Christopher Ian Thoma's Blog, page 43

Review – Highland Park, Dark Origins, (No Age Stated), 46.8%

Loki propped one leg up on the coffee table. “You know,” he said while turning his crystal goblet and examining the whisky swirling within, “dad’s name, Odin, actually translates from the human Norse as ‘Master of Ecstasy.’”

“I know this, brother,” Thor offered while dredging the sofa cushions for the TV remote.

Still observing his whisky, Loki continued, “But wouldn’t you agree that he’s nothing of the sort?”

“For what purpose do you bring this prattle to my ears?” Thor’s irritation was showing. “Help me find the blasted device that manipulates this mystic box.”

“If the people only knew that he resides in his quarters most often with nothing more than a loin cloth and can of Pabst Blue Ribbon, one shan’t believe that he’d be known and revered as Odin. Maybe Odius… Or perhaps Allfather Bob.”

“You tire me with your ramblings, Loki,” Thor growled. “Give me your assistance.”

“Do you know what my name means to them?” the lesser brother continued. But before Thor could answer, “It means ‘to break.’”

“At this, dear Loki, I am not astonished,” Thor said tossing cushions to one side and another. “Where is that beguiling… Ah! Behold, I’ve discovered it!”

Thankfully the cushion for the section of the couch that Thor intended to occupy as his throne was resting atop Mjölnir, and so with an outstretched arm, the hammer whisked to the thunder god’s right grasp, and by its swift travel, the couch cushion was carried to his left.

“Did you see that, Loki?” he said tossing the cushion beneath himself and plopping down. “Only a true warrior may accomplish such skillful deeds.”

“Yeah, great,” Loki said with disinterest. “What shall we watch this eve?”

Scrolling through to the Netflix icon, “I desire to finish season four of The Walking Dead.”

“Oh, not again, you bucolic swine,” Loki whined. “I grow so tired of these apocalyptic wanderers. The only one to be revered is Daryl, and it is all but certain that he’ll die soon.”

“Watch your tongue, brother,” Thor leaned in, “for if Daryl is ever found lying in the dust, it is done. T’will be a rebellion in the heavens, and I will be obliged to lead the battalions through the gates of AMC.”

“I’m not watching The Walking Dead. It’s lame.”

“You are mistaken, for this is our fate this night.”

“I tell you, I am not watching The Walking Dead.”

“Heed my words, brother,” Thor burned and pointed to the TV screen, “Rick will be before us in moments. We are watching The Walking Dead.”

Loki reached for his scepter. Thor was still holding Mjölnir. There was a distant crack of thunder.

Loki smiled and set his scepter down. He exchanged it for a bowl of popcorn. “Can’t we be civil, brother?” he asked and tossed a handful into his mouth. “There’s no need to destroy the rec room once more.”

A moment passed. “Yes, brother,” Thor conceded. “Let us not quibble again, for I’ve been searching eBay for many days trying to find another life-sized ‘Andy Griffith’ standup after the other was destroyed. My heart remains scarred by this.”

“Here,” Loki said pouring a generous three-fingers portion of the Highland Park Dark Origins into Thor’s empty goblet. “Drink with me and we shall decide in equity.”

“Yes, this is a fine edition, brother,” Thor smiled. Loki’s offering was already bringing calm. “I’ve enjoyed it before with Erik Selvig on Earth.”

“Aye, she smells of a clean sweet sherry, doesn’t she?”

“She does,” Thor grinned. “But there’s more. She seeks to convince me that she is bringing fresh fruits to the assembly, and each has been warmed in a chocolate drum.”

“I say, you speak truth, brother,” Loki sighed. “The palate confirms your deduction.”

“Indeed, and there, right there is a portion of smoke, just beyond the chocolate. Did you sense it, Loki?”

“I did, Thor. It is as a distant morning haze that has just crossed into Asgard from the iron camps in the border countries. ‘Tis the sweet smell of burnished steel forged in peat fires.”

“Ah, but the finish is too swift, too fresh.” Thor poured another clip. “It would be finer with a longer, a firmer clasp.”

“Perhaps,” Loki smiled. He put his hand on Thor’s shoulder. “But still, it is has stirred a peaceful countenance between us, brother.”

“Yes, Loki,” Thor agreed, “it has.” Still holding Mjölnir, he laid the weapon on the coffee table and reached across his chest to affirm Loki’s hand on his shoulder. “I am your humble servant, brother,” he said gently. “What shall we watch?”

“Downton Abbey?”

“Aye, Downton Abbey it is.”

Review – Clan MacGregor Fine Blended Scotch Whisky, (No Age Stated), 40%

I don’t know the first thing about marketing, but I’d be willing to bet that there’s a marketing textbook somewhere with an infographic that identifies a particular range of acceptability for a product’s character icon design. And I’ll bet that within the range of acceptability presented, at the bottom of the scale there are the words “Must get the product to market – No time for creativity.” I’ll wager that a little further up the scale the reader will discover “Is completely irrelevant to the product, but will sell to the droning masses.” And then finally, a great distance from eitherof these, at the top of the scale, the word “Perfect” sits alone.

