Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 32

Review – Compass Box, Great King Street, Artist’s Blend, (No Age Stated), 43%

The door of the walk-in cooler latched behind me, and with that, I began to do what I almost always do when I go in there.

I emptied a milk crate of a few stray cartons and then turned it over so that I could sit. The difference this time around – the cooler’s light had burned out and it was pitch black. No problem. The light from my phone provided enough lucence for me to get situated in my usual spot where I would scroll through emails and articles and take a quiet moment to cool down. I do this more so in the summer mainly because I always wear black, and as I go about a day of visitations, I get very warm in the sun.

It couldn’t have been more than a minute or so after I was in and stationed when I heard the kitchen door open and saw beneath the door the shadow of someone else milling around outside the cooler.

I waited and listened, expecting them to either take what they needed and depart or open the cooler door and discover me in the dark. Neither occurred.

Now, something for the reader to keep in mind…

If I’d have exited the cooler a moment or two after the person had entered, all would be well. The visitor would most likely have figured I went in there just before and was looking for something. But if they stayed in the kitchen and attended to lengthy business, the longer I was in there, the weirder it would be when I came out.

Somewhat fearful that I’d already conceded to the “point of no return,” I decided to wait.

Fifteen minutes passed. The visitor remained just beyond the cooler door. I was more than ventilated, was starting to get uncomfortably chilly, and was up against a scheduled appointment. It was time to exit.

“This is definitely going to be weird,” I thought.

Nevertheless, I plopped my phone into my back pocket and pushed the lever to open the door.

The person beyond the gate was the mother of one of the newer students in our school, and I’m pretty sure by her expression that when the latch of the door clicked and I emerged unexpectedly from the blackness of the cooler, her heart was carried a little closer to death than she would have preferred.

With that, there was only one solution to the uncomfortable situation that I could see.

“So,” I said looking around the room. “This is where the wardrobe goes? I certainly expected Narnia to be a little more interesting. Oh! Hi, Kathy! How’s it going?”

And then I split through the gymnasium door to my immediate left and went back to my office.

As far as I know, this dear woman has already re-enrolled her children for next year, but I figure I’d better give it a week or so and then check to see if the status of her registration has changed.

In the meantime, while I wait, I’ll celebrate having a small hand in shaking the monotony from the corridors of this place, and the perfect dram for my private merriment this time around is the Compass Box Great King Street Artist’s Blend.

I really like this stuff, although I didn’t expect to. And why is that? Because for Compass Box, it was relatively cheap. Compass Box editions don’t normally hover around the $35 mark, and so in my mind, the forecast was gray. And yet, as it compares to others of its class, it’s a surprisingly good whisky. In fact, having already referenced Narnia in the account, the entirety of the edition is very much an uninvolving wardrobe that opens up into a Narnia-like experience so much grander than that of the kitchen in my school.

The nose is a prairie expanse of sweet grains stretching well into the distance, and as the flatland winds pick up, not only are you gifted with the malty sugars, but you find yourself bathed in citrus notes from what you suspect may be an orange farm just beyond the property.

The palate is a stranger, but still highly enticing concoction of rice pudding with a sweet vanilla and butter glazing. You may even sense a little bit of the citric sour typically left in the back of the throat by a quaff of freshly squeezed orange juice.

While the medium finish retains that citrus, the malt from the nosing emerges warmly with a little more muscle and nudges it from the center of your attention.

As I said, I didn’t expect what emerged from this edition. By the way, I know someone else experiencing a similar sentiment regarding the walk-in cooler at her kid’s school.

Review – Mitchell’s Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

Evelyn poked herself in the eye with a pencil? That’s great! I mean, that’s terrible. Yeah, that’s horrible. At least it was the eraser end. I’ll get her in to see the good Doctor ASAP! Hey, Madeline, do me a favor. Pour a little bit of the Ardbeg Perpetuum into this terrine…

What’s that, you say?! Josh needs a physical? Me! Me! I’ll take him! Get your shoes on, Josh, and before we go, put a little bit of the Benromach Peat Smoke into this empty Balvenie bottle…

(Gasp) Madeline needs her immunizations?! I’m on it! Let’s get going, Madeline. Hey, Harrison! Come down here and put a little bit of the Springbank 10-year-old into this container for the good Doctor while Maddy and I are getting ready to leave…

Harrison, you’re feeling a little warm. I think you have a fever. We’d better get you to the Doctor. Jen, would you mind pouring a little bit of the Smokehead into that empty Bulleit bottle in my cabinet…?

