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I have a lot to say.

Pick a subject, bring it up, and I'll argue and ramble on until your eyes glaze over and your mind has long left the conversation. Challenge what I believe in and arguments will well up within me and I'll hold my ground or die trying.

I have a lot to say, and I'm not afraid to say it.

I recently joined a group at my church that gathers for fellowship and general merriment. They are good people and it's refreshing to no end to be surrounded by others who can offer encouragement from a shared worldview.

I know a lot about my worldview, so don't ask me about it unless you never want to hear the end of it.

Last Wednesday I found myself at our gathering place a half hour early and saw that some had already arrived so I headed inside. Apparently they got there early to have a prayer session for everyone who had laid out their troubles before the group. They asked me if I would like to join them.

Um, sure, yea, I guess, why not.

I followed them out of the room where we normally gather to a smaller one and everyone pulled up a chair to sit in a circle. I followed their lead, and bowed my head as the guy in charge opened us up in prayer and then pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me.

On it was a list of different people from our group and their needs. He asked me to lead the prayer for one of the names on the list and their needs.

I was terrified--absolutely terrified.

My palms started to sweat, my legs and hands started to shake, and I could barely read what was written on the paper.

I had nothing to say.

I could feel my face displaying every color of red, and I tried to force my mind to come up with something of meaning, but there was nothing to say.

I sheepishly handed the paper to the person next to me and told them that I would like to pass for the day if I could. And then I sat there feeling like a little child while they asked God to provide for those in need in His way and in His time.

The philosophy of religion, you see, is easy to talk about. What harm is there in arguing about the validity of religious experience? It's abstract, though real, and doesn't require me to open up my soul and lay it bare before others.

Prayer doesn't allow for that. Prayer is the real thing. Real things terrify me and there are times when sarcasm won't do a damn thing to save me from having to face them.

I have a lot to say, but God has a way of humbling a man.

A man that is really a terrified little child.

So if you'll excuse me I have some growing up to do.

Amateur Video Hour

These are two videos I made almost three years ago. The first is to Johnny Cash's cover of a Nine Inch Nails song. There are several different themes I tried to tie to the song. A couple of those are man's mortality regardless of social status and fame; how the pleasures of this world are empty when viewed as ends in and of themselves; the source of evil; the supposed silence of God in a world of evil; and finally the way to the land of beginning again.

The second video is just my attempt to add an extra oomph to the power of speeches given by Ravi Zacharias. I came across someone who compiled excerpts from his speeches and put it to music and found it rather moving, so I decided to attempt to add a visual touch as well. You might have a hard time seeing the first couple seconds if you have an older monitor. There are also a couple errors in my transcription. If I became an atheist I'd still listen to Ravi Zacharias speak for aesthetic reasons alone.

On Wonder, Christmas, and Children

Something about Christmas has changed.

I can recall as a child the magic and wonder the day held for me, but that feeling seems to have been lost. My parents had me while they were children themselves and so I'd spend many days with my grandparents. As the end of the year would roll around she'd bring out the largest artificial Christmas tree that I've ever seen placed inside a house. The trees in the stores weren't good enough for her; she hated their perfect shape. She must have bought two trees and took the longer branches from them to create one physics defying Christmas tree of epic proportions. It was a monstrosity that she would deck out with giant Christmas lights, tacky ornaments, and a thick coating of tinsel. I remember standing at its base and looking up at it wide-eyed in amazement/terror.

As Christmas drew near large gift wrapped boxes would start to slowly appear beneath the tree branches. Every time I saw a new one I'd run over and check if it was for me. I'd always want the largest ones to have my names on them, but they never did. I hadn't yet learned that the best gifts came in small packages. I recall watching the giant present being passed out on Christmas Eve (my father's side has always celebrated the day before Christmas) and wishing it was for me, but then it would turn out to be a piece of lawn equipment and my wishes would change.

