C.H. Cobb's Blog, page 28
February 6, 2012
My website is moving...
Within 24 hours, www.chcobb.com will no longer bring you here.
My blog will continue to be available here at chcobb.blogspot.com, including new posts.
However, I am creating a website at www.chcobb.com, and www.doorwaypress.com to support my writing efforts. You will always be able to access this blog through the Bible Fellowship Church website.
Hope this does not cause too many problems!
My blog will continue to be available here at chcobb.blogspot.com, including new posts.
However, I am creating a website at www.chcobb.com, and www.doorwaypress.com to support my writing efforts. You will always be able to access this blog through the Bible Fellowship Church website.
Hope this does not cause too many problems!
February 5, 2012
Science, and the appearance of age
Okay, I am giving up on the promisedspirit of inquiry/rebellion series. It's created a writer'sblock, and it's clogging up the pipes. I'm leaving it and movingon.
[If you know me, you know that whatreally happened isthat I forgot what I was going to say and simply can'tremember it. But I have to save face, somehow, so the writer's-blockdodge. Thankfully, most of you probably don't know me, so you won'tknow what reallyhappened to my promised-but-non-existent short series on the spiritof inquiry/rebellion.]
What is the primary argument of those who do not believe the Creation and fall account of Genesis1-3, but who do claim to be believers? It is not the so-called"figurative language" of Genesis 1-3. Believe me, the "figurativelanguage" does not miraculously appear until science backs you intoa corner. There's not much more straight-forward narrative inScripture than that of the first three chapters of Genesis. So whatis the primary argument of believing unbelievers?
The science does not support theGenesis account of creation.
Please forgive me if I am unimpressedwith this argument. It is the ultimate 'well, duh!' of thecreation debate. Of course science doesn't support the Genesis account, and what's more, itnever will! Science is not competent to passjudgment on the supernatural intervention of God, and whatever elsethe creation event might be, it is certainly that. One can not gofrom nothing—no matter, nospace, no time, no dimensions—to something (space, matter, time)without a little divine assistance. And science by definition doesnot do divineassistance.
God'sintervention in space and time is not predictable, not repeatable,and not falsifiable. Never was, never will be. You can not usescience to determine the age of the universe, because you are off therails of science when you go there. A creation event stands in the way, one that science is incapable of detecting.
Unless, of course, matter iseternal and God is not. But if you believe thatyou can no longer truly claim a belief in the God of the Bible.
But what about the many features ofthe cosmos that demand eons of time, such as radiometric dating,light from distant stars, and the geologic column?
Whatabout them? As believers, we clearly have two options: scientists aremaking assumptions about natural processes that are inaccurate, or at least, incomplete,and/or God created with the appearance of age.
God creating with the appearance ofage? That's silly! That's special pleading!
Oh,really? Silly, is it? Let's see how this works. If you were creating Adam, would you create himas a newly fertilized embryo, or as a fully functioning adult? Oh,wait, if you made him as an embryo he would need a womb in which todevelop. Oh, wait, if you need a womb, you need to create a sexuallymature woman. So even if you don't create Adam with the appearanceof age (Adam is an embryo), you must create something else which willnecessitate the appearance of age (an adult female—his momma). Soyou either create Adam with the appearance of age, or you have tocreate his momma with the appearance of age, or you have to drop theentire notion of creation and just admit that matter is eternal andGod is not.
If youtry to say that, well, God specially guided evolutionaryevents, including the development of the cell, all you have done isremand the problem to an earlier point in time, but you still ultimately windup with precisely the same problem (especially regarding themysterious bridge from the inanimate to the animate). You are still going to wind up with an appearance of age issue.
Thepoint is that any special creation whatsoever, at theorigin of life, will necessarily involve the appearance of age, evenif it is on a simple cellular level.No freshly created matter, organic or inorganic, at the point ofcreation is going to look likefreshly created matter. Rather, it is always goingto appear as though it has a past, so unless you want to make theclaim that God created nothing in order to get the current something,you are going to bump into the appearance of ageproblem.
This is even true in inorganics. Forinstance, suppose God creates any particle that has motion. We'llcall the time of creation n.Let's suppose you were an observer who came on the scene an instantafter creation, maybe at time n + 1.You could measure that particle's motion and then predict withcertainty its location at time n + 2.You could likewise predict with certainty that particle's locationat time n – 5. You'dbe wrong, of course, and never know it. You would not know that theparticle did not existat time n – 5. Why?Because the very regularity of its motion gives it the appearance ofage and erases any evidence of a beginning point.
Movewith me from a philosophical argument to a historical one. Did Jesusfeed multitudes from five loaves of bread? He did, in Luke 9. Whatwas required to feed five thousand people bread and fish? Answer?Lots and lots of bread and fish. But He had only five loaves and twofish. So what did he do? He obviously was creating bread and fish asHe handed it out. But wait! Bread has a history!Well, so do fish, for that matter, but we'll ignore them andconcentrate on the bread.
Wheredoes bread come from? Krogers, right? A bakery, right? So you have tobake bread. It takes—wait for it— time to bake bread. And the bread has to be made from dough. Where do youget dough? Flour, yeast, and mysterious things only my wifeunderstands (I don't cook, sorry). Where do you get flour from?It's ground-up wheat. It takes—wait for it— time to grind up wheat. And where do you get wheat from? Well, you have toplant a crop, and—wait for it—waitfor that crop to grow over an entire growing season. More time.Do you see the point? Wealready know that many of Jesus' miracles in the Gospels havethe appearance of elapsed time, or age.
Sounless you plan on throwing out Jesus' miracles in the Gospelswhile you are trashing Genesis 1-3, you are going to have to admitthat God has a clearly seen track record of making thingswith the appearance of age.
Andonce you admit that, the only problem with the Genesis account isyour refusal to believe it.
[If you know me, you know that whatreally happened isthat I forgot what I was going to say and simply can'tremember it. But I have to save face, somehow, so the writer's-blockdodge. Thankfully, most of you probably don't know me, so you won'tknow what reallyhappened to my promised-but-non-existent short series on the spiritof inquiry/rebellion.]
What is the primary argument of those who do not believe the Creation and fall account of Genesis1-3, but who do claim to be believers? It is not the so-called"figurative language" of Genesis 1-3. Believe me, the "figurativelanguage" does not miraculously appear until science backs you intoa corner. There's not much more straight-forward narrative inScripture than that of the first three chapters of Genesis. So whatis the primary argument of believing unbelievers?
The science does not support theGenesis account of creation.