In that same book, examples are provided.

In the “Must get the product to market…” section, you’ll find pictures of products that all have one thing in common. Essentially, they’re all simple renditions of the core product they represent adorned with arms, legs, eyes, and a mouth. Sometimes the marketing geniuses just explode with creativity and even slap a hat on the character.

“So, you need a product character for your tire company? Okay, I got it…”

“You’re looking for characters who really capture the ‘M&M’ tradition? How about this…”

“You want something that will communicate that you’re selling little cereal squares with frosting on them? Done. Get this to print, my good man.”

Of course, some companies look for salability by way of complete irrelevancy. Take “Tony the Tiger” for example. Yes, I know that Tony is quite the high powered character and that when you see him you know exactly what he represents. But imagine having been around when he first appeared on the store shelves in 1951.

Thumbing the lip, the shopper says quietly, “Enough of that boring ol’ oatmeal for breakfast. Let’s try something new. Hmm… What’s this with the man-eating jungle cat on the box? Frosted Flakes? Oh, I get it. This must be one of those new health foods. I’ll bet it’s made in Cambodia or some weird place like that. And the frosting, it’s probably finely-ground tiger bone.”

Yeah, probably.

I sure am glad that Scotch whisky companies haven’t decided to use product characters. Although when it comes to product quality, I sometimes wonder if certain distilleries are working with a scale similar to the one I noted above. I think that the sample of the Clan MacGregor edition before me now (which was provided by a liquor store friend who, with great compassion, did not want me to waste my money) is one that holds firm roots in the careless “Must get the product to market…” category.

It’s terrible. Even though the Scotch laws demand that a whisky be kept for a minimum of three years in the barrel, this one couldn’t have been in there much longer than ten or twelve minutes. But what do you expect? The folks who make shizah like this don’t abide by rules of quality, and so it’s a bottom-shelf potion for a reason.

The nose is nothing short of decamethylcyclopentasiloxane. Oh, sorry. That’s a chemical used in electrical contact cleaners. Dry and quite piercing, but it certainly is very usable around the house.

The palate is less bitter, but just as toxic. There’s a hint of something sweet, but only insofar as what can be discerned from licking the blackened bottom of a frying pan that was used to incinerate a pineapple as if it were a heretic refusing to recant.

The finish is a very light coating of the pineapple cinders – still warm and, thankfully, rather swiftly fleeting.

In the end, if I were at the helm of the Clan MacGregor group, I’d do my best to shawl this elixir for relevance. More exactly, here’s what I’d do. I’d repackage the whisky into spray bottle form and give it a new name – Clan MacGregor’s Rim and Tire Cleaner. In this case, I’d say that’s about as close to the “Perfect” mark as you can get with this rubbish.

Review – High West Double Rye, (No Age Stated), 46%

I love my family. I love Scotch. But do you want to know what else I love?

The Millennium Falcon.

Go ahead and call me a Star Wars nerd. My skin is thick. I heartily accept the label. To make the point by way of example, if I can handle receiving a phone call the afternoon before Christmas Eve – a conversation by which the caller, while venting a personal struggle, proceeded to find the desired comfort by insulting me personally and rather brutally – if I can handle such deflating disparagement before the night of nights, then trust me, I can handle being named a Star Wars drip.

I took my son to see Star Wars Episode VII, and he being like his father, smiled brightly when the infamous ship that so many characters in the story have referred to as a piece of junk lifted off, was perilously pursued by First Order Tie Fighters, and was once again found as the champion.

I guess I appreciate the Falcon in sort of a vicarious way. She’s always taking crap. She’s always getting flown into and pummeled by asteroids, shackled by tractor beams, swallowed by massive space worms, blasted by Star Destroyers and Tie Fighters, and sabotaged by Sith Lord lackeys – and still she’s got a special set of innards which makes her the most reliable, most endearing, and most victorious ship in that galaxy far, far away. Like the Falcon, time and time again a pastor will almost certainly find himself in tight spots, being beaten nearly to death by various forces (verbal, mental, and the like). He knows that the perpetrators will suffer very little if any consequence, and that once they realize he survived, they’ll be after him again with fuller squadrons. Still, with careful piloting, he’ll make it through to another day.

I suppose I am sharing this with you because, well, it came to mind as I started to type, but also as it taps ever-so-slightly against the High West Double Rye’s hull.

I shan’t ever fly the Millennium Falcon, but there remains a vague comparison between us that makes me smile. The High West Double Rye shan’t ever be Scotch, and yet I should say that it has a similar set of innards which at least allows for a reaching comparison in charm.

I was a little disappointed at first when I popped the stopper. Not only did the wooden knob top snap off with much of the cork still embedded, but when I finally set it free and was able to give the whiskey beyond it a nosing, it smelled liked ketchup – that’s it, just ketchup – and Hunts not Heinz. Hunts is a little sweeter in my humble opinion.

