HSC Installment No.2

The Highlands Study Center has a publication, entitled Every Though Captive. In times past, at the end of each issue was Dr. Sproul's "Chicken Report" a monthly update on his successes and failures in poulty production. This post is about how I made it into the Chicken Report.

As a student, living with the Sprouls, I had obigation to perform a certain number of hours' labor each week. The labor varied from chopping firewood to polishing the family van to taking care of chickens. By taking care, I don't mean the default assumption of feeding and watering. That was involved, and being the resident expert, my knowledge of poultry biology was inquired of not infrequently.

One day, Dr. Sproul approached me with a problem. He had five chickens, the first he had ever raised. He loved those chickens, but they just weren't producing. Something had to be done. Being his first, he didn't have the heart to eat them or kill them, but economics dictated their removal. Hence, my services were procured. I was to be the grim reaper, the one between them and their end: The eternal garbage can.

So, I set my face to my task, and proceeded to it in the cleanliest fashion I knew. I would grab one by the neck, swing it round and round, and snap its neck. A quick, clean, though dizzying, painless death. I had done three, and was proceeding to the fourth, when I heard an exclaimation to my right. There was the little Sproul boy watching wide eyed in wonder. At that moment I snapped the chicken, and to my surprise I found myself holding only the head. I looked, and there was the rest of the chicken running around the other side of the pen.

After that I was the hero of many stories, not the least of which was one installment in "The Chicken Report."

Dragons

Not all dragons
are armed in scales,
With fiery breath
and thorny tails.

Not every knight,
is borne by a steed,
He is known by his heart,
and judged by his deeds.

Distinctions

A bit of a sidetrack... I have beeen thinking a lot lately of church community and familial relationships. The question seems to come up, though, of indivuality. It is, of course, posed to avoid the impression of indivualism. How can I know who I am, if I find my identity in another entity? Am I not then defined by who, or what, I associate with? It seems difficult to focus on indivuality outside of indivualism. I cannot be obsessed with who I am, or I won't get any deeper than myself. Indivualism doesn't go anywhere. The body of Christ is made up of many parts. If I am a little pinkie toe, my distictiveness, the definition of my indivual being, is found, not in my pinkie-toe-ness, but in my being a pinkie toe on a foot on a body. If all I am is a cute little pinkie toe, outside of the body, I have lost definition and individualality. All the sudden I'm just another non-conformist. Paint it black. In a family, a husband is such only because he has a wife, a father because he has children. Indivuality is lost on indivualism. To look into myself to define who I am, I find only what I am; a supersized bundle of filthy rags. It is through the definition of who Jesus Christ is, and what He has done that we become dinstinct, because we are no longer alone.

Highlands Study Center, installment 1

It seems that it might be of interest for me to write of my times as student at the Highlands Study Center. That it is a convenient source of blogging material is also rather handy.

Around October of 2002, I had been looking for a sort of discipleship program for a while. I had applied, and been rejected (although I was a 'prime candidate'), for Vision Forum's discipleship program. I had intended on applying again at Vision Forum, but they took a sort of sabbatical on the program. Around that time a friend told me about RC Sproul Jr.'s ministry, with the disclaimer that he is 'a presbyterian, and a bit radical.' Sounded rather interesting (we were going to a reformed baptist church). Having grown up listening to Sproul Sr., I was interested. I started reading on the HSC website. I liked this kind of radical. So, I talked to my parents, and I contacted Dr. Sproul. We had some questions for each other. After some email exchanges, mostly about myself, he told me that it sounded like my family was more presbyterian than most presbyterians. We arranged that I would come up shortly after Thanksgiving of '02.

I left home Monday, December 2nd, in a little brown 1988 Oldsmobile Cutlass, my family in the rearview. It was my first roadtrip away from home, alone. I was to call home every couple hours. That night I happened to find one of the only hotels in America that would give a room to someone under 21, but that's another story. I pulled up to the Sproul domain Tuesday afternoon, rather naive, a little lonely, and quite nervous. Dr. Sproul was kind, warm, funny, and quite interesting in shorts and calf socks. The adventeur had begun.

The Sands of Time...

This week marks the 3rd anniversary of my term as student at the Highlands Study Center. I was interested to read Dr. Sproul's squiblog this week. I remember sitting on his couch as he shared with me what he wrote there. The look in his eyes, the excitement, the sincerity, as he told me I could indeed change the world. There I first began to understand that it is faithful living that God uses to accomplish His will through us, that heroism is only accomplished with a firm foundation of faithfulness.

I look fondly on my time as student. It is wonderful to look back and see the grace of God, and the events and people He uses to shape our lives.

