react vs. respond.

Though technically these words are synonyms, I am going to use them to designate between two general modes of human operation. I am going to set up a spectrum. On one end is the term react on the other end is the term respond. Although these ideas seem applicable to any action, what I am talking about more specifically is what goes into the way a person acts according to an event.

In the mode that I am calling react the way an event impacts the person's impulses and reflexes almost completely controls the person's actions. A good example of this is when on child hits another child and this second child cries out and hits back.

What I am calling respond is when an event merely informs a person's actions. Here the person has beliefs, philosophies, and purposes that also strongly inform the person's chosen actions. Two quintessential examples of this are when Jesus over turned the money changer's table and when he was silent before his accusers. The actions of people in the temple, the scripture he quotes at the time, his being God among other things informed his response. And in regards to the later example, though human experience would make one think that the tendency to shout at one's accusers would be great, Jesus fulfills prophesy by remaining silent. (I wrote another blog about this check it out it is titled: A serious post posted on: September 10, 2008)

The reason that I describe this as a spectrum is that I find it rare when adults act with extremes. It is usually in subtle and culturally accepted ways that people act more on the react end of the spectrum. One example of tending toward the react side is a proclivity toward doing what is easiest. Another example that I find my self drawn to is the pull and lies of consumerism, or the impulse buy. Consumerism tells me to be dissatisfied with what I have and to desire and seek other things. (It also encourages me to become addicted to, I think it is, the dopamine rush that occurs when I get something new.)

It seems to me that as a person matures their actions are more and more governed by responses. When a person's actions tend toward the react side of the spectrum, this might be a sign of subtle immaturity in the area of those actions.

I think this

I am not going to prove these thoughts but I think that it is fair to say and ponder these things.

It is interesting because with any person that I encounter I always need the sun for warmth and light and food for energy. The unfathomable greatness of the Lord is that with him, in his presence. I don’t need the sun for warmth or light. Within him is all of the warmth and light that I could ever want. He is a person who can supply me with my need and desire for warmth and light. His power and existence makes it so that when I engage with him I am coming upon a person that can fulfill all of the non person related needs and desires. For example when I want to fulfill my physical thirst I don’t go to a person I go to a fountain. But God is a being that I can go to for it all. I don’t know if that means now but maybe when we get restored bodies.

The How

How beautiful it was to see the man stitch the boat. I watched a man
stitch a boat. There is a fascinating method of making boats where the
boat is made out of a frame that is covered with cloth. I watched a
person (on video) sew the skin or cloth onto the frame. It seemed so

beautiful to me. The guy had a methodical confidence. He explained what

he was doing clearly in a calm and pleasant voice. He seemed to care
about and enjoy what he was doing. It was exciting, because this step
in the construction is near the end. The boat is almost ready to use.
I like that.

On a trip to Chicago my dad wanted to by me some paint to seal the
fabric of a boat like the one mentioned above. The paint store was
open at seven a.m. We walked through the door, maybe at seven fifteen.
An employee asked us if he could help. My dad explained what we were
looking for. The employee pointed to a can three feet from us. The
final cost was about sixteen dollars.

The "what" is a boat, cloth or paint and not so remarkable. The "how"
is lathered with beauty, kindness, sincerity, ease, accomplishment,
and satisfaction; aiding the former in becoming unforgettable.

cretin

noun

a stupid person (used as a general term of abuse).

• dated Medicine a person who is deformed and mentally handicapped because of congenital thyroid deficiency.

DERIVATIVES

cretinism |-ˌizəm| |ˈkritnˈɪzəm| noun

cretinous |-əs| |ˈkritn=əs| adjective

ORIGIN late 18th cent.: from French crétin, from Swiss French crestin ‘Christian’(from Latin Christianus), here used to mean [human being,] apparently as a reminder that, though deformed, cretins were human and not beasts.

I found this definition of the word cretin in the dictionary on my computer. I had remembered hearing it used in the Batman The Animated Series. I think it is a fascinating word. Like many contemporary put-down words, i.e. moron, retarded, etc, it finds its original use as a medical term.

If you look at the origin it came from a term meaning human being. As the dictionary states it was likely a reminder that these people were humans, not beasts.

How strange that this word started out with uplifting characteristics and intentions and moved to a term of abuse.

Words

It is interesting how important words are. I was reading. The content I was receiving was about the important of using words to distinguish between God’s way of doing a certain action and the world’s way of doing the same action. In particular the book was talking about love. It argued that the most appropriate word for passionate love when talking about righteous love is charity. He quoted the phrase “God is love” by saying “God is Charity”.