With that, I expected the first sip to be underdeveloped and almost certainly sub-par, and yet I was nicely startled by a semi-sweet, well balanced, near-warm, and amply ryed dram.

There was a bit of a spicy basil frisson in the finish which momentarily distracted from the rye, but having a medium to long varnish left plenty of time and room for its scales to come into balance and deliver an even conclusion.

Sure, I’ll admit that I entertained the possibility of giving this Bourbon a place in the cabinet with the rest of my Scotch collection. For a moment, that is.

Review – Glengoyne, 25 Years Old, 48%

Oh, the weather outside is… a balmy 61 degrees and windy.

But the fire is… only happening because my recycle bin is overflowing with Amazon boxes and I haven’t the patience to break them all down and bind them, so they’re going straight into the fire pit. Done.

And since we’ve no place to go… well, actually, I won’t be sitting around anywhere. I’m a pastor. It’s Christmas Eve. Much – very much – is happening.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow… No! Just one “let it snow” will do. The other two can feel free to carry north to Canada. Three “let it snows” is a call for the evening travels of God’s people making their way to church to be treacherous.

It doesn’t show signs… that we’ll even get one “let it snow.” That’s good news.

And I’ve bought some corn for… icing my back. It’s been sore lately because of the stranger weather, and a bag of frozen corn works well as an ice pack.

The lights are turned… on in every single room of the house while the kids polish their rooms and do a general cleanup in anticipation of Santa. It’s sort of a last ditch effort to use the fast-fleeting fable in my favor. Get to work, guys. Santa’s watching.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow… Yeah, about that. I heard that a tornado touched down in a nearby city.

When we finally kiss goodnight… it will be about 1:30 a.m. because that’s when I’ll get home from the late service.

How I’ll hate going out in the… Florida-like weather. But I don’t hate it. I like it. I like Florida. I want every Christmas to be like this.

But if you really hold… “on loosely, but don’t let go. If you cling too tightly, you’re gonna lose control.” Sorry about that. Weird how a song from the 80s can land on you in the middle of a serious conversation. Weird.

All the way home I’ll be… thinking about my Christmas Eve tradition of sipping a most exceptional dram. Tonight it is the Glengoyne 25-year-old.

As you can see from the initial photo, I’ve already given it a go. Wonderful. Just wonderful. And I’ll be back at its stoop first thing tonight – or should I say tomorrow morning at 1:30 a.m.

The nose of this whisky is a gentle tide of caramel-filled Lindor chocolates, a pinch of almond dust, and a drop of sherry sediment.

The palate is both sweet and spicy. The oak is there – warm, with an allspice berry coating. But soon thereafter, a sweeter nutmeg rolls in with a candied sherry fruitiness in its wake.

Now, before judging the finish, go back and reconsider the nose and palate once more. Pay close attention. I think you’ll find that both are preserved in and through to what is a medium to long coating in the conclusion.

Superb.

Indeed, twenty-five years is a long time to wait for perfection’s discovery. I suppose that in the moment, the only analogy of equal comparison that comes to mind would be that of my marriage. It was nearly the same measure of time between my birth and the discovered perfection known to me as my darling Jennifer. And of course, when the discovery was made, I didn’t hesitate. I thanked the Lord for the gift, I savored it, and made it my own.

The Glengoyne 25-year-old edition is of lesser grandeur than my marriage, to be sure, but it certainly stirs one to a sentience that, if it is at all within your power to take it, to keep it, to make it your own, then do it. Its splendor and delight far outweigh any bout of pinch and pain in the pocketbook.

A Note of the Nativity for My Readers

You should expect nothing less from a pastor.

You know the story, yes?

It’s the chronicle of a joyous event which resonated throughout the land in that day, everyone in the kingdom rejoicing in celebration.

The word has gone out that under the plenty care of the kingdom’s finest doctors and maids, the young mother, Mary, has given birth to a son, the heir.

We are swept away to the majestic palace high atop the hill, sturdied by brick and mortar, its towers raising high above the earth, adorned in smooth limestone carvings and gilded with gold trimmings, massive and mighty in posture against the horizon; the only proper and suitable location for the birth of the King of Kings, to be sure.

We are enjoined with our city – neighbors and kin, thousands upon thousands, as we pass through the ranks of legionnaires encamped near the city wall in tribute and honor, the rumbling of hooves and steeds clad in sterling armor. We travel past these regiments and through the grand arches of the forecourt gate, the palace walls lifting high, mounted and carefully guarded by parading soldiers looking down upon the crowd with readiness to keep order, men who will serve the will of this new King. We are carried along like a river to the palace door, being pressed on all sides by a populace excitedly awaiting with great hopefulness to get only a glimpse of the One who was born and will reign with Divine supremacy and strength.