How’s everyone feeling today? Anyone got an upset stomach? Or a headache? That splinter in your finger looks terrible, Harrison. Madeline, you may have pink-eye. You’re looking kind of pale, Josh. Aww, you bumped your head on your closet door again, Evelyn? I’m concerned. I think we should get you checked out…

I’ve shared before that our pediatrician is a Scotch drinker. In fact, you can pretty much guarantee that the reason you and your offspring are waiting 45 minutes in the other examination room is because my spawn has been given the medical attention he or she needed and now the good Doctor and I, well, we’re talking whisky.

Sorry about that.

I try to bring the Doc samples, and he does the same. This time around, I’d taken Josh in to be stabbed a few times with needles – you know, making sure he doesn’t contract meningitis and all that – and while the nurse was busy spearing the boy, the Doc was in his office fetching me a generous sampling of Mitchell’s Blended Scotch Whisky, which is an amalgam of Campbeltown single malts. Good man.

I’ve become quite fond of the Campbeltown whiskies, and this blend is no exception to my affection. It’s well-formulated and quite flavorful.

A gentle swirl in the glass and this onliest batch gives a gentle puff of a pulpy blackberry and almond crumb transfusion. Just beyond this is a loaf of freshly baked challah bread. And who doesn’t like butter-drenched challah bread?

A sip and savor brings to mind a familiar Springbank smokiness, and the berries and nuts noted in the nose assume this outlying vapor.

The finish is relatively short – like many sweet-malt confectionaries often are. The cassonade nature of this blended whisky leaves it to serve at the conclusion of a fine meal, capping an evening fare of prime rib, steamed carrots, garlic potatoes, and fresh bread.

A fine after-dinner dram. Or after a doctor appointment.

Speaking of…

Hey, kids! Who wants to come help Dad cut some wood on the table saw?! What’s that? Sure, even the six-year-old is welcome to try. In fact, you can go first. See if you can figure it out, honey. Oh, Madeline, you’re adorable. We don’t need protective eyewear. Goggles are for wimps. No, Harry, don’t tell Mom what we’re doing. She’s very, very busy. But hey, how about we build her something from the wood scraps? Run and fetch the nail gun.

Review – Tullamore D.E.W., 10 Years Old, 40%

I’ll be indescribably relieved when the current round of election blather and the funnel cloud of issues that travels with it is no longer flooding my newsfeeds nor oozing from each and every post in the social media sphere in which I am, as a pastor and author, often required to dwell.

I’m tired of the candidates and just want them all to disappear. And I’m not alone in this.

It was Cal Thomas who noted the commonality dwelling at the heart of the concern: “One of the reasons people hate politics is that truth is rarely a politician’s objective. Election and power are.”

But I suppose I should be clear – I do not “hate” politics, and I actually do believe that there are certain political leaders seeking truth. I happen to know a few of them – Senators Patrick Colbeck and Joe Hune, as well as Representative Lana Theis for starters – but I would venture to guess that Thomas’ comment is true for so many of the populace because while they want truth, and they want leaders seeking after it, they themselves don’t actually know what truth is. Many in the electorate appear to have lost sight of it in the fog of radical individualism.

Everything is now subjective. Nothing is absolute except that which you choose. The new canon is that your way is just as valuable as another’s, even if your way is a complete retooling of all that forms the fabric of logic and tangible reality, and it is your right to press such an agenda with the intention of force-fitting entire social orders into your renovation.

Both conservatives and liberals do this, and if this becomes basic to understanding a citizen’s fundamental human rights, and we understand this nation’s founding documents to be an exegesis of those rights, then those same documents are, in many ways, useless to those seeking truth – whether or not they actually know what it is.

The right to “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” no longer has an objective point of origin. What is “life” exactly? Nobody knows for sure. Whatever you want it to be, I guess. What is “liberty”? Well, perhaps it’s the muscle used to press forward your definition of “life” even as it may axiomatically shape the contours of existence for others beside you. Again, who knows what to do with this? And so, what then is “happiness”? Again, I don’t know. Maybe you choose a life apart from the binding hindrance of wife and child. You are at liberty to pursue happiness beyond them, yes?

The darkest hearts of man are afforded legitimate rights in a world void of the acceptance of objective truth.

I can’t imagine the endpoint to this. Well, actually, history proves that unless actual truth intervenes and recalibrates the community, there is no endpoint except societal undoneness.

Unfortunately, I don’t have an answer for any of this, except maybe to sip whisky. Oh, yeah, and to get involved – that is, to stand up and say something. I do my best to be aware and to engage in the discussion. On the lighter side, I will admit that once, just for fun, I took a chance and sent a tweet to the President asking if he would be interested in a “whisky summit” so that we could discuss current issues, but I never heard back from him.