Waiting for Christmas Eve was always painful, even when the day arrived I still had one obstacle between myself and presents. Mass! Around four in the afternoon my mother would take me to the children's Christmas Eve Mass (I was born and raised Roman Catholic). We would have to arrive an hour early just to get seats. They'd be playing Christmas music and telling the Christmas story while other children acted it out. I hated it. I didn't care about the story I'd heard a thousand times before; I wanted to find out what was in those boxes under my grandmother's tree!

After the kids finished with their Christmas play the Mass proper would begin. I was halfway there, but I still had an hour to go. Every seat in the church was full at this point, children and their parents were standing in the aisles. They were lucky. Sure, they had to stand, but at least they got to miss out on the first hour.

Oh, and did I mention the bells? Yes, the bells. At the Christmas Mass all the children were supposed to bring a bell that they would ring during the songs. A lot of children brought tiny bells that let out a small tinny sound. Not my mother. She gave me a cowbell. A full-sized thick metal plated cowbell. It would vibrate my entire arm as I used all the strength I had to just be able to move it through the air. The noise it produced would drown out all the other bells. Heads would turn, and necks would crane to catch a glimpse of what might be causing such a terrible sound. By this point I would be losing control and I'd be trying my best to hold on to the monstrosity as physics took over. If anyone made eye contact with me I'm sure they saw a confused and terrified child. Finally the songs would end before my arms detached themselves and the priest would start his sermon. He'd open up by asking the parents to put their child's bells away. He always seemed to be looking at us when he said it.

He would talk forever. Usually something about Santa Claus and then Jesus. Santa Claus! That guy brought me presents! Jesus was that guy who was keeping me from those presents. The Eucharist would roll around, and then it was time for the final song! The final song! It was here! It was over! People were making their way out of the building! I would grab my mother's arm and try to make a run for the doors.

She didn't budge.

My mother refused to leave church before the last song was completed and the last note no longer resonated in the air. Everyone in the aisles got to leave though. Some of them even before the last song had begun. Man, they were lucky. Me? I got to stay and deal with the traffic leaving the church.

It was almost time though, the presents were a mere couple miles away.

My mother would drop me off at my father's parents house. I would jump out of the car, say goodbye, and then run in immediately to see if any more presents had arrived. Not yet. I had to wait on the rest of the family. This was probably the most excruciating point. At Mass I knew the motions and how much longer I had on the clock. All I had at my grandparents were the sounds of motors in the street that always turned out to be someone I didn't know. I'd pace back and forth in her kitchen looking out the window.

Eventually the cars would slowly start pulling up in front of the house and more wrapped boxes would make their way out of the trunks and under the tree. It was ridiculous how many gifts would be in that living room. The adults would complain there wasn't enough room to sit. Not me, I imagined building myself a fort out of the boxes that held toys for me. (I still do this when I see a large pile of boxes. Box forts = awesome!)

And then, finally the moment would arrive and I would tear into the boxes with wild abandon and pile the riches in front of me. My cousin and I would compare loot. See who got the bigger pile or the best toys. I always won. (Til that one year he got a Nintendo 64. He made up for all the years after he opened that one.)

I'd sit and stare at the wonders that laid before me. Board games, books, gizmos and gadgets just waiting to be opened up and explored. I didn't care about them anymore, though. It was time for phase two.

Santa was coming.

Santa always terrified me. What if I wasn't good? I honestly remember stressing out about how good I had been all year. Trying to fall asleep that night would take hours in my mind (probably ten minutes in reality). My aunt would spend the night and we would share a bed. I was the first grandchild born into my family and everyone always wanted to see me in action. I can recall waking up early in the morning and trying my best to sneak out and peak around the corner into the living room to see if Santa had come during the night. The walk down the hallway that led there was like walking to my death sentence. What if Santa didn't come? What if I wasn't good enough? My tiny eyes would peek around the corner. The toys were there. He had come! He always came. I am perfect after all.