Very few are privileged to press into and through the palace entrance. Only the clean, only those who are worthy, well-dressed, with unsoiled clothes and boots. Only the finest will be satisfactory. Each of these in acceptable form are allowed in, pressing and taking eager positions within the vastness of the ornate vestibule swept clean with no traces of dust or filth, pauper or pest.

Looking up we see the partitioned ceilings soaring into the sky, painted with images and revealing chandeliers of fire and diamond gildings that glisten. The walls shout silently with colored flags and banners unfurled. The throne room hall is festooned for the new King.

The throne chancel before us is ready. In its apse the minstrels are playing. The steps are sided by trumpeters in blazing red coats, prepared to sound the call of honor and prestige with fine-tuned blasts of exquisite harmony. The cathedrae for the joyous mother and father are stately and fine, indeed. Each seat is plush with purples and velvets. Solid gold and hammered silver form their frames. The cradle for the newborn child holds it place in the midst of these. It is wrapped in regalia, garnished with rubies and emeralds and sapphires, steadied by a marble mount that must be hoisted by more than a man. It is flanked by the muscular brawn of royal guards whose swords are drawn and at the ready for their infant charge.

A few, only the best, the finest, the privileged, most noble and respectable in the kingdom – the ones who have sought the King’s favor by way of deed and treasure – only these are called forth by the court minister to visit and see.

But they are disappointed at their discovery.

Behold, the cradle is empty as are the cathedrae.

The guardians of this King of Kings will not sit in these.

The Son will not be found resting in this cradle.

This is not His story.

This was not God’s plan.

I am hearing the prophet Isaiah’s cadence drumming in my ears. His words describe the King’s birth, and yet they are absurd to my senses. They speak of lowliness and suffering, and by such modesty, the sketch begins, the payment for sin is wrought and there is forgiveness, there is peace: “The virgin will conceive and give birth to a Son… The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death and light has shined… For unto us a child is born, to us a son is given… He grew up before him like a tender shoot, and like a root out of dry ground. He had no beauty or majesty to attract us to him, nothing in his appearance that we should desire Him. He was despised and rejected by men, a man of sorrows, and familiar with suffering… Surely He took up our infirmities and carried our sorrows, yet we considered Him stricken by God, smitten by him and afflicted. He was pierced for our transgressions, he was crushed for our iniquities; the punishment that brought us peace was upon Him, and by His wounds we are healed.”

I am hearing the strangely tempo of the Apostle to the Gentiles, Paul, speaking with an astuteness sourced only by the power of the Holy Spirit: “God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; God chose what is low and despised in the world, even things that are not, to bring to nothing things that are, so that no human being might boast in the presence of God.”

There is no boasting in oneself before this newborn King. There is no pride to be had in one’s standing or one’s merits or deeds before this Son who comes lowly, who takes a place lower than yourself. This King you seek is found in the filth of an animal stable. No legions surrounding to fortify. No palace walls or guard towers. No archways or chandeliers – only the blackened deep of the sky glittered with stars; only a dim lantern and its flame flickering in the gentle breeze, bobbing and bouncing, casting lonely shadows on kindling thin walls.

And far from her home, in the lineage town of her new husband – a young girl – not a queen, but a virgin. She is pushing and sweating and crying. She is wrestling against the tears and sorrow and agony of childbirth. No family comforting her. No skilled doctors to aid. No handmaidens to give care. Her husband, a carpenter, not a king with an entourage at his beckoning. He is clutching her hand through the hours and aiding as he can, caressing her face, fetching her water, and praying to YaHWeH, the God of His forefather, David, for comfort and peace and wisdom to care for this little One who has been revealed to him as the Savior of the world.

And in the fullness of time, in the bloody mess of human birth, amidst the less-than-royal court of cattle, sheep and such, in the cool evening sheltered by the rickety roof, so little to protect from this world’s treachery, the child – Jesus – is born. He is the Son, the One whose Father is the eternal Creator. Here, the King of Kings is born. Here He may be found. He was not heralded by royal riders scattered through the countryside to gather the masses in joy to make haste to greet Him.

But soon it will be that a king sends his horsemen to find and kill Him.

Soon it will be that we hear the thundering hooves stampeding the streets of Bethlehem and taking the lives of the innocents while a heavenly provision is made for the Lord’s escape.

The Son came to that which was His own, but His own did not recognize Him. Here, in this throne room of humility, you will find Him. Trumpeted by angelic choirs to lowly, inadequate, undeserving, peasant shepherds who leave their flocks and travel across the plains of Bethlehem to discover their salvation. The first to visit and view Him – sweaty, sandals dirty, dirty fingernails, the animal stench, hands soiled from the grime of their trade – they kneel at the splintery manger in humility and faith and gaze into the eyes of this infant, hastily wiped clean and wrapped in swaddling clothes by an adoptive and nervous father, lowly and resting in a bed of hay. This is the sign they were given by the angel. And so they are now the first participants in that first, great Divine Service of worshipers who see and receive the incarnate God. These lowly, undeserving sinners hear and believe this Gospel of forgiveness and peace first preached by the angels, and they know without fear, they are beholding God in the flesh. And so they leave that grand and beautiful cathedral – the little stable – and they live and they breathe and they shout the message to all they find, only to return once more to the fields renewed.