You should know that because he’s one of the politicians I’m hoping to see evaporate soon, if he does accept and then decide to stop by for a visit, I won’t be pouring anything superb into his glass. I’m thinking I’d give him something that’s more or less adequate and by no means exceptional.

For starters, the Tullamore D.E.W. 10-year-old edition seems fitting.

There’s a slight hint of vinegar and fruit in the nose, somewhat reminiscent of cherry sours. A littler further in, there’s a sweetness suggesting Lifesavers candy.

The palate is, well, boring. There’s not much to discern except maybe a little bit of wood spice and a briny malt that drops an unreasonable aftertaste in what is a shorter than expected finish.

I wish I could tell you more, but as I said, this is an adequate bottle of booze. Thankfully I own it, because if the doorbell rings and it turns out to be the President standing at my front door, I’ll already be prepared to serve him up with something that meets the occasion and my level of exuberance toward his efforts.

Review – Glen Moray, Chardonnay Cask Matured, 10 Years Old, 40%

I’ll bet you didn’t know that in order to become an airline pilot, it is first required that you pass a class devoted to the in-flight PA communication technique known as “captain speak.” In order to pass the class, you must successfully display three particular competencies.

First, you must demonstrate the ability to manage conjunctions by taking several paragraphs of individual sentences and reconfiguring them into a single sentence. In order to learn this first skill, prerequisite study of Saint Paul is recommended. He was a master of run-on sentences. Just take a look at Ephesians 1:3-23 to see for yourself. It’s a delightful proclamation of the Gospel, to be sure, but by the time you’re finished reading it, you’ll be ready for a nap.

Second, you must be able to demonstrate irrational tempo changes while speaking the reconfigured sentence. In other words, you must be able to carry the lengthy run-on to its conclusion while speeding up and slowing down throughout. This particular skill is best learned by watching old Star Trek episodes. Tune in and close your eyes. Listen to Captain James T. Kirk’s suave enunciation with styling such as: “That’s… poppycock… the… peopleonmyship… are… free… todowhateverthey… want.”

Finally, you must exhibit proficiency with the PA system – namely, you must convince the listener that you are capable of putting the microphone both inside and outside of your mouth during the announcement. This final prowess is best learned by either sitting beside a typical fast food drive-thru intercom speaker or listening to recordings of Charlie Brown’s teacher. Both are excellent examples of proper PA microphone consumption and regurgitation technique.

And while all of this may sound reasonably doable to most, it is quite another thing to perform from the cockpit in a real life scenario. While prepping the plane for takeoff, the pilot is allowed to speak normally with the tower but must speak to the passengers in “captain speak.” Transitioning between the two and performing the pre-flight series of button pushes and switch flips is a challenging skill worthy of anyone’s admiration.

And you thought landing the plane was the hard part. Yeah. Whatever. That’s as easy for the pilot as it is for the discerning passenger to scoff at the in-flight drink menu.

Speaking of…

Stupid terrorists. You’re the reason I’m forced to suffer the crappy booze selections orchestrated for the masses by corporate executives out to make a buck. It sure would be nice to have a flask of the Glen Moray Chardonnay Cask Matured edition in my pocket. It sure would help me to find my happy place while enduring the off-rhythm kicks to my seat from the two-year-old behind me, a thumping paced to the hypnotic tones of “captain speak” oozing from the cabin speakers.

This is a calming whisky.

The nose is a light wash of the anticipated chardonnay with a slice of freshly baked Italian bread.

In the mouth, the bread you sensed in the nosing now has a thin glaze of butter and a freckling of cloves.

The finish gives over spiced fruit – nutmeg and warmed junipers – everything you need to survive a plane full of toddlers on their way to Orlando.

Except you can’t have this whisky on your plane. You have to choose something from this menu, instead.

Sigh.

If only the pilot would take control of his vessel and call out over the PA, “That’s… poppycock… the… peopleonmyplane… are… free… todrinkwhateverthey… want!”

Review – Glenglassaugh, Evolution, (No Age Stated), 50%

Even in the oppressive Florida humidity, you could smell the store’s fragrances around the corner, well before it came into sight.

The store is called “Basin” and it sells perfumed soaps.

Jen and the girls wanted to go in, but the boys and I decided we were going to wait outside on a bench in the shade provided by a small grove of palm trees. But after a few minutes, knowing the store was air-conditioned, we decided to go ahead and join the girls and investigate the store. Once inside, we tooled around for only a few moments before finding it necessary to leave. The artificial bouquets were so overstimulating to my youngest son’s allergies that we had to leave.

Just through the door and back into the Florida heat, I had a thought.

