Why I Really Like The Big Diesel

(I come up for air from working on my dissertation to reblog. Sorry about the gaps!)

I guess it’s official.

Shaq is finally retiring after 19 seasons.

It may sound strange but I have to come clean and confess that I am a huge Shaquille O’Neal fan. Of course, I think he’s a terrific basketball player. His record speaks for itself: 15 time all-star, 4 NBA championships, an MVP award, and named one of the top 50 players of all time.

But that’s not really the reason I like the Big Diesel. It might be because of his straightforward personality. Maybe it’s his ability to not take himself or life so seriously. Or it just might be because of how he treated my son when he was a teenager.

Yeah, I think that may have something to do with it.

You see, when Ryan was 16, he went on a summer vacation with his best friend from high school and their family. They ended up staying at a really posh resort in Southern California, which was just a bit over my own financial reach. But what the heck, I thought. Let Ryan live the highlife for short season. Unbeknownst to my son and his pal, the Los Angeles Lakers just happened to be staying at the resort for a few days filming some commercials.

During one of those days, Ryan and his friend were having a great time swimming in a huge indoor pool all by themselves, when in walks none other than Shaq Daddy himself. The Big Aristotle plops himself down at the far end of the pool and begins to go for a swim, all the while heading over to where Ryan and his friend are parked. Of course, they couldn’t believe their eyes when Shaq first walked in and jumped into the pool, but it’s kind of hard to mistake the big guy for someone else. When you think about it, there are not a lot of people that you can mistake for a 7’1”, 325 lb. giant like Shaq.
But here he comes. Larger than life. Swimming toward them.

And what does he do? He pulls himself over to the edge of the pool and proceeds to strike up a conversation with these two stunned sixteen year olds. Do I need to mention they’re in awe? Is that really necessary? I mean, these are two, basketball loving, NBA following, Laker fan club, hard-court playing, superstar worshiping adolescents!

Shaquille O’Neal has just swam over to shoot the breeze? Are you kidding me? This is the stuff sixteen-year-old boys dream of. Well, that and of course the Laker girls. But that’s another story. So there they were, just chewing the fat with Shaqalicious, talking about life and basketball and anything else that came up. It was one of those ‘once in lifetime moments’ that no one is probably going to believe you about anyway.

Long story short, after a few minutes, the resident security guard walks in and shouts, ‘Hey, you kids aren’t allowed in here! This pool is for adults only!’ And without missing a beat, Shaq pipes up and says, ‘Wait a minute! Do you know who these guys are? These are the Backstreet Boys! You can’t kick them out; they’re famous!’

Did I tell you why I really like the Big Diesel?

The Paradox of Choice

Barry Schwartz gives a great TED talk on the ‘Paradox of Choice.’ I like the fact that he concludes with the assertion that we all need a ‘fishbowl’ to live in. No matter the size or limitations, without some kind of structure or boundary for us, life becomes somewhat out of control. Janis put it like this, “Freedom’s just another word for nothin’ left to lose.’

Enjoy!

http://www.ted.com/talks/barry_schwartz_on_the_paradox_of_choice.html

Remembering rightly

Something I was reading today in Miroslav Volf ‘s book, ‘The End of Memory,’ reminded me of a situation with one of my refugee friends who recently resettled in Las Vegas. After months of stress and searching, he had finally found a part-time job to support his wife and two young children in our depressed Vegas economy. He had been hired by a fancy Indian restaurant just off the Strip.  But for some strange reason, his immediate kitchen supervisor hadn’t paid him much at all for his six straight weeks of work. In fact, though often working twelve hours a day, six to seven days a week, all he had to show for his hard labor was a paltry $100 bucks!

Don’t even try to do the math on that one.

When I found about all this, I was no happy camper, to say the least. In fact, I was so mad I couldn’t decide to call the local news station or hire some Soprano wise guy to make them an offer they couldn’t refuse. Thankfully, cooler heads prevailed. I decided to personally pay them a visit and then try and do the best I could to persuade them nicely to fork over what they owed my friend.

I began with the hostess, then the shift manager, then the restaurant manager, and then finally the owner himself, who happened to be leaving the next day for an extended trip overseas. But in spite of all my persistence, promises, several visits and follow-up phone calls, still no paycheck. Days turned into weeks, and weeks turned into a month, until finally I somehow got in touch with the owner’s wife. As it turned out, her husband was still overseas and had told her nothing of my friend’s injustice. (I can hear a lot of wives commenting right now).