This, now, is the story. It is your story.

It is this story that begins at Christmas and gives to you life.

It is this Gospel that rings out across the world on Christmas Eve in celebration of God’s great glory, wrapped up and seated in the wonderfully simple, mundane, less-than-spectacular, the scandalous event of Christmas.

Behold the King of Kings and the Lord of Lords, Jesus Christ. He is the lowly King who is born this day to serve you and bring to you peace with God. He is the sinless Son who will withstand the temptations of the devil. He is the worker of great miracles. He will give sight to the blind and legs to the lame. He will raise the dead to life. He is the faithful preacher of the Gospel, the One who receives sinners, forgives them, and makes them new. He is the innocent lamb led before the Sanhedrin and Pilate, the lamb led to His slaughter. He is the gracious Savior who gives Himself over fully to death on a cross to accomplish what we in the filthiness of our sin could not. He is the valiant victor who casts the stone door away from the tomb and breaks forth from the shackles of death with great might, bearing the scars which declare that the veil of sin which covers this world in darkness has been lifted. He is the One who ascends into heaven and sits at the right hand of the Father to rule over land, and sea, and air, and cosmos; all things within His domain.

May God grant to you the faith to bend your knees and kneel at the humble and crude cradle tomorrow night and Christmas Day, with a sure a certain hope that this child, born of Mary, was born for you.

O, come let us adore Him, Christ, the Lord!

— Reverend Christopher I. Thoma+

Review – The Macallan, Edition No. 1, (No Age Stated), 48%

G. K. Chesterton reminisced, “Once I planned to write a book of poems entirely about the things in my pocket. But I found it would be too long; and the age of the great epics is past.”

Indeed, the pocket things, little things – events, memories, challenges, nostalgia’s trinkets, and most especially those fleeting moments of flesh and blood.

I was laying across our bed, somewhat sideways, with my head on Jen’s tummy. She was scrolling through Christmas music on her iPad – a most serene moment. Not long after landing on a particular collection of classics, our daughter Madeline twirled her way into the room in a waltz and plopped onto the bed.

“Whatcha listening to?” she asked.

“Bing Crosby,” Jen answered.

There was a pause.

“Wait,” Maddy continued. “Isn’t that the Scotch daddy thinks is gross?”

Have you ever had your head on someone’s belly when they started to laugh? It’s an earthquake of sorts that I heartily recommend. Although I must warn you — a headache is a distinct possibility.

“No, honey,” Jen smiled. “That’s Scoresby.”

“Oh, yeah,” the little girl avowed with a wide smile daubed with a partial blush.

Slightly shaken, but still clear enough to encourage, “You were close, sweetie. Add two more letters to the mix and you have Scoresby,” I said.

“Well,” she concluded, “I should’ve figured you wouldn’t be listening to this if it had something to do with Scoresby, unless of course Momma was trying to torture you.”

I smiled, but even more so on the inside. Yes, the little things. She’s our little thing. I love this little girl.

Now, this is only a snippet of the joy she gives us, but still, as Chesterton insinuated, these individual oddments, these moments, are each important in their own way, and as each is added to the other, they form an ever-increasing roster of proof that Maddy, though she herself may be a “little thing,” the incalculably entrancing depository of her thoughtful character is enormous. She is already one that the world around her should be careful not miss, because I dare say that once she gains a footing as an adult and is no longer counted as little, she is going to be great – she is going to beam brightly.

I am lifting a dram of The Macallan Edition No. 1 in honor of this factualness, and rightly so, as there will never be another release of the Edition No. 1 just as there will never be another Maddy.

Allow for me to detail this verity.

With the cork in hand, having heard the snapping rush of air from its release, there is an altogether spellbinding rule of spiced sherry.

Captivated, you find the elixir reaches your mouth before you know you’ve poured the dram. No matter. It begins without you, but sweeps you along to share the éclair cake that has somehow taken into itself a morsel of the American Oak’s candor.

In medium stride, The Macallan Edition No. 1 twirls through and away, singing only of the little things in its pocket – the éclair was warm and mousse-filled, and the sherry, no matter what they tell you, was a creamy Dulce.

But wait, surely such extravagance is unreachable. Surely such finery is attainable only to those who must for endless ages collect the little things to create a sizeable sum.

Nay. It’s $99. In a short while, it can be yours…if you can find it.

There’s No One Like You – For Harry’s 9th Birthday

I’ve not shared a poem in a while. Here’s the most recent — a poem in honor of my son, Harrison, on the occasion of his 9th birthday.

