Shaniqua on the Job

One of our favorite children’s books is Julius Lester’s “What a Truly Cool World,” which features the wonderful character, Shaniqua, the “angel in charge of everybody’s business.” When something fortuitous or especially providential seems to happen (e.g. a parking spot opens up right next to the entrance as we pull into the mall parking lot), we will often give the credit, tongue-in-cheek, to our friend Shaniqua.

So a couple weeks ago this fellow comes to my door, giving me the "opportunity" to "win" $1000. I'm not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, but I'm not quite that dim. Still, I was polite while the fellow urged me to sign up, and explained that if I didn't win the 1K, there was a "consolation" prize: to have the carpets in my house cleaned.

I’m not exactly sure why – it had something to do with the tiny chance of winning some money, something to do with confidence in my ability to say “no” to products I don’t want or people I don’t want in my house, something to do with… well, with the cosmic order of things. I signed the card.

The following week, I received a phone call, saying I'd "won" the consolation prize, and when would be a good time for Mr. Vacuum Guy to do my household carpets.

"Well, we don't have any carpet in our home," I told her. "We have wood floors and a few area rugs."

She replied, "An alternative would be for him to shampoo any upholstery you have."

"Nope. None of that neither," I said. "But I DO have a car that desperately needs some shampooing, after a chocolate something or other exploded in the back seat and sprayed the car with gunk."

Undeterred, she began to set up an appointment. We settled on a possible time, and I then asked if the fellow would be ready not to shampoo the carpets, but to clean my car.

"I'll have to check on that," she said.

"You check on it, then," I said. "When you do, and have confirmed that my car is what he'll do, call me back and we’ll put the appointment in ink." She agreed and I figured that was the end of that story.

Imagine my surprise the following week when Mr. Vacuum Guy showed up at my house, 30 minutes before the time we had sort of arranged, ready to step inside and show me the collection of dust and insect doots and who knows what carpet-loving evils I subjected my family to each day -- and of course, his marvelous solution.

Well, we were just sitting down to eat, I told him, and I hadn't really agreed to a visit for carpet cleaning. But I did have a nasty car that needed help. If he were eager for my attention, I could observe him cleaning my car and give my opinion of the machine he used to do it. He was unsure what to do, so he went away, apparently called his boss, who gave him permission to give me an “outside of home” demonstration. When he returned after dinner, he was ready to clean the car. "It's pretty bad, I said. You’d be surprised.”

"No problem," he replied. "I used to do auto detailing. We'll get 'er in shape right away." I got him some lemonade, and we spent a nice hour, chatting pleasantly as he did a spectacular job on my car.

Then I mentally checked off a huge item off my "to do" list.

Way to go, Shaniqua!

Mr. Hollander's Opus First-Draft

The CICW posted this week their latest feature story about 'contemporary' worship planning and structure. I was heartened to see that all the good folks quoted and mentioned in the article -- Shannon Sisco in Chicago, Dean Kladder in New Jersey, Peter Armstrong in Seattle, Allison Ash and Guy Higashi in California -- all of them have, at one time or another, been students of mine. They're all out there doing great work and teaching others and serving the kingdom. I'm proud to be part of this network of creativity and inspiration, but of course, I've just handed on to them what I've received myself.

Equity

You know how there's that point in the life of your mortgage when you're finally paying more towards equity than you are toward interest? When you turn the corner and feel like you are really beginning to reap the benefits of your investment?

Well, we're a long way from that point with our real mortgage.

But I think we may have reached that point with Miriam. Here's what I mean: for the past few weeks she has stood up at the conclusion of our end-of-the-meal prayer and made her way into the kitchen. Then, un-urged and even un-asked, she will turn on the water and begin WASHING THE DISHES!

The first time she did it I asked her who she was and what she had done with my own daughter. Now we still make that joke, but she just rolls her eyes and keeps scrubbing. And she does a good job of it, too -- probably better than I'd do.

Oh yes, life is lush.