“Hey, Josh,” I said and nudged my sixteen-year-old’s shoulder. “There’s one thing I know for sure. You could totally let one go in there and no one would ever know.”

Joshua’s face became bright with a smile.

“Yeah, I know, right,” he said. “I totally just did.”

Sheesh. Nice.

Leave it to Dad to imagine it. Leave it to the teenager to imagine it and then to act on it. And normally I would have given him some instruction on appropriate behavior in public places, but as I said, no one would ever know because the place was a redolent chemical factory, one where the scientists were most certainly hard at work trying to figure out the most efficient ways to kill you with concoctions of geranium seeds, lavadin oil, lemongrass, and almond butter. As long as it’s a quiet release, a little bit of methane wouldn’t make a bit of difference to the place.

Too bad the whisky shops haven’t figured out a way to paint their oxygen currents with the various scents of the editions they sell. That would be great, wouldn’t it?

I know where I’d supplant myself – over by the Balvenie editions, for sure. But then after getting my fill of the Aston Martin of whiskies, I’d move along to others, most likely stopping by the Glenglassaugh section to take a moment with the Evolution edition. It’s a pleasant enough whisky that it deserves a visit.

The nose of this dram is surprisingly weak. You’ll need to sit very close by and breathe deeply to get the best measure of its salt, buttercream, and grapefruit-like citrus.

On the palate, the Evolution gives an immediate tap of sour citrus, and then turns toward vanilla, whipped cream, and perhaps almond milk.

The finish is a medium stay of the citrus zip followed by what some might conclude is an unwelcomed alcohol chomp. I didn’t mind it so much because it provided a warmth that I felt had been missing from the rest of the experience.

And just so you know – if the whisky shops ever start scenting the scene with the bottled delights adorning their shelves and my son is with me and he happens to do what he did at Basin, I’ll smack him.

He’d deserve it.

Review – Rebel Yell, Straight Rye Whiskey, Small Batch, 45%

I dreamt last night that I could fly.

I only needed to catch the wind just right in order for me to lift from the ground and sail away into the sky. And once I was airborne, I could maintain the flight until I decided to land. I could sweep up and over the trees, around and through billowing clouds, and then dropping back toward the earth with incredible speed, I’d swoop under overpass bridges and powerlines and then rocket back into the atmosphere in preparation for another pass with the world below.

The landings took skill. Because I was always moving so quickly in my return to the earth, it usually took a dive, another brief incline in the midst of a very wide turn in order to slow down enough that I could touch down in a run.

This isn’t a new dream for me. I’ve been having it in one form or another since I was very young.

I don’t put a lot of stock in dream interpretation, but I do remember asking my psychology professor back in college what dreams of flight meant. He never gave me a straight answer, at least not one that I can fully recall, but I do remember him saying that dreams in which we find ourselves flying may mean that certain pressures – tethers in life that bind us to one struggle or another – have either been overcome, or we are merely wishing to be free from them, maybe even tip-toeing to the edge of a sense of rebelliousness in relation to them.

For the life of me, I can’t think of anything in particular that I’ve overcome recently. I can think of quite a bit, however, that I wouldn’t mind shaking loose these days. In fact, today’s the last day of my vacation and I’m already starting to feel a bit queasy because it’s coming to an end.

Who knows? Maybe my dream was some sort of backward celebration of being set free from being free.

That’s a really confused form of rebellion, wouldn’t you say? Well, so is the Rebel Yell Small Batch Rye edition.

In the nose, there’s an initial energy to this whiskey’s rye. It leaves the impression that a sturdy wind is just now coming down from the horizon, passing through the rye plains and over fresh coffee plants in the neighboring field, drawing closer to pick you up and send you soaring.

But when it arrives, you just can’t seem to catch it. It’s moving all around you with a delicate ease of minimal sour and buttery nougat, both of which just won’t let you lift off.

It rolls all the way through to a medium finish of easy cinnamon, still lacking the bluster you would have expected from a gale calling itself “Rebel Yell.” More like “Rebel Awkwardly Loud.”

By no means does this whiskey set you free from the earth and carry you into the more heavenly drafts. It is sufficient for a dream in which you are sitting on your front porch sipping an American straight rye whiskey that you kind of wish was a Scotch.

Review – George Dickel, Rye Whisky, (No Age Stated), 45%

Can we chat for a minute?

Here, have a seat.

Can I pour you a drink? I just opened a bottle of the George Dickel Rye Whisky.

No? Well, I’ll have one for the both of us, then.

There we go.

Mmm… Smells pretty good. Better than I expected. I can definitely smell the rye. And a little bit of cinnamon and soot.