—————

There is no one like you,

At least none that I know,

And I’ve been many places, ah, yes, ’tis be so—

Great cities with scrapers that make the sky glow;

To lowlands and valleys that dip well below.

But there’s no one like you

Who can outfox the most.

Why, your wit and your way is the tops, I dare boast.

While so many are reaching the rank of “almost,”

You’re off to the stratos, a vanishing ghost.

’Cause there’s no one like you,

There’s not one I can see

Whose smile is the sunshine ’pon glistening sea

For Momma and Daddy who are so blest to be

Of the ones who will love you for eternity.

And so, dear boy…

There is no one like you,

I can say as to flout.

Why, perhaps I’ll just rise up and let out a shout,

And I’ll tell the whole world as I dance all about

That there’s no one like Harry – ’Tis true, have no doubt!

There’s No One Like You — For Harry’s 9th Birthday

I’ve not shared a poem in a while. Here’s the most recent — a poem in honor of my son, Harrison, on the occasion of his 9th birthday.

—————

There is no one like you,

At least none that I know,

And I’ve been many places, ah, yes, ’tis be so—

Great cities with scrapers that make the sky glow;

To lowlands and valleys that dip well below.

But there’s no one like you

Who can outfox the most.

Why, your wit and your way is the tops, I dare boast.

While so many are reaching the rank of “almost,”

You’re off to the stratos, a vanishing ghost.

’Cause there’s no one like you,

There’s not one I can see

Whose smile is the sunshine ’pon glistening sea

For Momma and Daddy who are so blest to be

Of the ones who will love you for eternity.

And so, dear boy…

There is no one like you,

I can say as to flout.

Why, perhaps I’ll just rise up and let out a shout,

And I’ll tell the whole world as I dance all about

That there’s no one like Harry – ’Tis true, have no doubt!

Review – Bowmore, Small Batch, (No Age Stated), 40%

My review of the Aultmore 12-year-old sure did cause quite a stir. I received plenty of notes from all sorts of folks, some agreeable and pretty much slapping verbal high-fives, but others not so exuberant.

Everyone is entitled to an opinion, although I’m not so sure that all the folks who wrote to me to share their disdain for the way I dealt with the man in the moment actually read the review. I get the impression that they must be article “skimmers,” which means they scan an article, every now and then latching onto words and formulating a narrative, but ultimately, the chronicle is already being steered by an agenda and so it becomes an ignorant rant and a disjointed mess that completely misses the point. For example, read the review for yourself and then answer the following whimpering question I was asked: “Why were you so rude to him, Pastor Thoma?” Go ahead and read the review. I’ll wait right here…

The Aultmore Foggie Moss 12 Years Old.

I was really nice to the guy, wasn’t I? I respectfully called him “sir.” I was compassionate in that I spoke softly and gently in the context so as not to draw any unwanted attention to him or anyone around him. I apologized, unnecessarily, for bothering him with the request. I did all of these and so much more. He told me to kiss his ass. Who was rude to who?

Sheesh. Pay attention, folks.

I did take the liberty in the review of sharing what I felt like doing in the moment, but again, I refrained. And while I bore the brunt of the caustic affair, our practice of maintaining appropriate reverence in the Lord’s house was accomplished. But still, it’s at this intersection I should say to the “point-missing” mongers that I’m not all that concerned if you think the practice of removing head coverings in a church is “old-fashioned” or that asking someone to abide by such a practice is “unwelcoming.” The depth of such ignorance is iconized by the same commenters who went so far as to say that it doesn’t matter what anyone is wearing, that Jesus isn’t all that concerned with what’s happening in His house as long as people are there to be with Him.

You see, that’s the problem. And it’s a problem that is being perpetuated by ignorant Christians who really don’t represent the faith. These folks speak and act like the things that Jesus said and did really weren’t all that serious, that He was pretty much preaching a free-for-all religiosity; that He was just kind of saying stuff that sounded nice and that’s about it. They’re the same kind of folks who see Him dining with prostitutes and thieves and exclaim, “See, you can be a prostitute and a Christian!” These skimmers willfully breeze past rather important detail. For example, Jesus just told everyone within earshot that He was sitting with these people because they were sin-sick people and He was the doctor who could cure them. They were sinners. Sinners. Why do you go to the doctor when you are sick? Because being sick is bad. Being healthy is good. Jesus just said that, didn’t He? And with that, Jesus is indicating that these people came to Him, not because they knew He would be accepting of their lifestyles, but because they knew they were sinners, they were sorry, and they wanted to change. They knew Jesus could give them the forgiveness that would change them.

But some of you missed all that, didn’t you? Why, because for you, Jesus couldn’t possibly be someone to play by rules, because you are the kind of person who hears Jesus say, “Forgive your brother or the heavenly Father will not forgive you,” and you respond, “Great advice, Jesus. Something to consider.” Again, um, no. Jesus just gave you a little more than an extract of good advice to ponder. And you’d better take it seriously. He just said that if you are the kind of person to withhold forgiveness from someone who is seeking it, your prideful grudge is your god, you have no need of the Father’s grace, and you are lost.