Please forgive me if I am unimpressedwith this argument. It is the ultimate 'well, duh!' of thecreation debate. Of course science doesn't support the Genesis account, and what's more, itnever will! Science is not competent to passjudgment on the supernatural intervention of God, and whatever elsethe creation event might be, it is certainly that. One can not gofrom nothing—no matter, nospace, no time, no dimensions—to something (space, matter, time)without a little divine assistance. And science by definition doesnot do divineassistance.
God'sintervention in space and time is not predictable, not repeatable,and not falsifiable. Never was, never will be. You can not usescience to determine the age of the universe, because you are off therails of science when you go there. A creation event stands in the way, one that science is incapable of detecting.
Unless, of course, matter iseternal and God is not. But if you believe thatyou can no longer truly claim a belief in the God of the Bible.
But what about the many features ofthe cosmos that demand eons of time, such as radiometric dating,light from distant stars, and the geologic column?
Whatabout them? As believers, we clearly have two options: scientists aremaking assumptions about natural processes that are inaccurate, or at least, incomplete,and/or God created with the appearance of age.
God creating with the appearance ofage? That's silly! That's special pleading!
Oh,really? Silly, is it? Let's see how this works. If you were creating Adam, would you create himas a newly fertilized embryo, or as a fully functioning adult? Oh,wait, if you made him as an embryo he would need a womb in which todevelop. Oh, wait, if you need a womb, you need to create a sexuallymature woman. So even if you don't create Adam with the appearanceof age (Adam is an embryo), you must create something else which willnecessitate the appearance of age (an adult female—his momma). Soyou either create Adam with the appearance of age, or you have tocreate his momma with the appearance of age, or you have to drop theentire notion of creation and just admit that matter is eternal andGod is not.
If youtry to say that, well, God specially guided evolutionaryevents, including the development of the cell, all you have done isremand the problem to an earlier point in time, but you still ultimately windup with precisely the same problem (especially regarding themysterious bridge from the inanimate to the animate). You are still going to wind up with an appearance of age issue.
Thepoint is that any special creation whatsoever, at theorigin of life, will necessarily involve the appearance of age, evenif it is on a simple cellular level.No freshly created matter, organic or inorganic, at the point ofcreation is going to look likefreshly created matter. Rather, it is always goingto appear as though it has a past, so unless you want to make theclaim that God created nothing in order to get the current something,you are going to bump into the appearance of ageproblem.
This is even true in inorganics. Forinstance, suppose God creates any particle that has motion. We'llcall the time of creation n.Let's suppose you were an observer who came on the scene an instantafter creation, maybe at time n + 1.You could measure that particle's motion and then predict withcertainty its location at time n + 2.You could likewise predict with certainty that particle's locationat time n – 5. You'dbe wrong, of course, and never know it. You would not know that theparticle did not existat time n – 5. Why?Because the very regularity of its motion gives it the appearance ofage and erases any evidence of a beginning point.
Movewith me from a philosophical argument to a historical one. Did Jesusfeed multitudes from five loaves of bread? He did, in Luke 9. Whatwas required to feed five thousand people bread and fish? Answer?Lots and lots of bread and fish. But He had only five loaves and twofish. So what did he do? He obviously was creating bread and fish asHe handed it out. But wait! Bread has a history!Well, so do fish, for that matter, but we'll ignore them andconcentrate on the bread.
Wheredoes bread come from? Krogers, right? A bakery, right? So you have tobake bread. It takes—wait for it— time to bake bread. And the bread has to be made from dough. Where do youget dough? Flour, yeast, and mysterious things only my wifeunderstands (I don't cook, sorry). Where do you get flour from?It's ground-up wheat. It takes—wait for it— time to grind up wheat. And where do you get wheat from? Well, you have toplant a crop, and—wait for it—waitfor that crop to grow over an entire growing season. More time.Do you see the point? Wealready know that many of Jesus' miracles in the Gospels havethe appearance of elapsed time, or age.
Sounless you plan on throwing out Jesus' miracles in the Gospelswhile you are trashing Genesis 1-3, you are going to have to admitthat God has a clearly seen track record of making thingswith the appearance of age.
Andonce you admit that, the only problem with the Genesis account isyour refusal to believe it.
January 21, 2012
Cat tales
Had an encounter today with a cat.
Wait, before I tell you about the cat, let me get a guilty thought off my chest. Some of you may be wondering, "where are the posts on the 'spirit of rebellion/spirit of inquiry' you were babbling about?"
Well, one of them is in my drafts folder, waiting to get refined. Probably happen in the next couple of days, then posted. I write better when riled. Actually, that's not quite accurate. I am more motivated to write when riled. And I'm not riled at the moment. Probably ought to pick up a copy of Christianity Today , or some such, and get good and steamed, then sit down at my computer. Whatever.
Back to the cat. There is [was] a cat hanging around that's a dead ringer for Ivy (Lauri's cat). Beautiful green eyes. Beautiful two-tone grey and white fur. She's a momma cat, or at least about to be a momma cat, very, very soon [news flash: Ivy herself is not about to be a momma cat nor will she ever be, so the similarity ends there].
This cat's been hanging around our yard. We discovered that she has discovered our uncovered window-well, where the dryer vents. It's under our eaves, never gets wet, sometimes gets warm (when the dryer is running).
Our temperatures have been frigid lately, and we've been worried about momma cat. She curls into a tight little ball in that window-well, and shivers and crys, and well, it just gets to you. We can see her from inside the laundry room, through the window in the window-well.
So my wife, my animal-disliking wife, my I-don't-like-cats wife, came to me a few days ago with the old bathroom rug in her hands, and instructs me to put it at the bottom of the window-well for momma cat (I'm gonna name her Holly. Get it? The Holly and the Ivy? Get it? Never mind.) (Oh, by the way, it's the cat I am referring to. My wife is Doris.)
My wife comes and says, 'Put this in the window-well so she won't be so cold.'
I says, 'You feeling okay, babe? Are you all right?'
So I put it at the bottom of the window-well, made it a little more cozy for Holly (it's hard to consider 12 degrees cozy, but at least it's 12 degrees while on a bathroom rug).
Last night it was snowing hard, and Dor and I stood down in the laundry room in the basement watching the cat through the window. Dor says, 'Isn't there anything else we can do for her?'
I says, 'Maybe we can put an old blanket out there for her,' fully expecting that Dor would not want to go to that extent. Once that blanket goes in the window-well, it's never coming back in the house.
She says, 'Okay. How about that old pink and white one?'
Knock me down with a feather. Are my ears deceiving me?