Anyway, thanks for taking a minute with me. I’ve been meaning to tell you this for quite some time, and, well, I’m not really sure how to say it without hurting you.

I guess I should start by saying that I knew coming into this relationship that it would be foolish to ever think that I could change you or that you would appreciate me enough to want to change yourself; that someone like me could be the person to make you want to better yourself. I know that relationships don’t work that way.

Still, we humans are a crazy bunch, aren’t we? We hope in the midst of hopelessness, and we thrive on distant dreams just beyond our mortal grasp.

I hoped we would make it, I really did.

I hoped that we’d be able to live through both the highs and the lows, that we would endure one another’s faults and carry on, that we would be able to look past the inabilities and the let-downs and the garbage always trying to divide us, trying to pull us apart. I truly wanted this for us.

But we are who we are, Twitter, and I guess all we can really do is apologize.

And so with that, I’m sorry… and I wish you well.

When we first met, when we first started, things were good. We had fun. But now I must devote valuable time each day to cleaning up after you – annoying spammer accounts latching on, an inability to block these accounts with some sort of bulk action tool, an app that makes following a message thread nearly impossible to navigate, and so many other irritating character flaws that I really find myself struggling to go on.

I need some space – some time to think. I’ll be back. I have to come back. I’m obligated. Social media is an absolute essential for writers like me, but right now I just feel trapped in a toxic relationship and I need some distance.

But before I go, Twitter, here’s to the dream that we once were. Here’s to what I hope we can eventually be for each other, with each other, to each other.

(Sip) Huh. Not bad… a little bit of orange marmalade spread on freshly baked rye bread.

(Sip) And maybe a little bit of the charcoal noted on the label.

And the finish… not bad for a relatively cheap edition. It’s short, but nice. The spices begin to nip at the heels, but the marmalade maintains its sweeter prominence. And it seems that the rye bread was buttered before the marmalade spread.

Interesting. Bold.

On second thought, while I’m heartily thankful that you’ve introduced me to a good number of wonderful folks – people I would now consider friends – unless you find it within yourself to change, until you hire the right folks to come up with better solutions to the issues I’ve noted, you remain an unwelcomed tether for me, Twitter, and I feel that the only way I’ll ever be free from your pestilent demands is for you to go bankrupt.

Now, I’m not hoping for Chapter 7 bankruptcy, which is that you are forced to shut down permanently, but rather Chapter 11, which allows for self-examination and change.

I want this to work, but I need you to change. And while sometimes I get so angry with you that I catch myself wishing a disgruntled employee would set off an EMP in your server building ultimately erasing your digital soul, I know it’s wrong and I repent immediately. Still, there is the hopeful knowledge that I cannot be held hostage to a prominent social media outlet if that outlet has faded into the night of “once but no longer.”

Sipping whisky and thinking, “Saint Paul called himself an abortion?”

Saint Paul is a strange bird. I like him. A lot.

I say this because while he was most likely aware that he was writing the inspired Word of God (consider such texts as Galatians 2:1-9 and 2 Peter 3:15-16), he is also aware of his literary skill, and the Holy Spirit allows him a certain measure of personal liberty to scribe things that span a vast spectrum of literary themes, forms, devices, and imagery. I am particularly intrigued by the way he employs devices of emphasis.

For example, being someone who appreciates poetry, I am quite fond of Paul’s engaging with poetic sources. He does this while preaching to the people of Athens in Acts 17:28. In fact, there are a few notable times when Paul leans on poetry from secular sources (1 Corinthians 15:33; Titus 1:12), calling to mind poets like Epimenides (c. 600 B.C.) who was the first to muse “In him we live and move and have our being” in his poem Cretica; and Aratus (c. 315 B.C.) who wrote “We are his offspring” in his Phaenomena.

I am equally charmed by the possibility that Philippians 2:6-11 may actually be a quotation from a popular hymn of the early church, and how in that same chapter, verse 12 leaves one with the sense that Paul may be planting his tongue firmly into his cheek as he pens a little bit of sarcastic instruction, urging his readers who already know very well his preaching of salvation through faith in Christ that they ought to work out their salvation with fear and trembling (v. 12).

“Hey, that’s funny. Work out your salvation. Is Paul a hoot, or what?”

Stay with me, here. There are plenty of opinions about this particular text, but this sure seems like a possibility.