By this time, my patient, forgiving self was ready to go to war. I was tired of the run-around and probably resembled someone less like Jesus and more like John Rambo in his debut role. However, this wise woman calmed me down and assured me that she would make good on the debt. In hindsight, I have come to love the response of that wise Indian wife. What she uttered was truly a thing of beauty.

For starters, she apologized for this offense. She then explained she would quickly right this wrong, because she would not want to exploit a refugee. Why? Because, for at one time, she revealed, she had been one herself.

She appeared to be completely sincere. Like she really meant what she said. And in fact, she did. She kept her word and had the check ready for me that day. At long last a paycheck for my refugee friend that took me almost 3 months to get .

I still carry those words with me today. Those words about once being a refugee herself. She seemed to echo the voice of God to the Israelites a few thousand years ago,

“Do not deprive the alien or the fatherless of justice, or take the cloak from the widow as a pledge. Remember that you were slaves in Egypt and the Lord your God redeemed you from there. This is why I give you this command.” Deut. 24.17-18

In other words, it’s as if God is saying,

‘You know what it feels like to be mistreated because you were once in that boat yourself.  So make sure that you don’t treat other people the way you were once mistreated.’

It’s another way of saying to learn from our own painful experiences.  Instead of allowing something like this to make us hardened and bitter, (which most of the time is what happens), use this as a way to make yourself better at loving other people. Turn them around and use them to do good to others.

God says, ‘Remember.’

Most of us have no problem with a command like that, except we use it in the wrong way. Like, “I will never forget what that person did to me!” Our memory is filled with anger, unforgiveness and bitterness. But I don’t think that’s what God had in mind when he tells us to remember.

On the other side, most of us don’t like to ‘remember’ those painful kind of memories. The ones that still hurt. The type that haven’t healed for some reason, even after all these years. We would just as soon keep them locked away deep in some old trunk stored in the recesses of our psyche.

May I suggest to you that this wise Indian woman remembered rightly? In essence, what she was saying to me was “Hey, I get it. I was once in those same shoes. I remember how it felt to be a refugee. And so I am going to use that experience not to do evil, but to do good. To be just and not unjust.’

Perhaps she was remembering back to a time in her life when she was mistreated or exploited. And she didn’t want to ever be guilty of mistreating someone in the way she was mistreated. Or perhaps, she thought back to a time when someone had shown her mercy during her days as a refugee, and she wanted to now repay the kindness?

So it begs the questions then, not only, how should we respond to what has been done for us, but also, how do we respond to what has been done to us? And herein lies a beautiful truth – that healing of our own painful memories is not all about us.  It also ultimately remains to benefit others.

This truly is something special. What it means is that no matter what has happened to us in life, we can choose to redeem that painful memory, and not only for ourselves, but for others as well. Volf cites the wise words of Holocaust survivor Elie Wiesel, ‘Salvation, like redemption, can only be found in memory.’

That’s why God says, ‘Remember.’

I like what Volf further says about this, that true redemption can only come from memories that have become truly part of ‘our own life story.’ What this means is that it is not just cosmetic, like a thin coat of paint, which I have seen so many people of faith try and fake their way through life with. Instead, it must permeate deeply into the groundwater of our lives.  And that my friend, takes time. There really is no substitute for it. But in the end, it produces something that is most certainly for real. Someone that has somehow figured out how to drain out all of the poison and bitterness from life’s wounds. Somehow, they learned to remember rightly.

In my own life, I can think of lots of people from my past that I suffered painfully from. People in my own deluded mind or skewed imagination that I rightly or wrongly perceived have wounded me in some form or another. But what I am hopeful for is the right kind of remembering. Not the “I’ll never forget!’ variety but those rare occasions where I have actually gained from my pain. Those uncommon times when I think to myself, ‘I don’t ever want to treat anyone the way I was treated in that situation.’ Perhaps that means that God is at work. Could it be that in some remote cavern of my heart, God has slowly reformed that painful memory as ‘part of my life?’

The gracious gift of remembering rightly is similar to what George Washington Carver spoke about,

“How far you go in life depends on your being tender with the young, compassionate with the aged, sympathetic with the striving, and tolerant of the weak and the strong. Because some day in life you will have been all of these.”