I am not entirely sure about his full argument but I find this example to be intriguing. It seems to me that there are so many experiences assigned to the word love that it can often be misunderstood and deluded. I don’t feel it necessary to provide examples of this, it seems very evident. Perhaps a different word would help people see the difference between love that is not distorted and soiled and love that is, or love that is shallow and love that is deep.

On the other hand it would require a consensus on the meaning of the word for example, charity. This would have to exist before substituting the word charity for love would be successful at making clear what kind of love is meant when it is stated that God is love.

The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

I remember a kid who had a shirt that said "scars are the tattoos of the brave." I always thought that this was strange and corny. Maybe it made its way into my unconscious and that is why I am writing about tattoos in my scar stories.

I have one last “tattoo.” At some point I learned that the process of getting a tattoo was to make a hole in the skin and deposit ink. This so very simply concept awakened the do-it-yourselfer in me. I proceeded to take a knife to my arm. Naturally it was my left arm. I am right handed. I deposited ink. It left a small mark.

I’m proud of it

I talk in my sleep. Some of the things that proceed from my unconscious are baffling. Others are a boiled-down, essence of my way. I am not sure if that is the best way to say it. I was considering saying an essence of me, but I am not sure if that is accurate either.

One of these “others” was a time that I was sleeping on the floor next to my wife. She was sleeping on an air mattress. I banged my hand on the edge of the air mattress, two sets of three times. My wife said, “What are you doing?” Then I said, “I am showing you that I love you." (Paused for 4-5 seconds) "Sorry if it’s obnoxious.”

I have no recollection of this event.

This Conundrum

My name is inconsistent. I am related to grass. The ebb and flow, the undulation of thin, almost white fibers tell a story. This mixture of tubes and long narrow leaves, scratch a portrait of me into the air. Any force causes the stylus to make another invisible mark. The wind or a squirrel moves me. The weight of the dead crushes me, that is, dead branches.

The grass has a neighbor that is a rock. He says he’s granite, but I think he’s sandstone. He brags that nothing can move him, nothing but large powerful forces. “Untold number of years would be required to wear me down,” he says. “You wont last a season. Send fire my way I don’t care. How would you like a good blaze?”

“My roots can burrow into your cracks and make pieces of you,” says grass. “But you are right. I am no rock. Like they say, the grass of the field is here one day and gone the next. How can I become more consistent?”

“I don’t know,” says rock. “You get pushed around by the wind, but you still make seeds. You even use the wind that pushes you around to disperse your seeds.”

“That is true,” says grass. “ I guess, when I get pushed around so much and feel so dependent on the weather, the soil, and the rest of my environment, I feel less valuable, less important.”

“Well, check this out, grass. I might not be easily moved or changed, but I don’t do anything, I don’t make seeds or grow or mature.”

“You do help with soil erosion so that I can grow.”

“Thanks, grass.”

“No, thank you rock. I just needed some outside perspective.”

The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

My Other Tattoo

I think that some people have secrets in their past that might shock their current friends. This is not one of those stories.

I have a beautiful stomach. So, I like to show it off. No wait, this is not how this story goes. I don’t think these things.

Okay, my younger brother (who guest wrote on this blog) was doing homework. It might have been calculus or physics. He had a mechanical pencil. It was a special pencil that I wasn’t allowed to use, his homework pencil.

One day for absolutely no reason he asked me if he could throw it at me like a spear. I thought why not, what could happen. As the pencil was gliding through the air that separated us, I stood still. “It will just bounce off,” so I thought. It did bounce off. But I felt a stronger pain than what was expected. Lifting my shirt I found pencil “lead” sticking out about an eighth of an inch. When I tried to extract it, I failed. It was really stuck. When it was finally removed it had a total length of perhaps a quarter of an inch.

I still bear the nearly imperceptible scar, darkened with graphite. I have to shave my stomach to see it clearly, which I do on the occasion because my stomach is so nice. What am I writing?

The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

I guess you’d say that I do have a tattoo. Or as the cool kids would say, “I have a tat.”

Okay this is way off topic but it was very funny. My brother and friend Aaron were listening to a Christian radio station late at night. The DJ sounded like he was related to Barry White with not such a deep voice but very wispy. He was talking about something where he said, “dude with a tude.” Then he proceeded to explain, incase his listeners didn’t get it, that “a dude is a guy and a tude is an attitude.”

So my tat is from the hard days of grade school. I think that it was third grade. These were the days of the number 2 pencil, or as I learned to call it, the number 2 weapon. Our classrooms were amply equipped with sharpeners that could give a pencil a skin piercing sharpness.