So I clump outside into the snow, arrange that blanket a bit. Holly darted out of the window-well when I approached, but I knew she'd be back soon. We turned the dryer on with no clothes in it, set it for about 45 minutes. Holly came back and was soon snuggled into the blanket.
This morning Dor and I decided the cat had to go to the shelter, lest it and all its soon-to-come kittens die in this weather. We both clumped out in the snow, big cardboard box in hand. The plan was that I would get Holly and Dor would close the box and hold it shut. We had not consulted the cat, and I was betting she would be voting against this plan.
So I was wearing an old coat that I did not mind if it got shred to ribbons. I was wearing two pairs of gloves. If I'd had a football helmet, I'd have been wearing that, too. I was expecting a significant disagreement from the cat. We did not think the box would attack Doris, so she was not wearing any sort of body armor.
Being somewhat of a cat-whisperer myself, I sweet-talked the cat as we approached. Never have figured out why cats, momma cats in particular, talk baby-talk, but there you have it. Anyway, my golden tongue was sufficient to let me get my heavily gloved hands around that cat, but quite insufficient to get her into the box. She immediately panicked, made more moves than I thought possible for a pregnant feline, and went dashing through the snow.
But she did not go over the fence. Could have had something to do with the fact that she was too heavily loaded down for take-off, I don't know. But after a moment, believe it or not, I managed to sweet-talk her right over to our back door. Told you I was a cat-whisperer. Of course, the bowl of food I had put down in the snow might have helped as well. She ate greedily, as though starved. Poor thing.
As she was eating, I'd reach out and slide the bowl a little closer to the back door. She was a little shy, but within five minutes she was in our sunroom, and we shut the door. Each action resulted in a bad case of nerves for the cat, but she kept coming back to the food.
Time for the box. I got hold of her and got her into the box. Doris got the lid shut, but Holly made such a commotion she managed to destroy the box and get away from us.
Dor and I just looked at each other. Now that dumb cat was terrified of us, our box was destroyed, and we were going to have to chase her around the house just to maneuver her to where we could try again.
Not really. More sweet-talk, more food, and soon she was purring and letting me pet her, walking back and forth and rubbing against my leg. I was beginning to wonder who was sweet-talking whom.
It took, I think, two more tries and we finally got her into a plastic tub and put a child-safety fence piece over the top of it. Bungeed it down good and tight.
Animal Shelter charged us five dollars to take her. Glad they did not notice she's pregnant. Wonder if they would have charged me for the whole lot, mom and kitties, too.
Now if you go to the Darke County Animal Shelter, there is a beautiful grey and white cat, with lovely green eyes, and a meow that just melts your heart. She's going to be having kittens soon. If you like her, take her home with you. If she's still there after she's had her babies, well. . . , I think she may have sweet-talked my wife. Not me, of course. I'm immune to that sort of thing.
Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .
Wait, before I tell you about the cat, let me get a guilty thought off my chest. Some of you may be wondering, "where are the posts on the 'spirit of rebellion/spirit of inquiry' you were babbling about?"
Well, one of them is in my drafts folder, waiting to get refined. Probably happen in the next couple of days, then posted. I write better when riled. Actually, that's not quite accurate. I am more motivated to write when riled. And I'm not riled at the moment. Probably ought to pick up a copy of Christianity Today , or some such, and get good and steamed, then sit down at my computer. Whatever.
Back to the cat. There is [was] a cat hanging around that's a dead ringer for Ivy (Lauri's cat). Beautiful green eyes. Beautiful two-tone grey and white fur. She's a momma cat, or at least about to be a momma cat, very, very soon [news flash: Ivy herself is not about to be a momma cat nor will she ever be, so the similarity ends there].
This cat's been hanging around our yard. We discovered that she has discovered our uncovered window-well, where the dryer vents. It's under our eaves, never gets wet, sometimes gets warm (when the dryer is running).
Our temperatures have been frigid lately, and we've been worried about momma cat. She curls into a tight little ball in that window-well, and shivers and crys, and well, it just gets to you. We can see her from inside the laundry room, through the window in the window-well.
So my wife, my animal-disliking wife, my I-don't-like-cats wife, came to me a few days ago with the old bathroom rug in her hands, and instructs me to put it at the bottom of the window-well for momma cat (I'm gonna name her Holly. Get it? The Holly and the Ivy? Get it? Never mind.) (Oh, by the way, it's the cat I am referring to. My wife is Doris.)
My wife comes and says, 'Put this in the window-well so she won't be so cold.'
I says, 'You feeling okay, babe? Are you all right?'
So I put it at the bottom of the window-well, made it a little more cozy for Holly (it's hard to consider 12 degrees cozy, but at least it's 12 degrees while on a bathroom rug).
Last night it was snowing hard, and Dor and I stood down in the laundry room in the basement watching the cat through the window. Dor says, 'Isn't there anything else we can do for her?'
I says, 'Maybe we can put an old blanket out there for her,' fully expecting that Dor would not want to go to that extent. Once that blanket goes in the window-well, it's never coming back in the house.
She says, 'Okay. How about that old pink and white one?'
Knock me down with a feather. Are my ears deceiving me?
So I clump outside into the snow, arrange that blanket a bit. Holly darted out of the window-well when I approached, but I knew she'd be back soon. We turned the dryer on with no clothes in it, set it for about 45 minutes. Holly came back and was soon snuggled into the blanket.
This morning Dor and I decided the cat had to go to the shelter, lest it and all its soon-to-come kittens die in this weather. We both clumped out in the snow, big cardboard box in hand. The plan was that I would get Holly and Dor would close the box and hold it shut. We had not consulted the cat, and I was betting she would be voting against this plan.
So I was wearing an old coat that I did not mind if it got shred to ribbons. I was wearing two pairs of gloves. If I'd had a football helmet, I'd have been wearing that, too. I was expecting a significant disagreement from the cat. We did not think the box would attack Doris, so she was not wearing any sort of body armor.
Being somewhat of a cat-whisperer myself, I sweet-talked the cat as we approached. Never have figured out why cats, momma cats in particular, talk baby-talk, but there you have it. Anyway, my golden tongue was sufficient to let me get my heavily gloved hands around that cat, but quite insufficient to get her into the box. She immediately panicked, made more moves than I thought possible for a pregnant feline, and went dashing through the snow.
But she did not go over the fence. Could have had something to do with the fact that she was too heavily loaded down for take-off, I don't know. But after a moment, believe it or not, I managed to sweet-talk her right over to our back door. Told you I was a cat-whisperer. Of course, the bowl of food I had put down in the snow might have helped as well. She ate greedily, as though starved. Poor thing.