The toys would line the living room where the boxes had been the night before. My grandparents made it their sole purpose in life to spoil me. I remember my father would get mad at how much Santa would bring me. It was a bit much he would say. I guess he didn't realize how good I had been.

I never knew where to start with my Christmas loot. I wanted to dedicate my time in a manner that would give each toy a proper breaking in, but not spend so much time with it that I'd figure out everything it could do. It would take several intense calculations, but I would always come out with the correct toy to playing ratio.

Christmas was quite literally the most magical time of the year for me. I could go on about the Christmas specials on television, or the lights, or the decorations that lined my grandparents house. I remember everything so vividly. It was magical.

But something about Christmas has changed.

The tree is not as large as I remember and the tinsel just makes a mess of the house. The presents don't seem to be as big as they once were either. Sometimes those large ones are for me, and now they do turn out to be lawn equipment. They barely fill the room anymore and there's plenty of room to sit. My family decided to draw names instead of buying for everyone as the years went on. The children still get gifts from everyone, but it's not the same as it was before.

As a child every gift I received was full of wonder and mystery. I had rarely gotten a present that I'd seen before in the stores. Today it's usually clothes or some electronic devise that I already know everything about. "Oh, an iPod. Cool. Thanks." It's an iPod though. It plays music, and that's about it. I'm not saying I'm not thankful, but that magic seems to have disappeared. It's just not the same.

Something about Christmas has changed.

Now I watch my younger brother and sisters opening their gifts (some of them sharing the same age difference with me as my parents and I), and I see that wonder in their eyes as they tear their way into those boxes. I watch them pacing the house between the dining room table covered with food to the living room piled high with boxes. They've already picked out all of theirs and usually mine as well.

Christmas through the eyes of a child, the magic and wonder of it all, is lost to most of us now that we have grown up. Now it's about fighting traffic to provide that wonder to our children, and recapturing glimpses of that wonder in their eyes.

What's our toy on Christmas morning? What's the perpetual wonder that will never grow old? Is there a gift of infinite proportions and endless magic and potentialities?

Is there?

Something about Christmas has changed.

I think, though, we can recapture it if we can see it through the eyes of a child again. A child looking into the depths of God and the endless presents and presence He promises for those who love Him. One day I'll meet the gift that walked this earth over two-thousand years ago. For now, He's given me a large awkward cowbell to make a fool of myself with. I'm going to try my best to play along to the music until the songs end and that last note no longer resonates in the air. It sure hurts my arms at times, and I get a lot of weird looks from others as I do my best to hold on, but it's what I've been given and I'll do my best with it.

I wonder what's under that tree though, don't you?

Something about Christmas has changed, but it's the change that changes everything.

How to Judge Others Properly

I'm judging you. Yes, you. I'm doing it right now. As I type these thoughts I'm judging you and everything you believe in. Some Christians have prayer lists, but I have judging lists. That's my job as a Christian after all, to judge the world and everything in it.

I'll never understand the people who have problems with judging. I'll be walking along and I'll notice a guy eating his own baby. So I'll walk over to him and tell him that I really don't think it's right for him to eat his own baby. He'll roll his eyes at me and tell me not to judge. I'll start to get frustrated and tell him to think about the baby, but then the baby will look me in the eye and ask who I am to tell his father that he shouldn't eat his own baby. Then I'll turn to the streets and start screaming for help, and the passersby will point their finger at me and ask where I get off defining what's actually right and wrong. They obviously don't realize that I'm a Christian and therefore entitled to judging the world.

These replies are common. In our culture it's wrong to judge and to tell another person how to live. This really pisses me off. I've always wanted to start a competition with my fellow Christians where we go out on the streets and judge everyone. Calling people out for certain sins would be worth more points than other sins, and you can get point multipliers by finding more than one sin on an individual person. I would be the official judge of the competition and I'd give the winner a bunch of those little pamphlets that tell people they're going to hell if they don't believe everything that we do.