Now if we can get Jacob and Philip to do the yard work I could become a man of letters and leisure.

Birthday Bashes

This past week was a big week of birthday celebration. Jacob turned 11 on August 1 (see the picture: candles 7+4=11), and on the 7th Deb turned... well, look at her. About 29, I think.

For Jacob's special day we went to John Ball Zoo where Jacob got to ride a camel, watch a Pacific tide roll in, and generally having some cool animal adventures. (Not quite as cool as his Aunt's, but cool nonetheless).

Deb's big day involved a trip to Meijer gardens and a family gathering in the evening which included a bit of gift-giving and lots of laughter courtesy of Dad Rienstra, one of the world's worst joke-tellers (which makes him doubly funny as we all wait for him to flub the punch line).

Splish Splash

A couple weekends ago the whole family went to Chicago for the baptism of my namesake nephew, Samuel Ronald. John and Michelle honored me by inviting me to perform the baptism, along with their own pastor, at their own church, Pilgrim Congregational in Oak Park.

At their request, we splashed Sammie good with freshly imported water from Lake Michigan. As I looked at the somewhat murky pitcherful on the table, I thought that we were certainly following the ancient advice to use "living" water when baptizing (that's Johnny and his oldest, Gabriel, laughing at the abundant moisture).

John and Michelle (Sammie's parents) were eager to use real Lake Michigan water for the baptism because both sides of the family have summer cottages and deep connections to the "Big Lake" as home. So in the service I pointed to the link between family initiation and initiation into the larger family of God.

But more than that, I suggested that using water from this natural resource -- so dominant and precious to us in the midwest -- highlights the deep connection between the grace of God offered in baptism and the responsibility we gratefully take on as Christ's disciples to care for the world in which that grace is manifest. It says something damning to us if the water in our great lakes (or backyard streams, or rivers, or oceans) is so polluted that we cannot in good common sense bathe in it, or in good conscience call it "living" water. Perhaps my nephew Samuel will grow up, in service to Jesus, to be a biologist who concerns himself with the health of Lakes Michigan, Superior, Huron, Ontario, and Erie.

Assault on Par

The 7th Annual Worship Wonk Invitational -- a regular golf outing I take with a handful of good friends and liturgical geeks -- was, as usual, a fabulous success. You can read more about it here.

The one thing Mary forgot to mention in her post is the score of the game. Yes, we were playing best ball, and so were not playing to compete with one another. But at least three of us are fierce competitors; and so our goal was to beat -- or at least make a serious run -- at par. On a day when the heat index was in the triple digits, I feel like we did pretty well, then, to end up at one over for the day.

Of course, while keeping score, I did note whose shot we played for each stroke of our glorious 73. In this way, there is some comparison that can be made between our team's individual players. Who had the most stokes deemed "best" as we played? Who had the most putts? The most of our drives? The most of our chip shots?

I won't reveal the results here. Suffice to say that my most significant contribution to our effort was as the cameraman.

West Michigan piety

Now that we are back in West Michigan, we need to make many cultural adjustments, including to our personal piety. Out in California, expressing one's faith meant putting on a Hawaiian shirt, driving the SUV to the megachurch, and raising one's hands in praise to the amplified beat of the praise band.* Life was good, we had God to thank for it, and Jesus was our super-cool friend, kind of like a surfing buddy. But back in Michigan, we have to remember the truth: faith is about suffering.

No, actually, all of this is a caricature. California isn't all surfing and praise, and neither is Michigan all deprivation and depravity. In fact, we've been thrilled to be back at our old church, singing in harmony with our full-voiced congregation and enjoying the communion of the saints with old friends and family. God is good here, too. Overwhelmingly good.

Anyway, there's still enough truth in the following send-up of the old "Footprints in the Sand" poem to make it funny. Thanks to Marilyn Rottman of the Calvin Seminars in Christian Scholarship office for passing this along to me.