As she was eating, I'd reach out and slide the bowl a little closer to the back door. She was a little shy, but within five minutes she was in our sunroom, and we shut the door. Each action resulted in a bad case of nerves for the cat, but she kept coming back to the food.
Time for the box. I got hold of her and got her into the box. Doris got the lid shut, but Holly made such a commotion she managed to destroy the box and get away from us.
Dor and I just looked at each other. Now that dumb cat was terrified of us, our box was destroyed, and we were going to have to chase her around the house just to maneuver her to where we could try again.
Not really. More sweet-talk, more food, and soon she was purring and letting me pet her, walking back and forth and rubbing against my leg. I was beginning to wonder who was sweet-talking whom.
It took, I think, two more tries and we finally got her into a plastic tub and put a child-safety fence piece over the top of it. Bungeed it down good and tight.
Animal Shelter charged us five dollars to take her. Glad they did not notice she's pregnant. Wonder if they would have charged me for the whole lot, mom and kitties, too.
Now if you go to the Darke County Animal Shelter, there is a beautiful grey and white cat, with lovely green eyes, and a meow that just melts your heart. She's going to be having kittens soon. If you like her, take her home with you. If she's still there after she's had her babies, well. . . , I think she may have sweet-talked my wife. Not me, of course. I'm immune to that sort of thing.
Here kitty, kitty, kitty. . .
January 9, 2012
An amazing day
Sunday's Worship service this week was one of those that you file away in your storehouse of special memories. God was at work in an unusual way.
We (BFC) had the joy and priviledge of baptizing five individuals, whose stories varied from a young woman coming out of a sinful lifestyle, to a couple whose marriage is being restored and who are now finding their identity in Christ, to a teen with Downs Syndrome who now grasps the Gospel of Christ, to a child from a solid, Christ-loving home. Pastor Robb read each of their testimonies to the congregation. Unforgettable!
We had the joy of celebrating the Lord's supper with a congregation moved by the redemption and grace of Christ, all of us having backgrounds steeped in multiple sorts of sins. As I have often said, if you were to describe our church with some sort of metaphor, it would be that BFC is not a museum of polished pieces, but an emergency room with blood all over the floor. We understand what it means to be forgiven, and we delight in that forgiveness!
We had the inexpressible honor of hearing a young mother describe her surgery for a brain tumor that appeared without warning, the surgery leaving her partially paralyzed on her left side. She sat in a wheelchair, this mom of a seven-year old, and described how God was transforming her and her husband's lives through tragedy and suffering, and how, through Christ, God was giving them joy inexpressible and peace unexplainable.
God was at work in unusual ways. A young man, twentysomething, could plainly see that Christ brings grace and peace to those who are broken, no matter how difficult the circumstances, and has decided to study the Gospel with me for the next six weeks or so, wondering if God can do the same for him. A woman who does not attend our church, awoke yesterday morning with a strange urge to come to BFC. After the service she, in tears, related to one of our deacon's wives her grief at the loss of her husband a year ago. She said, "this was exactly what I needed to hear this morning."
Amazing. God is so good.
We (BFC) had the joy and priviledge of baptizing five individuals, whose stories varied from a young woman coming out of a sinful lifestyle, to a couple whose marriage is being restored and who are now finding their identity in Christ, to a teen with Downs Syndrome who now grasps the Gospel of Christ, to a child from a solid, Christ-loving home. Pastor Robb read each of their testimonies to the congregation. Unforgettable!
We had the joy of celebrating the Lord's supper with a congregation moved by the redemption and grace of Christ, all of us having backgrounds steeped in multiple sorts of sins. As I have often said, if you were to describe our church with some sort of metaphor, it would be that BFC is not a museum of polished pieces, but an emergency room with blood all over the floor. We understand what it means to be forgiven, and we delight in that forgiveness!
We had the inexpressible honor of hearing a young mother describe her surgery for a brain tumor that appeared without warning, the surgery leaving her partially paralyzed on her left side. She sat in a wheelchair, this mom of a seven-year old, and described how God was transforming her and her husband's lives through tragedy and suffering, and how, through Christ, God was giving them joy inexpressible and peace unexplainable.
God was at work in unusual ways. A young man, twentysomething, could plainly see that Christ brings grace and peace to those who are broken, no matter how difficult the circumstances, and has decided to study the Gospel with me for the next six weeks or so, wondering if God can do the same for him. A woman who does not attend our church, awoke yesterday morning with a strange urge to come to BFC. After the service she, in tears, related to one of our deacon's wives her grief at the loss of her husband a year ago. She said, "this was exactly what I needed to hear this morning."
Amazing. God is so good.
January 5, 2012
Ever heard this lie?
Installs in minutes! This is what was printed on the outside of the package. Like a fool, I believed it. The first indication of trouble should have been when I picked up the box, which weighed about forty pounds. Nothing that weighs forty pounds installs in minutes.
With the satisfaction of the clueless, I dragged my purchase over to the checkout register. The second indication of trouble was the price. Nothing weighing forty pounds and costing 200 bucks installs in minutes.
The third indication of trouble, which, actually, was the first if you're doing this chronologically, was philosophical. This was my last day off of the holiday break: I had all sorts of irresponsible, worthless, unproductive sheer fun planned. Count on it: whenever you've got a day like that planned, some widget in your house is going to break, and the replacement will not install in minutes.
I briefly considered the Lowes installation offer: for another 97 bucks, they will install it for me. Naah! It's just a garage door opener! What can possibly go wrong?
I can sort of imagine one German general saying to another German general, "We're just invading Russia: what can possibly go wrong?"
Never, never ask that question. Not unless you are prepared for an answer that does not install in minutes.
Got my box home, and staggered into the garage with it (okay, it's only 40 pounds, but I have not done my P90X since this summer; give me a break). Set it down, looked up, and there was my old (broken) garage door opener staring back at me, about eight feet above the floor. Umm. Looks heavy. How am I going to get that thing down without killing myself? You see, the front end of the track is bolted to the front end of the garage, and then ten feet away, connected to the other end of the track, is a heavy motor bolted to supports hanging from the ceiling. All one piece. If I unbolt one end, it tears up the wall or the ceiling mount on the other end.
Okay, I see. Somehow I have to unbolt both sides simultaneously, whilst holding the entire assembly in the air. I only need a wingspan of, maybe, ten feet, and four extra arms. No problemo.