Good Christian Men Rejoice

Friday, as I was driving home, I came across the mother of all Christmas lines. It ran about 7 miles long. I knew there had to be something deeply philosophical about all this, and my mind began to wander. In all reality, there was a bad accident that caused the interstate to shut down in both direction for a collective 20 miles. This made my 45 minute commute almost 3 hours long. It did give me plenty of time to think about life, the universe, and everything.

There were several shoulder runners (those annoying folks who actually think they'll get somewhere by driving up the shoulder). The one that cought my attention was an older guy with a sticker beneath the driver's side window that asked the all important question, "Are you saved?" In a hurry to get to heaven, I guess.

I also saw a few houses all strung out with a couple million watts worth of Christmas lights, and those cute silohouettes of Frosty looking over the "Child" with longing eyes.

Already in a thinking mood, I put the two together: How easily our Christian witness is distorted, and the celebration of the Christmas season. I then applied one of the new words I've been learning: Antithesis. Here's my result.

The world has taken one of our most sacred holidays and distorted it almost beyond recognition, and Christians have complied on wholesale levels. So, good conservitive Christian consider pulling out all together. But I wonder if the Christian witness wouldn't be better served, if Christ wouldn't be better served, if we instead reclaimed Christmas. What if we studied and understood the traditions, the symbols of new life and love, and taught them to our children, and celebrated them with all our hearts. Not because the word does, not because we always have, but because God came down to earth, in the form of a man, to take on the sins of man, to redeem for Himself a people. Let the people of the Lord rejoice!

Let's Talk

Our culture is inundated by communication. We are, it has been said, in the communication age. There are billions of words simultaneously flying through the air every second; over cell-phones and the internet. Everyone wants to be heard. The modern American dream is to achieve global fame. We all want our fifteen minutes. With our cellular phones we can force ourselves on any unsuspecting member of our social cliché, or anyone else for that matter. And not, with our recent discover of the wonderful world of blogging, we can present our undiscovered wisdom to the wide world. No, these things are not evil in themselves, but discretion must be used, and by and large, it is not. The whole world screams into the vacuum to be heard.

For our silly efforts to be known and heard by the world, our culture has blindly sacrificed many good things. Blessings have been abandoned for selfish desires. Those who seek fame are adored by the masses. But for adoration they often give up the love of a few close friends. Over the internet, points can be made, but seldom are we truly understood. In our efforts to be acknowledged we give up the opportunities we have to be known. We rave at the world, rebuking, scorning, and criticizing, but we are unable to achieve the proper end of those exercises: uplifting and encouraging one another. In broadcasting to everyone, we speak to no one. We communicate, but rarely do we converse. We, as a people, as the Church, have lost the gift of conversation.

The Church of Christ is a living organ, one body made of many member. How can that body function and live if there is no blood flowing through her? That blood is love, and it pumps, moves from cell to cell, person to person, largely by conversation.

Conversation is so much more than talking. It entails it, yes, as well as time, sacrifice, unselfishness, maturity, understanding, discernment, care, wisdom, and love. It is a weapon of war to further the Kingdom. It can help unify the Church.

We are to be know by our love for our brethren. How can we love them if we do not know them? How can we now them if we do not converse with them? He can we converse with the masses? Conversation is personal. It is a tool that we have been given to commune with one another, something we should greatly desire. Communion with the saints is a blessing. Communion is multi-sensual. We see on another, smell and taste (especially through the bread and wine of Christ), and we hear each other through conversation. All that we might know and love one another to the end of lifting up and encouraging, so that by grace we might imitate Christ’s love for, and communion with us, His bride.

That the people might give thanks

A glorious, much anticipated, occasion finally arrived this week! Yes, it corresponds with the holiday, Thanksgiving. It has no name, but we spend four months preparing for it. In the end there is much gratification, as well as gratefulness. It is the Harvest of the Turkeys. It marks the end of the poultry growing season. And this year, it was marked with wonderful fellowship of the saints. I won't go into my morbid fascination with the end of turkeys, but it was a gratifying time. Today, we enjoyed the harvest of our labors, a 27 pound tom, dressed gloriously by my lovely sister, accompanied by various and sundry articles of palatable pleasures. As we sat around the table we enjoyed the blessings God has granted our labors in food, family, and fellowship. And there was much rejoicing.

Thank you Mr. Warhol

When it rains, it pours. So, in light of the recent deluge, we have decided to hire a media director. Who'da thought turkeys could make you so popular. As it is, we have been covered in two newscasts (Monday, Nov. 14, one newspaper report, quoted in another newspaper report (between Tyson reps and big time turkey farmers), and used for a show and tell by two journalism students from MSU. Sorry, we're sold out of turkeys, but I will sign my autograph.