Along these same lines, I appreciate the fact that Paul, being aware of his station as an Apostle, sometimes emphasizes the point he is making by picking on himself. In Ephesians 3:8 he calls himself τῷ ἐλαχιστοτέρῳ πάντων ἁγίων. This usually gets translated as something like “less than the least of all the saints,” but in the slang usage of the same phrase in other sources, we essentially hear Paul calling himself a “very small amount” in comparison to the rest of God’s people. In other words, he just called himself “pint-sized holy one.” He does the same thing again in 1 Timothy 1:15, except he goes in the opposite direction. Referring to a world full of sinners, he says πρῶτός εἰμι ἐγώ – I am the most prominent, the first, the best, the highest ranking loser of losers.

Funny or not, whatever you decide, we know the fundamental point Paul is making in these instances, and his usage of such illustrious language helps to drive home the point.

But there is another moment in Paul’s writings where I think he may have been trying to combine a certain level of seriousness with a pinch of humor, and yet in today’s world – a world that is most certainly matching the woeful Biblical enunciation of good being called evil and evil being called good (Isaiah 5:20), as well as an Apostle’s words to a young churchman in 2 Timothy 3 – I’m not so sure most folks would get the joke.

The moment occurs in 1 Corinthians 15:8. Here again Paul is setting himself lower than everyone else, except this time he appears to be applying what was most likely a hostile insult used against him by others. I almost wonder if when he and Peter were duking it out, that Peter called out such an insult from across the room to the sounds of the other Apostles’ choked snickering. Paul refers to himself as τῷ ἐκτρώματι – typically translated as “one abnormally or untimely born.”

Okay, that’s a nice way of highlighting that he was the last of the Apostles to be visited by Christ and his birth into Apostleship was stranger than the others. But that isn’t exactly what Paul said. There’s a little more to ἐκτρώματι (or ἔκτρωμα). Paul just said in an emphatically negative way that he is a miscarried baby, or even worse, the product of an abortion.

“C’mon, Pastor Thoma. That’s not what this means.”

I knew you’d say that.

Apart from the Septuagint (which I’ll get to in a second), this is the only place that this word is used in the Bible. It’s a rare word. In order to figure out what it means, you really need to visit with the sources that used it the most. This means visiting with folks like Dioscurides, a first century pharmacological writer. And then of course, there’s Hippocrates – you know, the guy who pops out and onto the planet around 460 B.C. and is pretty much the source for modern medical science and its practice. You’ve heard of the Hippocratic Oath, yes? Yeah, he’s that guy. When you dig through the documents of men like these, you’ll find that ἔκτρωμα is always connected with birth, and is the standard for communicating the event of a child either being born dead because of a miscarried pregnancy or the deliberate act of killing the child in the womb and inducing the birthing process.

I mentioned the Septuagint before, which is the Greek translation of the Old Testament. The word ἔκτρωμα is used a whopping total of three times throughout. The first time we run into it is in Numbers 12:12 when it’s used to replace כַּמֵּת – that is, a baby dead in the womb and then birthed. The next time we encounter it is in Job 3:16, and the third time is in Ecclesiastes 6:3. In both of these occurrences it is used as a replacement for נֵפֶל – which is very plainly “miscarriage.”

Now I know that some readers will do what is often quite popular, that is, teeter upon the edge of the allegory cliff or eisegize the text to avoid such an unacceptable image because it could be offensive, but I prefer to keep the word clean from imposition and just take it as it comes while keeping it securely rooted in its historical context. Following this course, Paul isn’t simply saying that he was born into the faith at a later term than all the others. He’s not necessarily trying to show that he was born into the Christian faith in an unusual way in comparison to the other Apostles. He is putting himself where he knows he belongs in comparison to Christ and His church…and it isn’t pretty. Ἔκτρωμα is meant to shock you. It’s bad. Very bad. It is a swiftly comprehensive and emphatic usage of a familiar but grotesque image. Paul, having already affirmed for us that he is both the ἐλαχιστοτέρῳ and the πρῶτός, he believes that there is still a more visceral and disgraceful descriptor by which he may compare himself. He is as an unloved baby, a miserably sad remnant of an abortion, a child worthy of only the heavenly Father’s rejection and equally unworthy of the church, the Son’s body and the Father’s household. Indeed, no matter the century or culture, ἔκτρωμα is both disturbing and insulting when imposed upon anyone as a designation.

Now, although this has been a rather enjoyable exegetical exercise, I did have a reason for dragging you through it.

I read a couple of interesting articles recently. The first was a shorter item in “The Telegraph” written by Damian Thompson. His purpose was to relay the words of Reverend Katherine Hancock Ragsdale, the Dean of the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge, Massachusetts. Ragsdale is an ordained Anglican priest and a flaming liberal thinker and supporter of pretty much everything counter-Christian. In the article, Thompson so generously provides Ragsdale’s full manuscript from a sermon/speech she gave in front of an abortion clinic in Alabama back in 2009. Her words pressed from a supposed Biblical perspective that “abortion is a blessing…” In fact, when you read the full text, you’ll see that she demands that her listeners chant along with her three times, “Abortion is a blessing and our work is not done!”

