO! I thought to myself. Not that ridiculous money tract bit.

Sure enough. The Asian man flips the bill over and PM goes on to verbalize the "million-dollar question" for him: "If you died today, would you go to heaven?"

I couldn't believe I was seeing all this with my own eyes. This obnoxious man had his gospel gun loaded and was blasting a poor guy who was simply wanting to get out of there and go home. The guerilla attack went on for a couple of minutes. I was steaming!

He crammed an awful lot of fear speech into those two minutes. Mankind's choice of heaven or hell was the main topic (with an emphasis on hell). The Asian guy was able to do a nifty little side-shuffle toward the door while PM was rattling on and on. He kept saying in his broken English, "Have nice weekend. Have nice weekend."

After his audience had disappeared, I fully expected Tract Guy to turn back to me with his million-dollar spiel. I guess he considered me too hopelessly materialistic for conversion; after all, I'm one of those "takers" in the world who likes my shower soap to actually BE shower soap.

I suppose I could have said something to the guy, but I knew I would have been wasting my breath. Besides, any attempt to "set him straight" would have been about as effective as him employing a gimmicky little prop to get a total stranger in a smelly locker room to seriously consider a "million-dollar question."

What I witnessed today was abusive behavior plain and simple. Abusive behavior is defined as that which "treats someone in a harmful, injurious, or offensive manner." The man who was harangued by Mr. Tract-weilder will look back on the incident with zero attraction to Jesus. In a crude--but sadly accurate--manner of comparison, this kind of "evangelism" is a bit like being groped by a sexual predator. It always offends and never attracts.

Abusive evangelism just doesn't work. All it manages to do is further alienate skeptical people from the true beauty of the Gospel. We're not commissioned to be abusive. We're called to be "light" and "salt." Not "repugnance" and "vinegar."

My swimming granddaughters . . .

I posted this video on my Facebook page . . . for those of you who aren't on FB, I thought I'd post it here as well.

This is Haley (5) and Lexi (3) swimming yesterday afternoon in the pool at our condo complex. They're both in lessons and they're both doing a great job.  I think they're really naturals.

Kristi also joined them in the swim, but had a bit of a "wardrobe malfunction" with her suit. She was in the original version of the video--along with her verbal commentary about the malfunction--I hadn't listened to the audio when I first posted, so wasn't aware of the blow-by-blow description.  If anyone happened to catch the video in the wee hours of the morning, they were treated to a very candid moment!  (Although there was nothing to see....just hear about!)  I deleted the original post first thing this morning.

So, enjoy the "G-rated" video!  :)

Happy Michael Memory

There was an earthquake during the taping of this sketch.  You'll know when it happens...

Memorial Day, 2009: A Personal Reflection

It is customary for us to take time on this sacred day (sacred meaning "set-apart") to honor our nation's fallen heroes.  Well, I certainly want to do that.  I'm eternally grateful for all the men and women who have made the ultimate sacrifice which continues to purchase the liberties we can enjoy and celebrate today.

On this particular Memorial Day I would like to take a moment to share a personal observation that came to me yesterday.  

It's completely true that our world would be a very different place if it weren't for the soldiers, sailors, marines, and airmen who fought and died for our freedom.  In my case, I can honestly say I wouldn't be here without the sacrifice of one Florida native who gave his life in World War II.

Shortly before the outbreak of WWII, my mother fell in love with and married a young man who was a member of the First Christian Church in Kissimmee, FL, where her brother served as the pastor.  She and the young man, John Bratton, were enjoying the early experiences of married life when the United States entered the war.  John joined the army in the spring of 1942.  He was deployed to the European theatre that summer.  Shortly after his deployment, my mom learned that she was pregnant with my sister, Rebecca.

My sister was born in April of 1943.  John never met his daughter.  He was mortally wounded when attempting to liberate a French village on September 1, 1944.  A German sniper ended his life that day.  I never learned the name of that village, but I was always humbly awed by what occurred there that day.  Part of the awe came from the fact that his death occurred EXACTLY five years before my birth (9-1-49) and EXACTLY five years after Adolf Hitler started the whole ugly mess in Europe by invading Poland (9-1-39).

In no way am I "thankful" for his death.  I am not thankful for the way my mother's heart was broken.  I am not thankful that my sister never held her father's hand, felt his kiss on her cheek, or watched him shave.  I am not thankful that his dear mother (who I called Grandmother Bratton) or his sisters (my "aunts" Sarah and Martha) lost their only son and brother.  The grim fact, however, is that had he not died on that late summer's day, I wouldn't be here some sixty-five years later.

Yesterday I was watching two of my beautiful granddaughters enjoy dipping their bread in olive oil and vinegar at lunch--one of their culinary favorites. It hit me then that without John Bratton's sacrifice, they wouldn't be here, feasting on one of their favorite foods on the planet. Their mother wouldn't be sitting next to me, laughing and teasing her husband about little things. And of course, I wouldn't have been sitting there thinking about all this stuff.  It was a very, very sobering moment for me.

While I am not thankful for infantryman Bratton's death, I am deeply grateful for his sacrificial spirit.  And while I obviously never met him, I "remember" him and those he left behind.

The afternoon following my mother's memorial service, my sister and I went through all the things in my mother's little house.  One of the most poignant moments of the day occurred when we found her dad's flag that had been presented to Mother on the day of his funeral and internment.  My sister didn't know the flag existed.  My mother, for some unknown reason, had never shown it to her.  It was extremely moving to watch her tenderly caress those aged stars and stripes, realizing that it was probably the most intimate contact she'd ever had with her hero father.  

I salute you, John Bratton, and all the others who have given their lives for our country.  On behalf of all of my fellow Americans who have been privileged to be born out of time to "other" fathers and mothers because of your deaths, I say "Thank you."  

I look forward to meeting you some day, John.

My Blog . . . You See, It's Like This . . .

MY FAVORITE THINGS (Senior Citizens' Version)

A friend sent me this wonderful lyric that Julie Andrews recently sang at a convention of the AARP in New York City.  She received a 4-minute standing ovation after the performance.  It's priceless!!

MY FAVORITE THINGS

Maalox and nose drops and needles for knitting,

Walkers and handrails and new dental fittings,

Bundles of magazines tied up in string,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Cadillacs and cataracts, and hearing aids and glasses,

Polident and Fixodent and false teeth in glasses,

Pacemakers, golf carts and porches with swings,

These are a few of my favorite things. . . 

When the "pipes" leak, 

When the bones creak,

When the knees go bad,

I simply remember my favorite things,

And then I don't feel so bad.

Hot tea and crumpets and corn pads for bunions,

No spicy hot food or food cooked with onions,

Lap robes and heating pads and hot meals they bring,

These are a few of my favorite things.

Back pains, confused brains, and no need for sinning,

Weak bones and fractures and hair that is thinning,

And we won't mention our short, shrunken frames,

When we remember our favorite things.

When the joints ache,

When the hips break,

When the eyes grow dim,

Then I remember the great life I've had,

And then I don't feel so bad!

Aretha's Gone Space-Age This Time

Next Stop:  Venus