People would have a problem with this because of all the judging and they'd probably shut us down. That's what pisses me off. They're ignoring the fact that they're using their judgment to judge me for using my judgment as a judge to judge my contestants in using their judgment on how to judge the heathens for their judgment to be the judge of judging their own lifestyle.

...wait, what?

Perhaps that wasn't a clear analogy to use to get my point across.

The point is that it's judgmental to tell me that I shouldn't judge. Who are they to tell me that I shouldn't judge? Do they really think that they know it's wrong to judge?

All this silly nonsense about not judging doesn't live up to its own standard.

People judge all the time. Suppose I gave you the choice between eating a bag of Twizzlers and a jar of pickled pigs feet which would you choose? Did you make a judgment between the two? Who are you to judge?

Do you get angry when you watch the Olympics because they only give three medals away? Do you write the judges angry letters and ask them to work on their own athletic abilities before they judge others on theirs?

All judgment means is to make a distinction. To apply a property to one object that you don't apply to another. Twizzlers are delicious, pickled pigs feet are gross. This man can run so far this fast, that man can't.

What's missing from the statement that we should not judge is a qualification for why we should not judge. If someone was lighting puppies on fire then we are allowed to tell them they really shouldn't do that. Unless, of course, they were shooting them out of cannons as well because that would just be awesome. They can't tell us that we shouldn't judge them unless they can show either (1) there is no discernible difference between lighting a puppy on fire and not lighting a puppy on fire, (2) there is nothing morally different between lighting a puppy on fire and not lighting a puppy on fire, or (3) we cannot know if there is anything morally different between lighting a puppy on fire and not lighting a puppy on fire.

This, however, is never shown. We all know that there is a difference in acting one way compared to another. We just don't like it when we're called out on it and so we have this self-defense mechanism of moral agnosticism to throw up whenever the moral law comes knocking on our door.

I'd like to leave you with some advice on how to properly judge others. I am, after all, a Christian, and therefore an expert in the matter. First, judge. Do it. Do it to everyone all the time. This is so you can guard yourself from making the same mistakes. Second, only call someone out when it really matters. We're all human and therefore open to making mistakes. A lot of them at that. Most people are aware of their own sins. Third, if you're a Christian then hold fellow believers to higher standards than the non-believer. This isn't because we're better than them, it's just that we should know better than them. The non-Christians are prisoners of the Devil and we should live a life that reflects our freedom from him. Fourth, when you judge someone make sure you're holding yourself accountable to what you are saying as well. This is what Jesus is talking about when people try and quote Him out of context on telling us not to judge. And lastly, have some compassion. Say what you mean, and mean what you say, but for the love of God, have some compassion.

Why I'm a Teetotaler

I've come to realize there are usually two responses to be expected after informing someone that I do not drink. Either their tongue will lose its capability to articulate a sentence and they respond with, "apitneougrousringlyeuting?!," or they will say "wow, good for you." From there it seems to become the goal of a lot of people to spend every waking hour of their life trying to get me to drink.

I've always found this rather amusing. What if I told them that I didn't eat... umm... I dunno... let's say... eggs. Would they make it their goal to get me to eat an egg?

"Yo, Chris, how would you like your eggs?"

"Nonexistent, please."

"Huh?"

"I don't eat eggs."

"Why not?"

"I just choose not to."

"But why?"

"Several reasons."

"C'mon man, just eat this egg."

"No thanks."

"Just do it!"

"No, really, I don't want it."

"Do iiiiiiit, do iiiiiiiiit."

"I appreciate the offer, but I really don't want to eat the egg."

"Here, this egg is on me. Have an egg, you'll like it."

"Seriously, I don't want it."

"Just take a bite--a small one. There's nothing wrong with enjoying an egg once in a while, you know."

"I'm not saying that there is, I just don't eat them."

"Whatever, dude, but I'm going to get a couple of them and enjoy me some eggs."

"Cool."

"Don't judge me!"

"I'm not judging you. You're free to eat all the eggs you want."

"I know you're judging me. I can see it."