Ninety minutes later the old, broken track is laying safely on the garage floor, but I was beginning to understand that "Installs in minutes" might have been referring to more minutes than I had counted on. The old one definitely did not UN-install in minutes.
Did I mention that it was freezing in my garage? It felt below zero, but that was probably my imagination.
The next problem was deciphering the directions to install the new opener. At least they were in English. And Mandarin. And Arabic. And French. And Spanish. And German. And Russian. And probably Old Testament Hebrew. Five of the forty pounds were taken up by the multi-lingual instructions.Two acres of rainforest were chopped down to satisfy mult-culti sensitivities.
While the directions always include helpful safety information, like, never plug in your garage door opener while standing in a bathtub full of water (not quite sure how you'd manage that), on the other hand, they frequently assume that you know stuff. They tell me to connect rail A to rail B to rail C. What they don't tell me is that you can not disconnect the rails once connected, and that, oh by the way, make sure all the holes are on top before connecting.
Two hundred and forty minutes later, the track is installed. By now I am getting pretty good at bolting on the two opposite ends of a ten foot long heavy track at the same time, while holding it eight feet in the air. I am also muttering under my breath, installs in minutes, like an angry epithet.
Now its time to string the control pad and safety sensor wires. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling while wearing gloves? Doesn't work. So off go the gloves. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling with numb hands? That does not work either. At least when your hands are numb, you can't feel it when you smash 'em with the hammer. Wonder if the garage door opener will feel it if I smash it with the hammer?
Last day of Christmas break. A few minutes past midnight I stumble into the house, frozen stiff. Miracle of miracles, the garage door actually works, but I am just too tired to clean the litter of tools, old door-opener parts, and construction materials off my garage floor. Doris' car will have to spend another night outside.
Installs in minutes? Don't you believe it!
With the satisfaction of the clueless, I dragged my purchase over to the checkout register. The second indication of trouble was the price. Nothing weighing forty pounds and costing 200 bucks installs in minutes.
The third indication of trouble, which, actually, was the first if you're doing this chronologically, was philosophical. This was my last day off of the holiday break: I had all sorts of irresponsible, worthless, unproductive sheer fun planned. Count on it: whenever you've got a day like that planned, some widget in your house is going to break, and the replacement will not install in minutes.
I briefly considered the Lowes installation offer: for another 97 bucks, they will install it for me. Naah! It's just a garage door opener! What can possibly go wrong?
I can sort of imagine one German general saying to another German general, "We're just invading Russia: what can possibly go wrong?"
Never, never ask that question. Not unless you are prepared for an answer that does not install in minutes.
Got my box home, and staggered into the garage with it (okay, it's only 40 pounds, but I have not done my P90X since this summer; give me a break). Set it down, looked up, and there was my old (broken) garage door opener staring back at me, about eight feet above the floor. Umm. Looks heavy. How am I going to get that thing down without killing myself? You see, the front end of the track is bolted to the front end of the garage, and then ten feet away, connected to the other end of the track, is a heavy motor bolted to supports hanging from the ceiling. All one piece. If I unbolt one end, it tears up the wall or the ceiling mount on the other end.
Okay, I see. Somehow I have to unbolt both sides simultaneously, whilst holding the entire assembly in the air. I only need a wingspan of, maybe, ten feet, and four extra arms. No problemo.
Ninety minutes later the old, broken track is laying safely on the garage floor, but I was beginning to understand that "Installs in minutes" might have been referring to more minutes than I had counted on. The old one definitely did not UN-install in minutes.
Did I mention that it was freezing in my garage? It felt below zero, but that was probably my imagination.
The next problem was deciphering the directions to install the new opener. At least they were in English. And Mandarin. And Arabic. And French. And Spanish. And German. And Russian. And probably Old Testament Hebrew. Five of the forty pounds were taken up by the multi-lingual instructions.Two acres of rainforest were chopped down to satisfy mult-culti sensitivities.
While the directions always include helpful safety information, like, never plug in your garage door opener while standing in a bathtub full of water (not quite sure how you'd manage that), on the other hand, they frequently assume that you know stuff. They tell me to connect rail A to rail B to rail C. What they don't tell me is that you can not disconnect the rails once connected, and that, oh by the way, make sure all the holes are on top before connecting.
Two hundred and forty minutes later, the track is installed. By now I am getting pretty good at bolting on the two opposite ends of a ten foot long heavy track at the same time, while holding it eight feet in the air. I am also muttering under my breath, installs in minutes, like an angry epithet.
Now its time to string the control pad and safety sensor wires. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling while wearing gloves? Doesn't work. So off go the gloves. Ever try to hammer a tiny insulated wire staple to a hard plaster ceiling with numb hands? That does not work either. At least when your hands are numb, you can't feel it when you smash 'em with the hammer. Wonder if the garage door opener will feel it if I smash it with the hammer?
Last day of Christmas break. A few minutes past midnight I stumble into the house, frozen stiff. Miracle of miracles, the garage door actually works, but I am just too tired to clean the litter of tools, old door-opener parts, and construction materials off my garage floor. Doris' car will have to spend another night outside.
Installs in minutes? Don't you believe it!
December 25, 2011
The Impotence of Myth
I'm a Tolkien fanatic. I have mounted on my wall a replica of Sting, Bilbo's sword (inherited by Frodo), given to me by my son on Christmas Past. I love Tolkien's fantasy world and the many layers of history he gave it to make it seem real. I read the trilogy (quadrilogy??) while backpacking through the Rockies in my youth—and I have read it many times since. It is inspiring, and the wonderful productions of Peter King and his merry band of movie-makers have done a wonderful job of bringing the Tolkien myth to the big screen in a canonically faithful fashion. It's almost, . . . lifelike.
But there is a clear delineation between that which was, and that which was not, and Tolkien's work belongs to the latter. It's myth—not history—and only those with nothing else to cling to will confuse the two.
There's not much power in myth. There's some, to be sure, but not much, and it is but a faint imitation of the power of reality—the power of God.
Myth wears thin in the Emergency room, or the hospital bed, or the funeral home. Myth loses its pizzazz when the family is self-destructing around you. The power of myth is powerless to mute the angry, self-condemning voices of conscience in the early hours when you desperately need sleep. It is too impotent to control the raging desires of addiction. Myth distracts, but does not deliver confidence when you've lost your job and the rent is due. Myth fascinates, but it cannot change the heart.
In short, the inspiration of a myth is like the fog; impressive until it meets with the heat of the day. Only truth transforms. The power of the Gospel is anchored in twin realities: the inexplicable power of the Holy Spirit, and the facts of history. It-actually-happened.