Footprints In The Snow

One night I had a dream.
I dreamed I was walking along the snow-covered beach of Lake Michigan.
As I looked back at the trail my feet left in the snow,
I saw my life clearly marked along my trek.

At all the high points of my life - when I made the church consistory,
when I completed my Precious Moments collection,
when my son chose Calvin over Dordt -
I noticed there was but one set of footprints dotting the frozen landscape.

But, at the low points - when our church had a series of seminarians for
seven months because no one would accept a call to Hudsonville,
when Zondervan’s sold out of my favorite Sandi Patti tape,
when my car broke down on Sunday in Holland, Michigan -
There were two sets of heavy footprints, marring the pristine flakes of the trail.

Puzzled, I cried to the Lord -
“Lord! Why this inconsistency?”

Suddenly, a cloud above the Grand Haven beach parted,
and John Calvin appeared in a single shaft of light.
“My child,” he said, “God sent me as your guardian theologian, to guide you
along life’s rugged pathways. When the burdens of the world plagued you,
when life’s heavy burden was almost too much to bear,
I was there beside you, holding your hand,
and whispering catechism quotations in your ear.

But, when you seemed to be enjoying yourself,
when happiness was the emotion in your soul,
it was then that I jumped on your back and made you feel guilty for having a
good time.

Remember, my precious worm,
fun is not an option for you.”

I awoke in a cold sweat, glad to know Truth.

Published in the April 8, 1991 edition of The Banter

*Yes, the ambiguous grammatical order of this sentence is intentional.

Membership Requirements

In preparation for writing a paper next week, I've been doing some thinking these days about church membership. In a previous post, I remarked -- in a tangential sort of way -- about the sorts of professions that the early church saw as incompatible with living a Christian life (prostitute, musician, soldier, etc.), and wondered what sorts of professions we might put on that list today. Lately I'm wondering if the church would have the disciplinary wherewithal to make use of such a list even if we had one. If someone of the "wrong" profession wished to join, what church would or could say "We'd love to have you, but you'll have to make these significant changes before you can be part of us, starting (but not ending) with your job."

On the one hand, the gospel seems to mandate a rather inclusive attitude about belonging to the church. Jesus' circle was drawn with the wideness of God's mercy, encompassing many people who the offical religious leaders of his day rejected. On the other hand, what sort of group is it that expects and asks nothing of its members? That doesn't comport with the gospel either. Jesus talked about laying down one's life to follow him.

Some have articulated this tension by speaking about the "low stoop" but "long aisle" on the house of the church. It doesn't take much to get in the church, but it takes a while to walk up to the front and make the life-changing promises of discipleship to Jesus. Different church traditions seem to emphasize these two sides of the coin, with infant baptizers focusing on the low stoop, and those from the anabaptist traditions emphasizing the long aisle. But of course, in whatever Christian tradition, both these elements should find some expression.

As I was thinking about all this, I uncovered a piece of paper while doing some archeological research in an old basement file cabinet. It is a list of the steps down the aisle that were once part of my home church's membership process, way back in the day when I first got married and Debra and I joined the church together. The document is entitled "Joining (CHURCH NAME HERE): Steps toward Assimilation."

It includes a checklist with the following items:

• Attend membership inquiry class (three sessions)
• Attend council meeting (the governing board of the church)
• Attend committee meeting
• Attend fellowship event
• Meet with the pastor
• Meet with district council member

Whew!

It also provides some well-written rationale for these requirements (to be introduced to a broader segment of the church than you could come to know during worship services alone; to find ways to use your unique abilities within our congregation), and encourages potential members to see the "requirements for membership not as hurdles to be jumped, but as steps toward fuller participation in the life of the church."

I wonder what the membership process is like these days at my home church.

Or at yours.

And I wonder whether the requirements -- if there are any -- have more to do with the perpetuation and health of the institution, or with the steps individuals and groups need to take to become more Christlike. And whether those two things should seem like such radically different categories.