I found the second article on LifeNews.com, but then tracked it a little further to some various news outlets in Ohio. The focus of the media attention here was Reverend Laura Young, a Methodist minister appointed by her Bishop, Reverend Gregory Palmer, to serve as the Executive Director of the Ohio Religious Coalition for Reproductive Choice. I’ll bet you can guess what they’re trying to accomplish. Anyway, Young believes as Ragsdale, that abortion is a blessing and that the decision to abort a child, while not deliberately an iterated topic in the Bible, is nonetheless a deeply spiritual one that takes great courage and even greater faith.

These women claim to be followers of Christ. These women preach from Christian pulpits.

Yes, you can go throw up. Take your time. I’ll wait here until you get back.

Feel better? Okay, where were we?

When I couple articles like these with the typical arguments of pretty much any so-called “Pro-choice” Christian, my stomach churns and my blood begins to steam and blister my veins. Encouraged by such Biblical ignorance, in my experience, Pro-choice Christians almost always press first that the Bible never speaks directly to the topic of abortion, but it does concern itself both directly and indirectly with women’s health; and then secondly, they push further to deduce that a woman’s right to choose must therefore be Godly. Finally, hovering in the same oxygen-deprived stratosphere, they reach to pair this with the argument that abortion was heralded within a majority of early societies as acceptable, nay, praiseworthy, and thus the Christians most certainly found it acceptable as well.

Too bad we don’t have a doctrine which allows us to put these folks on an island with an active volcano and burn all the boats.

In the end, if it is at all helpful, my point is very small and relatively simple. Um, yes, the Bible does refer specifically to abortion, and, um, no it doesn’t consider it positively. For starters, consider Paul’s usage of ἔκτρωμα. Consider that if a particular word is used as an insult, most likely, the object upon which the word’s wrath is turned is not meant to be considered as praiseworthy, but rather designated as someone or something worthy of scorn and to be thoroughly despised.

Abortion is not a blessing. It is an ungodly abomination.

—————

(Originally posted over at steadfastlutherans.org.)

Review – El Dorado Rum, 15 Years Old, 40%

The swimming pool is a whitewater of excited vacationers. All four of the children are splashing and laughing and, in short, losing their minds.

No big deal. We never get to do this – never – so as long as no one drowns, we’re good.

I’m almost willing to let each of them pee in the pool at least once because then later on they’d be able to look back, laugh, and say they remember doing it when they were kids. As an American, I’d say that’s an essential part of growing up, wouldn’t you? No?

You must be from an ocean state. You folks hold it for the open sea, don’t you?

Sitting here listening, I can tell that my kids are so incredibly disconnected from such frivolities. One just called out that they want to play a water game. Another has an idea and has paddled forward to lead an instructional seminar in the basics of a particular game she learned at a friend’s pool party.

“Whoever is ‘it,’” she instructs, “has to keep their eyes closed the whole time.”

“And what do we do?” the youngest prods.

“The person who’s ‘it’ has to try to catch the others in the pool,” the teacher continues. “I’ll go first. I have to keep my eyes closed and yell out ‘Marco.’ Every time I do that you have to yell back ‘Rubio.’ Once I catch you, you’re ‘it!’”

“Let’s go!” they say together.

The teacher calls out, “Marco!”

“Rubio!” the others shout back.

“Marco!”

“Rubio!”

I don’t have the heart to correct them even though, Before too long, I feel and act on the need to call out from the shoreline since the game is already disfuntionally mistitled and heading in the wrong direction.

“Marco.”

“…didn’t win his own state in the primaries.”

“Marco.”

“…can speak Spanish.”

“Marco.”

“…is a Senator from Florida.”

“Marco.”

“…Costco.”

“Marco.”

“…Cutco.”

“Marco.”

“…GoPro.”

Can you tell my kids know more about the current political climate than pool games? Ask any of them their opinion on a particular candidate – even the six-year-old – and they’ll be able to tell you at least something they know about Trump, Clinton, Cruz, Sanders, or whomever. I don’t necessarily have discussions with the kids about these people, but I do listen to a lot of news and talk radio. They pick up stuff. What’s interesting is that most often they can cut right through the partisan nonsense. In other words, when someone is spinning a particular political point, they can usually tell.

It’s really rather fascinating.

Anyway, since a Cuban-American Senator from Florida seems to be the center of the Thoma family’s vacation-time pool game even though, technically, he has nothing to do with the childhood game itself, how about we consider a Rum today – the El Dorado 15-year-old?