Think about it. Liberal theology has turned the Gospel to myth, because the purveyors of this deficient theology deny that the supernatural God actually invades history and performs miracles contrary to natural law. It is an assumption of rationalism. It is frankly a contradictory notion to the idea of the existence of a personal God. When your God stops invading history, He no longer exists in any real terms.
But what you really need, in that hospital room, that funeral home, in that broken family, is for God to invade history, real life, on your behalf and perform real miracles contrary to natural law. May it be unto you according to your faith.
But there is a clear delineation between that which was, and that which was not, and Tolkien's work belongs to the latter. It's myth—not history—and only those with nothing else to cling to will confuse the two.
There's not much power in myth. There's some, to be sure, but not much, and it is but a faint imitation of the power of reality—the power of God.
Myth wears thin in the Emergency room, or the hospital bed, or the funeral home. Myth loses its pizzazz when the family is self-destructing around you. The power of myth is powerless to mute the angry, self-condemning voices of conscience in the early hours when you desperately need sleep. It is too impotent to control the raging desires of addiction. Myth distracts, but does not deliver confidence when you've lost your job and the rent is due. Myth fascinates, but it cannot change the heart.
In short, the inspiration of a myth is like the fog; impressive until it meets with the heat of the day. Only truth transforms. The power of the Gospel is anchored in twin realities: the inexplicable power of the Holy Spirit, and the facts of history. It-actually-happened.
Think about it. Liberal theology has turned the Gospel to myth, because the purveyors of this deficient theology deny that the supernatural God actually invades history and performs miracles contrary to natural law. It is an assumption of rationalism. It is frankly a contradictory notion to the idea of the existence of a personal God. When your God stops invading history, He no longer exists in any real terms.
But what you really need, in that hospital room, that funeral home, in that broken family, is for God to invade history, real life, on your behalf and perform real miracles contrary to natural law. May it be unto you according to your faith.
December 21, 2011
I'm changing gears for my next writing project. . .
Ever since finishing
Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix
I've begin gathering material for a new novel entitled The Candidate. It is about a plain-spoken, conservative blogger who finds himself as a viable candidate in the presidential election. I had hoped to finish the rewrite of OCP in time to get The Candidate done prior to the 2012 election. Didn't happen. So I'm putting it on the back burner.
I am excited about writing book 2 of the OC series, but there's a tale I've got to tell first.
My first novel was actually Makatozi's Revenge, a military-espionage thriller set in the Cold War, in 1986. The book is complete, and sitting on my shelf. It's a great tale. If you're curious about it, ask Carol Williams, she graciously read it.
But I can't publish it, because it is an unauthorized sequel to Louis L'Amour's Last of the Breed. The estate of L'Amour is not presently granting rights for that sort of thing, and many in the industry predict they never will.
So, I am going to write and publish my own prequel to MR. It will be a very different story (different from L'Amour's tale), but it will have the same general idea: an Air Force officer is kidnapped by the Soviet Union and manages to escape and make his way back to the U.S.A. Then I'll retool and retitle MR to fit the details of its new backstory.
Book 2 of OC (which is likely going to be titled, Outlander Chronicles: Icarus) will probably be completed between the above mentioned prequel, and the retooling of MR. I might attempt to write them concurrently, because it is another tale I just can't wait to tell!
I am excited about writing book 2 of the OC series, but there's a tale I've got to tell first.
My first novel was actually Makatozi's Revenge, a military-espionage thriller set in the Cold War, in 1986. The book is complete, and sitting on my shelf. It's a great tale. If you're curious about it, ask Carol Williams, she graciously read it.
But I can't publish it, because it is an unauthorized sequel to Louis L'Amour's Last of the Breed. The estate of L'Amour is not presently granting rights for that sort of thing, and many in the industry predict they never will.
So, I am going to write and publish my own prequel to MR. It will be a very different story (different from L'Amour's tale), but it will have the same general idea: an Air Force officer is kidnapped by the Soviet Union and manages to escape and make his way back to the U.S.A. Then I'll retool and retitle MR to fit the details of its new backstory.
Book 2 of OC (which is likely going to be titled, Outlander Chronicles: Icarus) will probably be completed between the above mentioned prequel, and the retooling of MR. I might attempt to write them concurrently, because it is another tale I just can't wait to tell!
December 15, 2011
When does the spirit of inquiry become the spirit of rebellion?
Christianity has a checkered history with respect to how it treats thinkers that challenge the status quo. I cringe when I read parts of that history: for example, that of the medieval-era Catholic church in the few centuries prior to the Reformation. The church did not tolerate dissent or inquiry, or any departure from the established teachings of the magisterium. Most such challenges were met by cruel torture or simply incinerating the 'heretic.'
While we may understand the fountain from which Calvin and other reformers had been drinking (hanging on to the Roman Catholic confusion of the power of the church and the state, something in which the Protestant tradition is still en-mired in places—think of the state churches in England, Scotland, Germany, for example), yet Calvin's treatment of the heretic Servetus in Geneva is simply inexcusable from the standpoint of the Gospel. Other examples of insupportable early Protestant violence could be cited.
The hounding of the Mormons (much of which was self-inflicted, by the way) in our own country is another unfortunate example of virtually criminal religious intolerance. While we can (and should!) dispute their theology (it is not Christian in any historic understanding of the word), nonetheless, they should be tolerated and, yes, protected , free to pursue their religion. [This paragraph has been editted - my original was just too offensive even to me after a good night's sleep.]
For a shining, pristine example of how NOT to defend the Gospel, just examine the folks from Westboro Baptist Church. I cringe to even use the word, 'church,' in that sentence. These folks bear about as much relationship to Christ as does your local telephone pole. I feel like saying, "if you really are Christians, would you just please not tell anybody!" If these folks ever gained civil power, God forbid, we'd be right back to burning dissenters at the stake.
"Chris, you sound mighty intolerant of these various people!" Well, sort of. It's their theology concerning which I am intolerant, not them as people. But let's make a distinction. I firmly believe they have every right to make their pitch in the marketplace of ideas. I want them to have that right! I want them to be able to proselyte, persuade, convince, to their heart's content. And if you or I don't like what they have to say, just walk away and realize that in a free country you're going to be subjected to ideas and speech you don't appreciate. Although let's be clear, the Westboro Wackos should not be free to intrude on funerals; if the courts have defined funerals as public meetings, they need to redefine them, quickly, as private!