My class was divided by the cool kids that had Yikes pencils, the girls that had Lisa Frank pencil boxes and the other kids. Then there were kids like me who would use broken Yikes pencils we found on the playground.

One ill fated day came upon us. I think I was returning from sharpening my pencil. A boy who was called Dillon walked by me. Ow. His pencil plunged into the flesh of my palm. I still bare the mark of this confrontation.

a walk to forget

The morning was cool. Green and yellow leaves, spotted with brown, littered the grass. I found that walking on fallen black walnuts unexpectedly can feel very strange, or even turn an ankle. My toes were getting damp and cold from the morning dew. I was beginning to wish that I had worn something other than my cotton canvas shoes. I kicked vainly to get the leaves unstuck from my shoe. No matter, more leaves knocked it off and replaced it.

The bark on these black walnut trees sure was attractive. Wet, deep dark, pure dark were some adjectives that came to mind. My toes were getting too cold. So I went back inside.

This is a work of plausible fiction.

The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

Some lessons you only have to learn once, some you have to learn again and again.

I have had many personal rules, rules that I have imposed on myself for one reason or another.

I would make a game out of rules such as, I can only step one foot in each square on a sidewalk. I had a rule that I could only eat one bite of my birthday candy bar a day to make it last as long as possible.

One rule was that if I was using a circular saw to cut wood I had to wait to set it down until the blade had finished spinning. My dad told me of people who would set the saw on their thigh after a cut to give their arms a break. This is potentially very dangerous because the blade guard could stick in the up position, my dad explained.

At one point this particular rule became amended. I was using a portable hand planer. It will trim off the surface of a board and is meant to make fairly shallow cuts. It has three straight blades that are attached to a cylinder shape.

I was shaping a hand drum with it. This style of hand drum has straight tapering sides. I had been using the planer for some time and was worried that it might be over heating. I turned off the motor. I placed my left hand on the side to feel it. My left ring finger slipped just under the motor and into the spinning blades.

The emotional shock of trying to be responsible, considerate, safe, then finding my self at the mercy of a bloody mistake of only seconds and inches was almost the worst of it. This was a mistake. If I had only waited a few seconds until the blades stopped spinning, or had I not let my finger get so close... The worst of it wasn’t the pain, it didn’t hurt that badly. It was the embarrassment of making the mistake and the fear of being forced to own up to it with a trip to the emergency room and pay for the mistake with the price of the ER.

It didn’t shave my skin off in a wide area. The corner of the blades dug in deep. Most of my cuts up until this point had a flap of skin of some sort that I could close to help stop the bleeding. This one didn’t. I remember covering it with band aid, then with folded toilet paper, all wrapped in tape. It bleed through. Then I was worried that someone would see that it had bleed through and take me to the ER. So I change that bandage. This time it didn’t bleed through.

Now my rule is to freeze until the blade stops spinning. I don't always obey.

It’s all about...

I hear folks (Christian pastors, singers, others) say “It’s all about Jesus.” I know that such a generic statement is often tied to a very relevant context that brings it complete legitimacy. Other times or, to my recollection, many times this statement is flung into public hearing without a context. I think that people have a general posture of wanting to adore Jesus with a potent overarching statement. I think that people sometimes desire a phrase or idea that they can latch onto and use without the trouble of discerning whether it is appropriate or not. I find that a catchphrase such as this is assigned to contexts which render the phrase untrue.

To say “It’s all about Jesus,” without context is untrue. The word “it” has to refer to something. I think that the general assumption is that the Christian life is the subject of this sentence. I believe that to say that the Christian life is all about Jesus is simply not true. I find that there are many other things that make up the Christian life. Some examples are the world, sin, the other members of the trinity.

To say that worship is all about Jesus is, in my view incorrect. I think this was claimed in a popular worship song. I believe that worship is about Jesus, God as one, the Father, believers who offer worship, and other things.

To even say that Jesus is all about Jesus is untrue. He seemed to be all about the Father, if anything. But he also seemed to be all about sinners too.

What harm does this bring? I don’t know exactly. But, I believe that truth and accuracy are important. I advocate strongly for authoring one’s statements and claims. I believe that in all aspects of life one should assess and reassess what one is saying, doing, believing and the motivation behind these aspects of living.

Part of my belief in the importance of accuracy is the effect that it has on Christian witness. When I see Christians going around making inaccurate claims, many are found on Church signs, it makes Christians look unintelligent. (A quick disclaimer: I am not saying that I do this always. I am only saying that I believe it to be important.)