"No, really, I'm not. Enjoy your egg."

"You sure you don't want this egg? You could have it scrambled, sunny side-up, over-easy, or boiled, or maybe even an egg made into a soup? You gotta like one of those! Here, have some ice cream with just a little dab of egg on it."

"Seriously, I don't want..."

"What about a chicken? Would you eat a chicken? Chickens were once an egg! Do you eat chicken? Let me buy you a chicken. How do you like your chicken prepared? Baked? Fried? A chicken sandwich, perhaps..."

I can't see someone having this reaction if I didn't eat eggs. It's always made me wonder: what is it about alcohol that people seem to have such an odd reaction to but not other foods?

I remember growing up and everyone would brag about how much alcohol they drank at so-and-so's party. All I would wonder in my head was why? What if I started talking about how much... umm... egg... no, I need a new analogy... how about... ummm....eggnog! What if went on about how much eggnog I had to drink over the weekend? What if I planned a party that would have tons of eggnog for everyone to consume until they started throwing up. I'm not sure this would be much of a hit. In fact, they would probably say that it would be pretty dumb to drink eggnog until you threw up.

Not so with alcohol.

Why is that?

What is it about the substance that has such an allure to it?

Is it the taste? I know it was for me when I used to drink. I loved a drink once in a while. I wouldn't always have one when I went out, but sometimes I would. Just like I wouldn't always have eggnog or eggs for breakfast, but sometimes I would. With alcohol, though, it seems to be something that people need. If you're out in public, if you're having people over, or if it's a Tuesday then there needs to be a drink in your hand. It seems to be more about something else than the taste and aroma it gives off.

Sometimes I would hear stories from others about how on Friday night they drank so much they couldn't remember any of it. Someone would reply of what a great time it must have been, and they would agree. This would cause drool to come out of my mouth as my mind began destroying itself with synapses misfiring in all directions in its attempts to make sense of such a conclusion. Apparently, alcohol was a mysterious liquid that proved the laws of logic to be false. From absolutely nothing, the best times of our lives come about.

I used to try this trick on my mother all the time when as a I teenager I deemed myself to be too cool to talk to her.

"How was the party last night, Christopher?"

"Good."

"What did you do?"

"...nuthin'."

"You did absolutely nothing, and it was good?"

"...yea..."

Last time I checked my mother doesn't know much about Aristotle, but she seemed to grasp the basics of logic. Nothing, you see, is not something. A good time can't come about from doing nothing, there would have to be, well, something. Perhaps it's just me, but I usually prefer to be aware of what is going on when I'm out having fun.

"How was the partay last night, dude?"

"It was totally awesome! I got so drunk and I can't remember any of it! It was a blast!"

"Hells yea! Wanna do it again next weekend!"

"Absolutely! I'm going to go call... hey, what's this scar? Umm.. where'd my kidney go? Oh well... But, yea, let's do it again!"

It's rather odd when you think about it. Somehow through the magic of alcohol we have some of our best times arise out of events that we can't remember much about.

It's even odder when I actually go out with people and then as the night goes on alcohol slowly takes over their mind. Conversation turns to nonsense and the same jokes are laughed at and repeated which don't make any sense at all. It's like they sold themselves out and cheapened what might be a genuine sober thrill for illusions and sometimes stupidity. In my philosophy, if you need alcohol to have a good time, then it might just be that your good times aren't really all that great. It would be like making a song better by reducing your capability to hear it and replacing it with another.

My formula for happiness is knowing truth. If you want to be happy, then you have to know truth. No one can be happy by living a lie. To know truth is to know the is-ness about reality, to know what is. Alcohol necessarily takes you away from being able to discern truth. It leads to bad judgments and bad judgments lead to regrets and sometimes worse results than that. I've known three people who were killed that would not have been killed if they had not been intoxicated at the time. I've seen my own family led down paths that might never have been visited if they refrained from drinking to the point where they lost control of their own bodies. The stories are countless of events that occurred merely because someone couldn't grasp the is-ness of the situation and acted out in ways they wish they had not. This is a fact that cannot be denied.