Just like these foks with whom I disagree can vociferously attack my beliefs (and I support their right to do so), I can likewise hold theirs up for examination.
Now that we're done with the Christian mea culpas (and that's not to dismiss them as illegitimate, but simply to begin advancing my argument), the question remains: for the Christian, when does the spirit of inquiry become the spirit of rebellion? Are there legitimate boundaries to intellectual inquiry, for the self-confessed believer in Christ?
For one who does not confess biblical faith in Christ, it's a silly, irrelevant question harkening back to the fine Christian tradition of crushing dissent. And, for not a few confessing Christians, it is a dumb question: they would say that it is anti-intellectual and poor stewardship of the Creation Mandate to place any limits on inquiry.
So why am I asking this question in the first place? Because of the folks at Biologos, and because of my former instructor, Pete Enns (see here and here), and because of the revival of "higher" biblical criticism under new names and faces and approaches that is gaining such massive momentum and posing such a threat to the church! Especially to the average believer and seeker!
These scientists and theologians, these men and women, are public figures, culture-formers and trend-setters, not simply private individuals. They purport to be teachers of the ignorant and guides to the blind. Their public statements and positions, therefore, are fair game for critical examination.
So for the next several weeks, that's what we'll be doing on the Thoughtspot. Interspersed with silly stupid posts masquerading as humor dealing with what-have-you, self-serving promotions of my book, and general train-of-consciousness rambling, there will be the occasional coherent thought on the question of the spirit of inquiry. I hope you'll join in the conversation with observations, challenges, or questions, in the comment section.
While we may understand the fountain from which Calvin and other reformers had been drinking (hanging on to the Roman Catholic confusion of the power of the church and the state, something in which the Protestant tradition is still en-mired in places—think of the state churches in England, Scotland, Germany, for example), yet Calvin's treatment of the heretic Servetus in Geneva is simply inexcusable from the standpoint of the Gospel. Other examples of insupportable early Protestant violence could be cited.
The hounding of the Mormons (much of which was self-inflicted, by the way) in our own country is another unfortunate example of virtually criminal religious intolerance. While we can (and should!) dispute their theology (it is not Christian in any historic understanding of the word), nonetheless, they should be tolerated and, yes, protected , free to pursue their religion. [This paragraph has been editted - my original was just too offensive even to me after a good night's sleep.]
For a shining, pristine example of how NOT to defend the Gospel, just examine the folks from Westboro Baptist Church. I cringe to even use the word, 'church,' in that sentence. These folks bear about as much relationship to Christ as does your local telephone pole. I feel like saying, "if you really are Christians, would you just please not tell anybody!" If these folks ever gained civil power, God forbid, we'd be right back to burning dissenters at the stake.
"Chris, you sound mighty intolerant of these various people!" Well, sort of. It's their theology concerning which I am intolerant, not them as people. But let's make a distinction. I firmly believe they have every right to make their pitch in the marketplace of ideas. I want them to have that right! I want them to be able to proselyte, persuade, convince, to their heart's content. And if you or I don't like what they have to say, just walk away and realize that in a free country you're going to be subjected to ideas and speech you don't appreciate. Although let's be clear, the Westboro Wackos should not be free to intrude on funerals; if the courts have defined funerals as public meetings, they need to redefine them, quickly, as private!
Just like these foks with whom I disagree can vociferously attack my beliefs (and I support their right to do so), I can likewise hold theirs up for examination.
Now that we're done with the Christian mea culpas (and that's not to dismiss them as illegitimate, but simply to begin advancing my argument), the question remains: for the Christian, when does the spirit of inquiry become the spirit of rebellion? Are there legitimate boundaries to intellectual inquiry, for the self-confessed believer in Christ?
For one who does not confess biblical faith in Christ, it's a silly, irrelevant question harkening back to the fine Christian tradition of crushing dissent. And, for not a few confessing Christians, it is a dumb question: they would say that it is anti-intellectual and poor stewardship of the Creation Mandate to place any limits on inquiry.
So why am I asking this question in the first place? Because of the folks at Biologos, and because of my former instructor, Pete Enns (see here and here), and because of the revival of "higher" biblical criticism under new names and faces and approaches that is gaining such massive momentum and posing such a threat to the church! Especially to the average believer and seeker!
These scientists and theologians, these men and women, are public figures, culture-formers and trend-setters, not simply private individuals. They purport to be teachers of the ignorant and guides to the blind. Their public statements and positions, therefore, are fair game for critical examination.
So for the next several weeks, that's what we'll be doing on the Thoughtspot. Interspersed with silly stupid posts masquerading as humor dealing with what-have-you, self-serving promotions of my book, and general train-of-consciousness rambling, there will be the occasional coherent thought on the question of the spirit of inquiry. I hope you'll join in the conversation with observations, challenges, or questions, in the comment section.
December 13, 2011
Coldwater Jingle Bell 5K
On a frosty morning this past Saturday, Doris and I bundled up in multiple layers (I am surprised I could bend a single joint--I don't like to be cold--so I was wearing lots of layers!), and headed North. It felt like we were going to the North Pole, but we stopped just short--at Coldwater. Appropriately named, as far as I was concerned. And I was concerned, it was like, twenty degrees! Lions and tigers and bears (frozen ones), oh, my!
I like my snow, yes, but I prefer it when I'm inside and it's outside. In any case, I struggled out of the car (remember, I'm wearing layers and can hardly bend), and waddled into the registration area. Getting that far was the first success.
If it wasn't for the fact that there were folks there who know me (starting with my wife), I think I'd have declared victory, waddled back to the car, and driven home. But I do have my pride, so with a smile frozen on my face (literally), I pinned on my number and began dreading going outside again in earnest.
Amidst all those other loons, however, I did feel strangely at home. We're all nuts, together.
Then we bumped in to Katie and Joelle. Now I really can't quit. I'd never hear the end of it. Both ladies were very positive, taking the weather in stride, ready to go. So, I manned up (no choice), and waddled outside to the starting line.
A horn goes off, and the whole mass starts forward. Must have been a false alarm, for ten seconds later the whole mass puts it in reverse. I didn't even have to move my feet; you know how it is being in the middle of a tightly packed crazy bunch of runners on race day. You just kind of get swept along like so much flotsam and jetsam, until the mob loses critical mass and you actually have to start ambulating under your own steam.
The horn sounds off again, and this time the tide flows in only one direction. After a block or two I'm no longer being carried along by the surge, so I begin to run, looking for an appropriate pace. After getting nearly run over by a couple of ten-year-olds, I decide maybe that pace was not appropriate, and pick it up a tad. No sign of Doris, Katie, or Joelle.