My own hope is to go through life remembering rightly. To look at others who may be judged as the weak, the powerless, the voiceless, the marginalized, and to say, ‘I once was, and very much still am, just like you.’

Grace.

I‘m just really not sure what God was trying to tell me?

I‘m just really not sure what God was trying to tell me?.

I‘m just really not sure what God was trying to tell me?

(Okay – now back from working on doctoral studies at Fuller, I am running out of excuses for not blogging. Here goes…)

I just recently reconnected over coffee with my friend Howie from SoCal. Howie and I haven’t really seen each other for give or take about five years, the last and actually only time being in New Zealand, as a team of people going to Christchurch, when I was included in a group speaking on the South Island. (I’m particularly mindful of my friends in Christchurch because of the earthquake yesterday.)

I loved Howie the moment I met him that first time at LAX, getting ready to board the plane for the long trip to the land of the Kiwis. I guess it’s probably because he breaks all the stereotypes of race and ethnicity. This soft-spoken, eclectic giant will never fit nicely into the box.

The first time I laid eyes on him, Howie was a rangy, twenty-something with long dreads on his shoulders. Highly artistic.  And disarmingly gentle and kind in his demeanor. Oh, and also quite a thinker. He knows the scriptures as well as any veteran theologian, but not in a churchy way like you might think. It is evident these truths have been slowly woven into the fabric of his life. Like Jesus, he is very enjoyable to be around.

This time, minus the dreads, he has a long, thin-braided goatee running a few inches south of his chin. A small ball cap is strategically placed a bit sideways to the right on his head. And this time, he has a skateboard at his side. You just never know what to expect when you see Howie. Different from our last encounter, when he had a jimbae (a hand drum) slung around his shoulder. That’s gotta be one of the reasons why I love him.

Why did he have a skateboard at his side when I walked into Starbucks? Not really sure, except that he said he rode it from his truck in the parking lot to the front door of Starbucks. Okay, then. Let’s just go with that. I counted myself fortunate to grab a cup of coffee with him in the margins of his life. Actually though, Howie ordered an ‘iced green tea with no ice, please,’ as he began to unpack his story to me of his mission to Las Vegas. He explained that he had driven his Chevy Silverado truck up from SoCal for the weekend to deliver a banner to a friend now living here.

So, what’s shakin’ with Howie? Quite a lot, in fact. Currency trading, a partner in a web-based business. A few other odds to make ends meet. But what was really enjoyable about my time with him was the tale he told of his trek to Vegas, which innocently began with borrowing a friend’s car to save money on gas. His truck is similar to mine and is not renown for its exemplary mileage achievements.

The plan was to use his friend’s wheels to pick up the banner near San Diego for the long drive ahead to Sin City. However, by the time he arrived there Friday, the banner was not quite just ready. This was quite disconcerting for Howie, because it was Friday.  Those familiar with negotiating the I-15 raceway know well of the perils attempting to make their way to Vegas on a Friday night. Everybody and their sinful grandmother are rocketing at mach speed to indulge in debaucherous living.

Adding insult to injury, Howie’s friend had even paid an extra $300 bucks to have the banner done in express time. Never the less, as we know, there are some things we just cannot control in life, this being one of them. So Howie was left to pace for three grueling hours while the workers busily finished the banner. On the bright side, he did say that he was able to put together a ‘killer playlist’ for his arduous trail to Vegas.

Long story longer now, by the time the banner was finished, the rains had begun to descend upon SoCal in the form of a torrential deluge just a bit short of ark building.  So there we find Howie, with his long overdue banner in hand, now heading late, late to Vegas with all the other crazies on a Friday rush hour evening in the rain. With just a few minor setbacks, our hero has seems to have made lemonade from the proverbial lemons in life.

Until of course, the car accident. Yeah, that’s right. The car accident. Yeah, I know it’s not his car! I realize it’s the one he borrowed from a friend.  But a car accident nonetheless. The good news is that the other car involved got off with nary a dented muffler. Howie’s borrowed vehicle, not so fortunate. A mangled bumper twisted into a v-like shape. The radiator damaged and leaking. A car not really all that drivable. Oh, and did I mention, it was raining?

So, what’s a good guy like Howie to do? Well, my mans’ pretty resourceful and not about to throw in the alleged wet towel at this point. He wrestles the jack from the trunk and begins to pry the said bumper back into somewhat of a recognizable form. All this so he can drive the ninety miles back to his house in Anaheim to retrieve his truck, and then in turn venture the two hundred miles or so to Vegas, baby, to complete the task. Did I mention it was raining?