If happiness lies in knowing truth, and if drinking to the point of intoxication leads you away from being able to know truth, then it logically follows that getting drunk leads you away from happiness. Any feelings of happiness which might take place during the time are a false happiness arising from the mind instead of reality. It's a happiness born forth from something less than ourselves, and one cannot be liberated by something less than what we are. That is the definition of an addiction--needing something less than oneself to find satisfaction.

Of course, all this does not apply to alcohol in general, it only applies to drinking in excess. The question remains of if drinking alcohol is wrong in and of itself. That, it seems, is an issue that is unclear. Some questions of morality are unclear. Liberals like to run with this and apply it to morality in general, but that obviously does not follow from particular moral dilemmas. If you are unsure of how to answer a math problem, then it does not mean that math is relative.

When I gave up drinking over four years ago I based it largely on my newly birthed faith in Christianity and the writings of Norman Geisler. Dr. Geisler is my hero and it scares me how much I agree with him. He's written over a hundred books on every topic you can think of. No matter what he tackles it changes everything I believe in. I used to be completely reformed in my theology, but after reading his book on the relationship between God's sovereignty and a libertarian free-will I changed my beliefs to his. If anyone has ever talked to a reformed Calvinist, then you realize how impossible this task really is, but you just can't argue with Geisler. Well, you can, but you'd be wrong. And lame. Don't be lame.

One day I came across an article he had written about alcohol and why Christians should abstain from it and I made a pact to never drink again. Since then I've read different reasons for why it is not a sin for Christians to drink and they sound convincing, but I've chosen to stick to my personal commitment for reasons that have evolved since then.

(If you are reading this and happen to be a Christian, then I'm not writing to tell you that drinking is a sin. I'm not really sure if it is a sin, and I don't believe that Christianity is about legalism. It's not a system of how to live or how to be a good person, it's about being born again in Christ. Rules don't lead to being a good person. A person can follow every law ever written and still be the most evil man alive. Drinking is between you, God, and reality. I will say, however, that if you are a Christian and you drink to the point of intoxication, then you are making a very foolish decision and sinning. As Christians we are called to see the world as how Christ sees the world and if we choose to get drunk for the mere sake of getting drunk then we placing ourselves in a situation where we can no longer see the world through the lens of God's worldview. We are clouding our vision, our judgment, and our capacity to live as Christ would before a watching world. We can never know when God might bring someone across our path that needs His redemptive message, and I can guarantee you that if you're drunk you're going to be in no position to be able to present such a thing. And further, not only does remaining abstinent save me a ton of money and face, but it presents me with countless opportunities to enter into conversations about God, life, the universe, and everything. I've found that saying you don't drink is the secret password to a man's soul.)

My decision is hard at times, as I really did enjoy the occasional drink. I've never been drunk, nor ever had the desire to get drunk. (I personally believe that when my body asks me to stop dumping something into it that I should probably stop and not have to force my body to expel it out for me.) Alcohol was never any different for me than eating a really good piece of cake or pie. My plans were never conditional on if there would be a lot of pie and cake to stuff my face with, it would depend on what I wanted to do to have fun.

And so with alcohol stuck in the moral gray area of my worldview I continue to not drink for one specific reason: I've found that it's a commitment and promise that I can actually keep. God has been good to me in more ways than I can count. I constantly make stupid decisions and He's always there blessing me and giving me a pass with His grace. He looks at me and smiles, picks me up in His arms, and in turn I look Him in the eye and slap Him across the face. I don't do much for Him, I'm constantly telling Him to eff off, and yet He's always there forgiving and providing. My commitment to not drink appears to be the only sacrifice that I'm able to actually offer up to Him.

I know it's nothing special in the grand scheme of things, but it's a small and petty offering for Him on my behalf.

And that is why I don't drink.