Within the first mile, my breathing is ragged enough that a couple folks around me begin to wonder if perhaps someone ought to call 911. The smile is still frozen on my face, so I just look over their way and shake my head, 'no, I always breathe this way.'
Numbskulls! Of course they ought to call 911! I'm just too proud to say that.
Anyway, whoever laid out the course was an expert in torture. The first two miles were all straight streets. You could see runners ahead of you, disappearing below the curve of the horizon. Okay, maybe it was just a hill. But at least you could see that the finish line was not in sight. But the last mile, it was 'run a block, turn, run a block, turn, run a block, turn'. Now perhaps that is meaningless to you, but for me, I imagined the finish line was just around each block. I got all my hopes up, only to have them dashed with each hard left or right.
But the worst was yet to come. You see, for the last half of the race, I was slowly overtaking this person in front of me. Slowly, but surely. At about the two-and-a-half mile spot, I finally passed them. Her, I should say. It was a lady. Got out about twenty feet in front of her, but could not lose her. Heard those feet slappin' down, right behind me. Always right behind me. Drove me nuts. So, I turned it up a crank. (By now I sounded like Darth Vader without his cool mask - you know the scene in the final movie: 'Dad, I'll save you.' [awful breathing sound] 'S-son, you already have, you already have. . .')
And I began to run out of steam. Actually, that's not true. I had run out of steam shortly after the mob stopped carrying me at the [second] starting horn.
Not sixty feet from the finish line that lady cruised right past me. Couldn't even hear her breathing. How humiliating. And then I heard her tell the race administrators when they were putting her in the proper age bracket, that she was 61. That's really embarrassing, hope nobody saw that.
All in all, it was a cold day. But I'm glad I did it. All four of us (Doris, Joelle, Katie) finished the race - that's what's important. Nobody needs to know that I was waxed by a sixty-one year old lady.
[Certain details of this post have been, ah, edited for the sake of humor, as what actually happened was far less interesting. . . unfortunately, the details about the 61 year old lady are not among them.]
I like my snow, yes, but I prefer it when I'm inside and it's outside. In any case, I struggled out of the car (remember, I'm wearing layers and can hardly bend), and waddled into the registration area. Getting that far was the first success.
If it wasn't for the fact that there were folks there who know me (starting with my wife), I think I'd have declared victory, waddled back to the car, and driven home. But I do have my pride, so with a smile frozen on my face (literally), I pinned on my number and began dreading going outside again in earnest.
Amidst all those other loons, however, I did feel strangely at home. We're all nuts, together.
Then we bumped in to Katie and Joelle. Now I really can't quit. I'd never hear the end of it. Both ladies were very positive, taking the weather in stride, ready to go. So, I manned up (no choice), and waddled outside to the starting line.
A horn goes off, and the whole mass starts forward. Must have been a false alarm, for ten seconds later the whole mass puts it in reverse. I didn't even have to move my feet; you know how it is being in the middle of a tightly packed crazy bunch of runners on race day. You just kind of get swept along like so much flotsam and jetsam, until the mob loses critical mass and you actually have to start ambulating under your own steam.
The horn sounds off again, and this time the tide flows in only one direction. After a block or two I'm no longer being carried along by the surge, so I begin to run, looking for an appropriate pace. After getting nearly run over by a couple of ten-year-olds, I decide maybe that pace was not appropriate, and pick it up a tad. No sign of Doris, Katie, or Joelle.
Within the first mile, my breathing is ragged enough that a couple folks around me begin to wonder if perhaps someone ought to call 911. The smile is still frozen on my face, so I just look over their way and shake my head, 'no, I always breathe this way.'
Numbskulls! Of course they ought to call 911! I'm just too proud to say that.
Anyway, whoever laid out the course was an expert in torture. The first two miles were all straight streets. You could see runners ahead of you, disappearing below the curve of the horizon. Okay, maybe it was just a hill. But at least you could see that the finish line was not in sight. But the last mile, it was 'run a block, turn, run a block, turn, run a block, turn'. Now perhaps that is meaningless to you, but for me, I imagined the finish line was just around each block. I got all my hopes up, only to have them dashed with each hard left or right.
But the worst was yet to come. You see, for the last half of the race, I was slowly overtaking this person in front of me. Slowly, but surely. At about the two-and-a-half mile spot, I finally passed them. Her, I should say. It was a lady. Got out about twenty feet in front of her, but could not lose her. Heard those feet slappin' down, right behind me. Always right behind me. Drove me nuts. So, I turned it up a crank. (By now I sounded like Darth Vader without his cool mask - you know the scene in the final movie: 'Dad, I'll save you.' [awful breathing sound] 'S-son, you already have, you already have. . .')
And I began to run out of steam. Actually, that's not true. I had run out of steam shortly after the mob stopped carrying me at the [second] starting horn.
Not sixty feet from the finish line that lady cruised right past me. Couldn't even hear her breathing. How humiliating. And then I heard her tell the race administrators when they were putting her in the proper age bracket, that she was 61. That's really embarrassing, hope nobody saw that.
All in all, it was a cold day. But I'm glad I did it. All four of us (Doris, Joelle, Katie) finished the race - that's what's important. Nobody needs to know that I was waxed by a sixty-one year old lady.
[Certain details of this post have been, ah, edited for the sake of humor, as what actually happened was far less interesting. . . unfortunately, the details about the 61 year old lady are not among them.]
December 8, 2011
Outlander Chronicles: Phoenix is finally available in print!
Just approved the proof copy tonight!
It is also available for Kindle and Nook.
NOTE TO BFCers! If you are planning on getting a copy of the print edition, get it at the church bookstore!! It will be cheaper there, and all proceeds for sales in December and January will go to support the mission clinic, Clinica de Iglesia Bautista Betania in Honduras. There will also be a copy available in the church library for loan. Ann Fields will be able to take orders as soon as this Sunday, but I don't expect the books to arrive until the week before Christmas. There will be one copy (my proof copy) on display this Sunday.
It is also available for Kindle and Nook.
NOTE TO BFCers! If you are planning on getting a copy of the print edition, get it at the church bookstore!! It will be cheaper there, and all proceeds for sales in December and January will go to support the mission clinic, Clinica de Iglesia Bautista Betania in Honduras. There will also be a copy available in the church library for loan. Ann Fields will be able to take orders as soon as this Sunday, but I don't expect the books to arrive until the week before Christmas. There will be one copy (my proof copy) on display this Sunday.