Somehow, with unseen angels no doubt assisting, Howie manages to bend the bumper into some kind of a workable shape. However, because of the recent mishap, there is now something dangling from the said vehicle. But does my Howie call it quits? Au contraire. He takes off one of his Chuck Taylor’s, removes the shoelace and uses it to strap the damaged metal back onto the car. Seriously, I’m not kidding. And hey, did I mention it was raining?

Mission almost accomplished, right? Except, of course, for that leaking radiator. Fear not, Howie stops at a nearby roadside store to buy several gallon jugs of water. On the way up the freeway, he frequently and fearfully glances at the rising temperature on the gauge, stopping to periodically refill the leaking metal container on his way back to home. To complicate matters a bit, it is now dark and the one flashlight Howie owns is safe and warm back at his house. This poor soul has encountered more hurdles than a college track meet. Did I mention it is raining?

Howie finally nurses the borrowed car into his driveway just before midnight. All he has to do now is drive to Vegas. And by the way, did I mention it was raining?

I have to tell you that by the end of this story, I was in tears from laughing so hard. I mean shoelaces? But when Howie questioned, ‘Looking back on all this, I‘m just really not sure what God was trying to tell me?’ I had to laugh out loud.

‘No kidding!’ I said.

‘How can we ever know in times like that what God is doing?’ I countered. ‘Uhh, maybe patience? Perseverance? Character? Who knows?! I then relayed the example I see in the life of Paul, whom God clearly spoke to about going to Rome, and then made it almost impossible for Paul to get there. The truth be told, Paul got there after an attack by a crazed mob in Jerusalem, numerous jail time and court appearances, a ferocious storm at sea, a shipwreck, a near-drowning, numerous near-executions and finally, after hawking up seaweed and salt water, a poisonous snake bite once on dry land. Give me a break! Paul eventually arrives in Rome in chains and by the skin of his teeth.

I wonder if Paul ever uttered words similar to Howie’s? ‘I’m not really sure what God was trying to tell me?’ Maybe so. I just know myself and probably most of us can relate to Howie’s experience as well as Paul’s. Sometimes we are right in the middle of a serious storm and at the same time right in the center of God’s will. I can’t fully explain it. I just know it to be true.

Grace.

Anna’s Christmas Hope

Anna was a beautiful, young woman from Mexico, barely out of her teens. Somehow, she miraculously made her way across the border some five years ago. The chances she took for a better life seemed to far outweigh the risks. Growing up in Mexico, she had been raped multiple times by her father. She knew there was danger trying to cross into the United States but anything seemed better than the hell she was escaping from.

Anna already had glimmers of hope. Her two older sisters had found their way into new lives in Las Vegas. Over the past decade, they had worked hard and eventually become American citizens. Now they hoped for the same destiny for their baby sister.

When Anna arrived in Las Vegas, she began a brand new life that seemed far away from the abuses she had endured in her native country. She found work, met someone she married and had a beautiful baby girl she named Merida. But it seemed that pain she suffered in Mexico was never far behind her. Her new husband began to physically abuse her. Eventually, she couldn’t take the beatings any longer and was forced to flee. She moved in with her sisters, but continued to work hard, determined to build a new life for herself and her young daughter.

But one day there was a knock at the door. Two men were standing there from the immigration services. Without any explanation, Anna was handcuffed, arrested and placed into custody. Her baby daughter was taken from her. Out of spite, she had been turned in by her abusive ex-husband, who had tracked her down out of revenge. Ironically, for his reward, the authorities had also given Merida into his custody.

Before Anna knew what was happening, she was being processed and put on a bus to Tijuana, Mexico, where she would be dropped. She had only the clothes on her back, no phone, little money, and no one she could turn to in Mexico for help. As she rode south in the darkness through the cold Mohave desert, she felt very much alone.

How could all this have happened? She had tried so hard to leave behind the painful life she had suffered in Mexico. But now she was returning there much like the way she came. Without those who had befriended her in Las Vegas. Without her family. Without her little Merida.

She was now all by herself. And all alone. It seemed all she had left were the feeble prayers she offered up to God. But really, where was God now? Was this the way he was repaying her for believing in him?

She remembered back to the time a couple of years before, when the nice woman Anna had worked for shared about her own faith and encouraged Anna to consider opening her own heart to God as well.