How many licks in a tootsipop?

I had the opportunity, early this week, to get the answers to all of life's most puzzling questions. (42) For when I went to feed chickens, what should I find in the chicken pen but a long-eared owl? He was a rather grouchy sort, a bit uppity you might say. He puffed up like a big tom-turkey and hissed and cackled. It was a once in a lifetime experience, that I am likey to save to that I can exagerate it to my grandkids.

November Weather

I should have grown up to be a storm chaser. The lightning in the sky. The thunder shaking the earth. The wind. The rain. The power! If you think a coaster is exciting, try driving inbetween three raging storm-centers. There is no controling a storm, only observation and reaction. The power of God in tangible form. Go ahead, mess with it! But one of my favorite parts of a storm is the peace afterwards. The grace of God in tangible form.

Psalm 107:23-31

Some went down to the sea in ships,
doing business on the great waters;
they saw the deeds of the LORD,
his wonderous works in the deep.
For He commanded and raised the stormy wind,
which lifted up the waves of the sea.
They mounted up to heaven;
they went down to the depths;
their courage melted away their evil plight;
they reeled and staggered like drunken men
and were at their wits end.
Then they cried to the LORD in their trouble,
and He delivered them from their distress.
He made the storm be still,
and the waves of the sea were hushed.
Then they were glad that the waters were quiet,
and He brought them to their desired haven.
Let them thank the LORD for His steadfastlove,
for His woundrous works to the children of Men!

Forward the Covenant

Wine, feasting, dancing, and fellowship. The Kingdom of Heaven advances. The covenant continues. Two become one. Did I mention wine, feasting, dancing and fellowship? I know of few joys so strong as seeing two come together under the Lord, becoming one, with a deep understanding of all the significance and implications. When one of those two is a friend from childhood who you have watched mature and struggle and wonder and believe, the heavens surely ring with the joy! The faithfulness of God is breathtaking at times.
The wedding of my good friend Paul was a wonderful, and sobering occasion. It was approached with sincere faith, wisdom, and adoration. Speaking to the character of both the bride and the bridegroom, there were guests who traveled from both ends of the country, and some from Canada. Ironically, my family travelled the least (the wedding was in Tulsa). Much of the night was given to dancing. While I regrettably did not get to dance with the bride, I did dance with the groom's bother, Dustin's new bride, which was an honor. Dustin is one of my best friends, and the Lord blessed him with a glorious and honorable bride. That both young men have chosen brides of such quality speaks volumes of the honor of their parents, to which I willingly attest. The Lord is faithful to the faithful.

That takes guts

Yesterday my family butchered almost 400 chickens and 16 turkeys, for to put in the freezer. It was a big day. But it was a blessed day. The best part were the 14 members of our church family who were gracious enough to come and help us out. It was a big party. Yes, a killing party (otherwise known as a spree). It was awesome to have the fellowship we enjoyed while working so very hard. There was singing (even on key), and laughing.
At the end we were all exhausted, but very satisfied. There is something gratifying about offing a whole bunch of chickens that have been bothering you every morning for the last eight weeks. I mean, taking dominion is very gratifying. Real chicken soup for the soul.

Taking Dominion

The horse of Anna Purvis*
was a wild and wiley steed.
With mane and tail flowing,
The model of her breed.

The picture of serenity
When leisurely and idle.
But ev'ry man beware
Who brandishes a bridle.

Her hooves become like lightening
To me your ears do lend!
For e'en the best equestrian
She to the ground will send.

All the pow'rs she does own
She willingly will wield,
To bear any but her master
Down upon the field.

Heed this warning well
Oh, ye adventrous soul,
If you wish to see long days
And live them as a whole.

For in all my life long years
I have never met a force
So strong, wild, and terrible,
As Anna Purvis' horse.

*name changed for protection purposes.

Ici Je Suis

I'm curious. If a word is typed and no one reads it, is it really pronounced the way it's spelled? I don't have a lot of relavent things to say all the time. But sometimes, late at night, when no one's looking, I have a thought. While I dare not say anything, for fear of my brother asking if I did it on purpose, I have to release the thing. I'm not trained in writing, not thinking, nor much of anything except working. But at least I can say I put my training in action. I live on my family's farm, and I pursue a very messy trade which leaves me looking like a windstreaked post in a pudding storm, or, as one friend put it, a mistrewn paper-mache' creation. When someone asks what I do, I just say I'm a pigeon trainer. Here I am.