But I guess to get a little closer to the point at hand, when it comes to what happens in the Lord’s house, Jesus cares. In fact, maybe just consider that time when Jesus got so ticked off with the folks who practiced the “anything goes” theology in the Lord’s house that He fashioned a bullwhip and started lashing them while He kicked over tables and spilled their “no-big-deal” crap all over the temple floor. That alone should convince you that even Jesus upholds standards in the place of worship. We can argue about what those standards are, but in the meantime, just know that I own a bullwhip and I played soccer in high school and college.

Finally, in order to land this craft safely on the runway of a whisky review, I’ll transition by mentioning that one friend contacted me to say he was glad I didn’t pull a “Saint Nicholas” on the guy. This is a reference to the historical Santa Claus – Saint Nicholas. It is recorded that at the Council of Nicaea in A.D. 325, after listening to Arius, a trouble-making Bishop from Egypt who was obstinately rejecting the Word of God and making the claim that Jesus was not equal to God the Father, the beloved and burly Nicholas stood up from his seat, walked over to heretic and slapped him across the face.

I’m not saying I would ever do this, but I think that if I did, I have the distinct feeling that Santa Claus probably wouldn’t put me on the naughty list. In fact, he’d probably mention my deed with a crooked smile to the fellow collegium of Early Church Fathers hovering in eternity, and then he’d buy me a bottle of the Bowmore Small Batch.

He’d deliver this one to my Christmas stocking because by doing so, he’d be trying to communicate that he’s not going to punish me for slapping the guy, but he’s also not going to reward me. To punish me, he’d get me Scoresby. To reward me, he’d give me The Balvenie.

This particular edition is, well, okay.

The nose is definitely sweet, being relatively openhanded with honey and curiously benevolent with a custard-like spoor. There’s very little in the nosing to suggest that this is an Islay whisky.

The palate captures the honey and custard from the nose, and then sees to the peat, but it’s almost too light to make the formulation interesting. Again, it’s not bad. It’s just not very interesting.

The finish is undersized. It barely repeats the nose and palate before it calls out, “Rides over folks. Thanks for coming.”

I suppose that the skimmers who are reading this review are probably gearing up to respond, but they’re also thinking that since Jesus was such a bland, no big deal, anything goes kind of guy, He’d probably like the Bowmore Small Batch edition, right?

Hold on a second while I turn up the Indiana Jones theme music and lace up my soccer cleats.

Review – Aultmore, Foggie Moss, 12 Years Old, 46%

The nave was full, and of course, because it was the evening of the annual Children’s Christmas worship service.

We don’t do things like many other churches these days. We are what some might term “old school.” In the broader denominational discussion, you will probably hear it referred to as “traditional.” In the end, for us it translates to mean that we don’t have projector screens. We don’t have rock bands. We don’t allow flash photography. The pastor wears vestments and preaches from the pulpit. We follow a lectionary. We adhere to the Church Year calendar. We subscribe to the historic rites and ceremonies. Our church naves and sanctuaries are maintained as places of reverence, and everything in those worship spaces communicates as such.

Our Children’s Christmas service occurs in our church nave. And because of what I just described to you, you can probably guess that we are highly mindful that the event is not a show. It isn’t a pageant. It is a worship service – the rather ancient Office of Evening Prayer – and the children are incorporated into appropriate roles of service during the event. If it were any of the other things I mentioned, it wouldn’t be happening in our nave. It would happen in our gymnasium.

Before the service begins, because we know people are quite capable of losing their minds when they see cute little children holding candles and singing hymns, we gather the children together in place for a photo opportunity. It’s during this time that friends and relatives have the opportunity to take the pictures that would be forbidden as distractions during the service. This is also the time when I remind the men to remove any head coverings, for all to turn off their cell phones, and finally, to repeat for parents the instruction to retrieve their children from their respective classrooms after the service has concluded.

The photos were taken, I gave a kindly and welcoming bit of instruction, and then the children proceeded to their places and I filed down the side aisle to get into place as well.

I passed a young gentleman, maybe in his late twenties, still wearing his stocking cap. The following is a general, but still precise, summary of what occupied the next five minutes of my life as a clergyman.

“Sir,” I said softly standing to the side of a condensed row of people, “thanks for being here. If you wouldn’t mind, would you please remove your hat before the service begins?”

There was dead silence. He refused to even acknowledge my presence. And to make sure that I was fully aware of the snuff, he looked away while most others in the row turned their attention toward me.

“Sir, again, I’m sorry to bother you, but please remove your hat. It’s our practice here at Our Savior that men remove their head coverings here in the nave.”

“I’m not taking my hat off,” he said snappily.

“Sir, please take your hat off before the service begins. This is our practice and it is maintained out of reverence for Christ.”

“Kiss my ass,” he chided below his breath still looking away.

I moved through the people in the row directly behind him so that I could get to a place where I was nearer to his ear.