Anna had been through so much pain in life that hearing about a God of love that actually cared about her personally seemed too good to be true. Nevertheless, she opened her heart and began to trust in God. She felt a strange peace that she had not experienced before.

But where was God now? Did it really do any good to pray?  What kind of God would do this to her? As she glanced out the window at the white lines on the highway, the prayers of her friends and family back in Las Vegas seemed to be like a distant murmur in the darkness that become more and more muted as the bus traveled further away from them.

As the day moved slowly into night, no one in Las Vegas had even heard from Anna. On the dark streets of Tijuana, where was she? Thoughts from recent news stories of one of the world’s most dangerous and violent cities, of killings, drug cartels and sex-trafficking, only escalated the fears of those who cared for her back home. The truth is that it is these kind of desperate circumstances that bring about the deepest, most gut-wrenching cries to God.

The detour to LA for final processing and deportation didn’t take long. She felt lifeless and numb. Something less than human. Treated as if she were of little or no value, like cattle. She knew she was now on borrowed time. She was headed for her final destination and nothing could stop it.  Once Anna stepped back on the bus, she found her seat and gazed out the window. She quietly wept. Alone. Without hope.  God had failed her.

As they slowly pulled out of the station, something strange began to happen. Why was that man running toward the bus? Why was he shouting and then pounding on the glass? What was he saying?

Through the noise of the bus engines, Anna wiped her tears away to try and see the words the man’s lips were forming. The bus suddenly lurched forward to an unexpected halt.

“Stop the bus!” he shouted. “Stop the bus!”

“Anna Alvarez is not going on this bus!”

“Stop this bus and let Anna Alvarez off! She is not going to Tijuana!”

“Dear God in heaven, could this really be true? Had he really heard my cries? Is this a mistake? Is this my imagination playing games with me?”

Everyone seated on the bus turned to see for whom this amazing divine intervention had just taken place. Stunned, Anna slowly stood up. Her knees weak. Breathing hard. Her heart pounding.

“Iii…aa’m Anna Alvarez,” she stammered.

“C’mon. You’re not going to Tijuana. You’re going back home. Back to Las Vegas.”

Some of the best gifts from God can seem to arrive a bit late. But always on time to celebrate a true Christmas miracle.

(This is a true story that took place this past week in Las Vegas. For privacy sake, the names and some details have been changed.)

The Guilty Bystander / Part One

The Guilty Bystander / Part One.

The Guilty Bystander / Part One

“Looking for a loophole, he asked, ‘And just how would you define ‘neighbor’?”

During the Christmas season, I think it’s really a great time to remember the global village we are now all a part of. Whether or not we realize or even own up to it.

Just take a look at a snapshot of say, one hundred of the world’s beautiful people.  The resources we all possess are pretty unevenly distributed. You are aware of this huge discrepancy, right? Because the fact is that the richest person in our village has as much as the poorest 57 of the 100 combined.

And the truth is that it’s not clear if they’re willing to share their goodies with anyone else.

• The sad reality is that fifty of the people living in our little village of 100 don’t have a reliable source of food and are hungry most or all of the time.

• Thirty of the people in our village suffer from malnutrition.

• Forty don’t have access to adequate sanitation and 31 are actually living in substandard housing.

• Thirty-one don’t have electricity and 15 don’t have clean and safe drinking water.

• Overall, 19 of the people in our village survive on less than $1 a day and almost half of our village lives on less than $2 a day.

But let’s cut to the chase. Honestly, what does this have to do with me as an American? Who really is my neighbor?

Hold that thought while we ponder another -

Who do you most readily identify with in Jesus’ famous story of the Good Samaritan?

I think that all of us can relate not only to the Good Guy in the famous tale of noble deeds done, but also to the two other guys that just seemed a bit too preoccupied with their own lives to ‘help a brutha out.’ Come to think of it, we have probably been at various times of our lives, all four of the main characters in the story – the one who stopped to help someone in need, the two too busy to stop, and the poor soul that had fallen upon hard times and needed a helping hand.

I think I can also safely say that none of us want to feel like one of the bystanders that watch someone else suffer and we fail to act.

But what about when it comes to the global village? Do you and I unknowingly assume the position of the bystander in the global village we are now a part of? In other words, do I watch the outside broken world from the safe confines of my fortress? Be it my suburban castle, my self-constructed little world, the place I call church, or whatever?