"I wouldn't belong to any club that would have me as a member" -- Groucho Marx

Grand Garage Gin-Rummy Give-Away

How did this happen? How did we move from our house in G.R. to a smaller place in L.A., and then return to the original home only to find that all our stuff won't all fit in the house any more? I mean literally, it won't fit.

I am now in the second week of sorting through stuff and putting those items which we no longer want into a grand give-away pile in the garage. The stuff here isn't crap, it's just, well, to paraphrase the name of a local second-hand store, it's just crap to us. Two very nice sets of cross-country skis and boots, for example. Or a "vintage" Sony Walkman, circa 1984. Or a genuine vintage stereo cabinet, circa 1955. We've also got three boxes of theological books I don't want any more (Mary, want any more conversation partners?); a color TV; lots of kitchen, workbench, and babyroom stuff.

Anyone want to lay claim to the lot of it? We're giving it all away for free -- but the catch is that you have to take the whole pile. No picking and choosing. It's kinda like playing Gin Rummy and picking up a very large discard pile for the sake of a few cards you can genuinely use. If you've ever played, it's actually not a bad strategy...

Booked!

Anyone who watched the World Cup these past weeks cannot have helped but notice that amongst the fine football competition, there was a disheartening over-abundance of fouling -- and faking. The Portuguese in particular seemed adept at the finely honed technique whereby a player barely gets brushed by an opponent, and then flops to the ground and flails about as if he'd been sideswiped on the 405 by a Hummer. Of course, it's crucial to be certain the referee is looking at you -- otherwise your thespiantics go for nought.

It got to the point where our kids found it funny. In fact, they've been practicing a bit, and now, every once in a while, if, for example, Jacob and Mia accidently bump into each other while negotiating some precious real-estate (e.g. the one square yard in front of the refrigerator), one will go down in faux agony, rolling on the ground and looking with pleading eyes and arms towards Mom or Dad for the foul call.


But the kids decided that the referee needed more than just yellow and red cards to deal with the players' variety of objectionable behavior. So they devised an entire scheme of cards to be given away for various offenses. So, for example, an orange card comes when someone makes a bone-headed play; a black card for missing an outstanding opportunity; a green card for a phantom foul. There were some colors in their system that seemed to apply more directly to themselves: a purple card is to be shown when someone exhibits extreme bossiness; a turquoise card for dissent when a foul is called. To be fair, the kids also wanted to give away gold cards for great plays, and rainbow cards for... well, for no reason at all. Just because.

I think Debra and I may take to wearing whistles and keeping some of those purple and turquoise cards in our back pockets. And maybe a few gold and rainbow ones, too.

Home Chaotic Home

We have landed. It's good to be back in Michigan, but we are still in the throes of chaos after several days and it's wearing on all of us. Even after moving six times in three years, I am still amazed by the sheer amount of work it takes to put together a household. And the emotional ups and downs of moving, for all of us.

Small problems seem overwhelming: the air conditioning blew out yesterday, we do not at present have a dining room table or chairs, Miriam found bugs in her hair, and our perpetual question: in which d*** box will I find the [fill in urgently needed item here]??

People ask, "So are you settled in yet?" Uh... never mind.

Aiding the Forces of Evil

When we got sick of mysteries (see last post), we also listened to the Prairie Home Companion joke show, which aired just after the 2004 election. Keillor's bitterness was, shall we say, palpable, but it led to a lot of great jokes.

Here's the one Miriam and Jacob adopted as their favorite. Even if you have Republican leanings, you'll have to admit this is funny:

How many Bush administration officials does it take to change a light bulb?

None. There is no reason to change anything. We made the right decision to stick with that bulb. Those who say "it was burned out" are aiding the forces of evil!

Of course, this got adapted to fit any situation on the road. To wit:

Dad: "Miriam, are you going to wear those shoes?"
Mia: "There is no reason for me to change my shoes. I made the right decision to pick these shoes. Those who say they are "impractical" are aiding the forces of evil."
Dad: (sigh).