I don’t normally drink Rum. Every now and then I get a taste for it, but typically only after I’ve watched a movie about pirates… which is usually never. Although the “Pirates of the Caribbean” series is pretty good. I’d share a bottle of Rum with a scallywag like Captain Jack Sparrow. But if it’s a musical pirate movie, I turn it off and go straight for the barrel strength whiskies in my cabinet. I can’t stand musicals. You’ll see me sitting in front of a TV watching “Pirates of Penzance” when at the same time you behold the thermometer in hell beginning to drop.

This particular Rum, as noted, has been aged for 15 years, and I’ll admit, it is a pleasant change of pace.

The nose is a candied broth of saltwater taffy and melted caramel, with just a hint of something rascally – maybe balsawood ash.

The palate proves the Rum’s aging in oak barrels and then circles around to a few varying flavors that enhance the experience. There’s warm maple syrup on buttered waffles. Together, they were placed into a searing oven and crisped. The alcohol sour arrives, but it isn’t as off-putting as one might think. In fact, with the arrival of almonds and chocolate mixed with simmering cream, the alcohol helps bring balance to something that seems as though it is becoming almost too sweet. Well played.

The finish is a lengthy coating of the sweets. It’s nice for a little while, but then, in my opinion, it overstays its welcome. I needed a glass of water to finally shoo it away completely.

Overall, as I said, it seems like a pleasant enough elixir of sugary booze. In fact, it feels a little like drinking a liqueur as opposed to a liquor – the difference being that a liquor is a distilled spirit made from particular grains or plants, but a liqueur is a drink that has liquor infused into it. The El Dorado 15-year-old seems a little more like Rum was put into it rather than itself being the actual Rum.

Sort of like the honorable Senator from Florida finding his way into our game of Marco Polo.

Review – Old Grand Dad 100, Kentucky Straight Bourbon, Bonded, (No Age Stated), 50%

Souvenir shops can be interesting places – wondrously delightful backwaters offering uniquely colorful items and situations from both regionally and around the world.

From crass t-shirts you usually only see worn by that particular uncle who, in most families, is the one member most only appreciate seeing for a few hours once a year at the family reunion…

…to what was once a proud 12-foot alligator now stuffed and surrounded by giant novelty sunglasses and useless knick-knacks…

…to restroom facilities that immediately retool your innermost desires, that is, upon first glance you become convinced that you don’t have to go as badly as you think you do.

With such a vast array of items and experiences, it’s hard to choose the right one. And yet, as I marched along following the kids – weaving in and out of tight aisles telling them to put down the item they just picked up, demanding that they take off the hat they just put on for fear of lice or ringworm – there was one item that stood out for me the most, and not because it was flamboyantly obtuse, but because it managed to blend its weirdness in a way that wasn’t all that interesting until you actually considered what it was trying to display.

Minnie Mouse, right? No big deal.

Except the kindly cartoon mouse looks a little surprised that we caught her burrowing up and out of a human chest as we thought only the grab-jaw aliens chasing Sigourney Weaver could do. And I’m guessing there’s no blood because she’s also a vampire. Minnie drained the unsuspecting t-shirt victim before tearing herself free from the corpse.

I was more tempted to buy this item than any other in the store, but better judgment convinced me that the regular passerby would never fully understand the real reason I was wearing a pink Minnie Mouse shirt. I can hear one now:

“Look at that guy in the pink Minnie Mouse shirt. He’s an animated one, I’ll bet. Reminds me of Uncle Steve.”

Forget Uncle Steve. It reminds me of the bonded Old Grand Dad 100.

This stuff blends in with the other Bourbons on the shelf, at least until a friend gifts you with a sample that enables you to recognize its distinctiveness among the many.

The first thing you’ll notice is, like Minnie, this stuff has some unexpected zest. When the cap is removed, it pops out of the bottle’s innards with the scent of corn that’s been marinated in a pepper and pulpy orange juice blend.

You don’t need much of a sip to notice the whiskey is struggling to decide if it wants to be friendly or mean, jolly or chest-bursting. There’s a vanilla-like gentleness at first, but then some cayenne pepper grabs hold and rattles you before turning back to give room for what seemed like a pinch of sweet rye.

The finish reminded me of Jim Beam. Not good. Cut with a little bit of water, it regains a level of its pleasantness, although the palate loses quite a bit of its notable zip.

I suppose I might consider buying a bottle. But I also thought about using the toilet at the souvenir shop.

On second thought, I think I’ll hold off on this one. It’s too weird even for a guy in a pink shirt sporting a devilishly vicious Minnie Mouse.