Further, have I come to embrace a meaningless, narcissistic Western form of faith that has taught me to safely justify my non-actions to the world around me? Has the consumptive, American brand falsely taught me that I really don’t need to be involved? In other words, is it really okay with God for me to be a bystander in his global village?

Hasn’t the story of the Good Samaritan taught me to know better? Have we missed the point of Jesus’ parable? Does it not shout to us to reach out to the people we encounter in life that are in great need? To those very different from us? To those we encounter in the global village?

Or has, quite frankly, the theology and practice of our American churches taught us to look the other way? To take upon the form of the guilty bystander? To smugly believe in our own hearts, ‘It’s not really my problem, is it?’

What does God say is the truest and purest form of religion? Would it be that assuming the role of the bystander is no longer ok? Does not true spirituality teach us to choose right relationship to others in the world around us? To do what Jesus truly values most? Is not real faith whether or not we decide to respond to the most vulnerable members of our global village?

If these past couple of years have taught me anything, it’s that the question of ‘Who is my neighbor?’ stretches much father than a few steps beyond my front door.  God has allowed me the privilege of meeting beautiful new neighbors such as Bhutanese refugees, orphans in Tijuana, and homeless children living on the streets of Las Vegas.

By the grace of God, I am seeing my neighbors through a whole new lens. They truly are my neighbors, because we all live in the same village.

And I want to be a good neighbor.

(I am grateful for the words and influence of Daniel Groody and his wonderful book, Globalization, Spirituality and Justice, from where I have based many of these thoughts, including the term, ‘guilty bystander.’)

Hand me the remote!

I have something to confess.

I now mute commercials. Seriously.

I know it sounds pretty dark but I just had to get it out. I come clean with the fact that I now hit the mute button when things go to a commercial break. Call me weird. Call me weak. Call me anti-American and un-capitalistic, but I just had to do it. I just couldn’t take it anymore.

Maybe I reached my own media saturation point. My own personal Information overload. I simply have had enough of a lifetime supply of advertising. Maybe a few lifetimes. My cup runneth over.

Maybe it felt like an awful resurrection of all those Reid vs. Angle commercials. Kind of like one of those terrible sequels to a horror movie, perhaps ‘Saw VII.’

It’s gotten so bad that I’m starting to think it’s one of those conspiracy theories. Some evil force out there secretly trying to drive us all insane. Maybe aliens from another planet? I mean really, how many of those Miller, Coors or Bud commercials during football season marketed towards a 7^th grader can we really take?

Please, no mas!

Maybe it’s just me, but seeing advertisers during the holidays trying to convince me that real love is about buying gold jewelry rings a bit hollow. No pun intended. I’m still not going to Jared’s.

Or smiling actors peddling a new pharmaceutical drug, while the announcer gives us the ‘oh, by the way’ disclaimer that this may in fact cause deadly side effects, seems kind of weird to me. I’m just not motivated to swallow it.

So who was the person that invented the ingenious mute button? I’m seriously starting to think they should be given a medal of honor. Isn’t there some kind of Nobel Peace Prize for great people like this? That little button has given me more happiness of late than I can shake a remote at.

Maybe I just changed over the years. Or maybe it has to do with some personal choices I’ve made and how my own perceptions of money and stuff have slowly been transformed. When our faith community made a decision a few years ago to participate in a thing called Advent Conspiracy, it may have indelibly altered my own view of the give vs. get struggle.

The idea of not spending money on stupid stuff but instead using it to do good was already a personal journey. It didn’t take a whole lot of convincing to join up with others who were turning these beautiful truths into a unified effort. So honestly, the idea to spend money on things neither we or our loved ones need now seems far removed, and even quite a bit insane. Like, ‘Why in the world would I want to do that?’

Oh yeah, that’s just what we do during the holidays. Or should I say used to do.

So when Sears tell me to ‘be the Santa I want to be,’ I’m not really buying those kinds of lines anymore. All that has really done for our culture is left us with a mountain of debt and an empty mentality that life is all about consumption.

What I have found at this point in my own crossing is that life is most certainly more about giving. The guy who said that giving is a whole lot better than getting was actually correct. I’ve come to the conclusion that I get much more satisfaction about what I give to others, especially those in need, than what I might purchase or possess in this short and fragile life.