“Sir, this is the Lord’s house,” I spoke more softly. “It is a house of Christian worship and prayer, and I am asking you kindly and humbly to remove your head covering.”

Leaning back slightly and turning to look me in the eye, “Where does it say in the Bible that I have to take my hat off?”

It’s a good thing that I am relatively able to maintain during situations like this because my first thought was to ask, “Sir, do you even know what a Bible looks like? Have you ever actually seen one?” And my second thought was to suggest and perhaps probe, “Sir, how about instead, you show me in the Holy Scriptures where it says that you are allowed to wear that stupid looking hat. And while you are there, show me where it says you are allowed to drive a car, wear jeans, or eat the onion-laden coney dog I smell on your nasty breath. You’re an idiot, aren’t you?”

But I didn’t say any of those things. Instead, I rattled off three particular texts for him to read, and in the following order: Romans chapters 2 and 3, 1 John 1, and 1 Corinthians 11. No verses, just chapters.

“There’s a bible right there,” I motioned. “Take a moment and read those particular chapters.”

“Which ones again?” he asked with an arrogance that suggested he was surprised that I was able to meet his challenge with some evidence.

I repeated the list in the same order, but then concluded, “And while you are reading, take your hat off.”

He reached for the pew bible in an agitated huff and started flipping through as though he were actively searching for locales with which he was already quite familiar. Of course, he was searching in the Old Testament. All of the texts I gave him were in the New Testament. And his hat was yet to be removed.

I stood right behind him at ear level and continued to urge him to take his hat off. The folks around him – folks who were obviously his friends and family – were becoming increasingly uncomfortable at his brazen discourteousness. He kept flipping around in the Bible for a moment longer, and then after another request, he finally reached up and pulled the stocking cap from his head. I thanked him and went to my position in the service processional.

I think a combination of the fact that he knew I would not leave until his hat was off and the embarrassed stares from his family provided some encouraging fodder for a changed mind.

By the way, only one of the texts I suggested, 1 Corinthians 11, actually says anything about head coverings. The first of the other two, Romans 2 and 3, speaks to God’s limited tolerance with deliberate and obstinate sin. In other words, God will only allow it for so long before judgment is leveled. The second, 1 John 1, allows for the reader to see that if we step away from that obstinacy, God is merciful and will forgive. I hope he actually reads these texts.

Now, before I get to the review, I have one last thing to offer here.

Hey, Millennials, who in the hell do you think you are?

What is it that has convinced you that you can walk into a particular context and expect the entirety of that context – all of the doctrine and practice arising from within a setting of 2,000 years of devotion – to be instantly retooled to meet your individual desires? And who do you think you are walking into this well-established circumstance with the expectation that because it wouldn’t reframe itself to you, you have the right to be incensed enough to accost the clergyman, distract the worshippers, and make a scene?

Before you answer, consider the following three propositions.

First, you need to know that while there are tons of churches out there trying to sell themselves – ready to be anything and everything to anyone and everyone just to get you through the door – there are plenty of other churches out there that are more interested in being faithful to Christ than accommodating the world. Be careful, because you might just bump into a church like that; and as nice as the people inside may attempt to be, you’ll probably walk out having had your poor little feelings hurt.

Second, at some point you need to realize that many of those churches were most likely around long before you were a wink in your mom’s eye and a smile on your dad’s face, and they will be around long after you have breathed your last.

Thirdly, you might want to consider that the current plague of radical individualism has so infected and consumed your brain that you are in dire straits, unable to think rationally or clearly, and in need of desperate help.

Just think about it.

To all others awaiting a review…

After an interaction like this, I couldn’t wait to get home and pour a dram. This time around it was a Speyside gem – the Aultmore 12.

The nose of this whisky is kind of rascally. So much so, I wasn’t sure if I was leaving one confrontation at our Children’s Christmas service for another. Straight out of the bottle, there is the scent of apple vinegar, but once it makes it into the dram, there are other fruits at work, and with that, there is a difficulty in really identifying them. I’d say that the most prominent are citrus — a lemon. Soon thereafter comes Golden Delicious apples and white table grapes. With a drop of water, there is orange juice and an almond hint.

The palate delivers a reasonable helping of malt while stirring up the citrus fruits once more, except now they’ve been baked. The almonds begin to fade in the medium finish, leaving behind what is a sense of warmed and pulpy citrus fruit cocktail.

Having now experienced this particular edition, I am intrigued to try the 21 and 25-year-old editions. But I suppose the better revelation here is that it is a good thing that I keep all of my whiskies at home and nowhere near my church office. Had there been a bottle nearby, the temptation to throw one’s hands into the air in a moment of extreme frustration very well could have overtaken me; and back in my office, having consulted with the aqua vitae, I might have discovered a more enthusiastic vigor and gone back out to negotiate with our stubborn visitor. Had this occurred, I’m pretty sure the situation would have been far different from what I described.