So my encouragement to you would be to find someplace this season where you can make a difference with your money and your one and only life. Take the focus off of buying for those that already have and getting things you don’t really need. Give to the voiceless. Give to the powerless. Give to the marginalized. Give to those in need.

Oh, and to mute the voices in life that would tell you otherwise.

Grace.

Why Randy’s not coming over for Thanksgiving

It’s been quite an amazing week of watching one celebrity train wreck after another of men going over the ego cliff. It confirmed for me that the ‘Peter Pan Principle,’ being that some boys never really grow up, is still very much alive and well in twenty-first century America.

First, it was Charlie Sheen’s ongoing ‘watch me as I continue to screw up my life’ debacle. Then I saw in the news that Kelsey Grammer, the former star of Frasier, left his current wife and two small kids for a cute, young thing about half his age that he had already actually ‘impregnated.’ This now being about his sixth relationship, not necessarily counting everyone he’s fathered a child with. I’m not saying his disposable razors last longer but the point could possibly be argued.

But seriously, when you really stop and think about it, can anyone really top the amazing narcissistic antics of Mr. Randy Moss? If there is a Hall of Fame for egomaniacs, my vote is for Randy. I’m actually betting he gets in on the first ballot.

You really gotta love this guy, especially as we head into the ‘Thanksgiving’ season. The irony is amazing, isn’t it? Our early forefathers taking time during harsh winters and near starvation, to stop and give thanks for all the good, albeit very little, things they had in life. They were people that simply chose to count their blessings. Compare that to professional football player Randy Moss’ recent tirade directed at a caterer in the Minnesota Viking’s clubhouse. This would be just a bit on the opposite side of the galaxy.

It’s really one of those feel-good holiday stories, that when you first read you’re actually a bit stunned. Like your thinking that people don’t really seriously act this way. That kind of behavior is usually reserved only for superstar divas that forbid people lower on the food chain to make eye contact with them in their hallowed presence.

So if you haven’t yet heard about Randy’s tantrum, you might as well get it first hand from the brow-beaten caterer himself, Gus Tunucci,

“We had the whole buffet set up, and we had a nice spread — chicken, ribs, round of beef with a carving station, the whole deal. (Moss) he comes in, and I’m helping one of the guys and didn’t look up, and all of a sudden I heard, ‘What the (expletive) is this? I wouldn’t feed this (expletive expletive) to my (expletive) dog!’ And he’s screaming it at the top of his lungs.

Most certainly, it’s hard to find fault with Randy. One could make the case he’s a man of conviction, who seems to deeply care for his dog much more than say, Michael Vick. And besides, anyone that makes $9 million a year catching a cylindrical object is probably used to dining by some pretty lofty culinary standards. Why should he have to eat something far below his own values, even if it is free? I’m thinking he had to draw the line somewhere based upon his own deeply held principles.

Ironically, as it turns out, this wasn’t the first time Moss had pitched a fit. Boy, I sure didn’t see that coming. In fact, a member of the Vikings’ staff apologized to Tinucci. saying,

“Don’t worry about it, Gus, he’s an (expletive), He’s done this every time we’ve had food.”

I’m not Dr. Phil but I think I’m beginning to see a pattern here.

The irony of all of this is that Moss, who following this and a few other tirades, was abruptly released from the Vikings roster, after only weeks ago being traded to the Vikings from the New England Patriots. But here’s the kicker – the reason Randy wanted out of New England was his sense that the fans there didn’t really appreciate him. Okay, maybe they never had him over for dinner, but isn’t this a bit like the frog calling the toad ugly?

So sadly, after some soul-searching, this has forced me to draw some lines personally and set some of my own boundaries. Criticize me if you will but I’ve taken Randy off of my Thanksgiving holiday guest list. I know it sounds shallow. I just couldn’t take the stress of thinking I’d slaved all day cooking, only to have Randy explode before my friends and family at the dinner table. That kind of behavior is reserved only for Uncle Floyd and he’s in his seventies now and a bit senile anyway.

Oh, one more thing. A final word to the wise. Please don’t try Moss’ style of etiquette on your own loved ones at Thanksgiving. Or at any other time for that matter. I mean this could cause serious familial consequences that could result in you not making it to Black Friday.

How about instead, if you and I simply take time to count our blessings and choose to focus, not on what we don’t have or don’t like, but on what we’re truly thankful for in life?

Tis the season to be thankful.

Grace.