Thoughts on Humor; or, A Laugh is a Funny Thing

Almost anything – especially if it’s commonplace – can become almost odd and totally foreign if thought about long enough. For instance, my sister has always remarked what strange things ears and noses are. I suppose such an effect on the mind comes from asking the question “Why?”. Yes, we know what ears and noses are, and on most days they are perfectly normal. But on our more thoughtful, questioning days, we (or at least people like me and my family) may ask why a nose has to be a rather long appendage sticking straight out of the middle of our face, or why we have two ears shaped the way they are sticking out of the sides of our heads.
The same can be said about a laugh (What? Did you think this was going to be about funny-looking parts of the human body?). A laugh is a funny thing. Why is it, in the grand scheme of things, that humans express their appreciation of something they find humorous with a series of audible (but not necessarily verbal or intelligible) bursts from their vocal chambers? Such bursts can take many forms. Some are not audible at all, but visible, as in the case of a person whose shoulders, chest, and sides shake with laughter and his face broadens into a big smile, but not a sound does he make. Others laugh loud and long, long and loud, till the very building shakes with the sound of it and makes everyone who hears it want to laugh out loud, too. Other laughers snort their laugh out their noses. Some people never laugh at all, but such people are beyond the help that this article ever pretends to offer. Whatever laughs laughers laugh with, the fact remains – a laugh is a funny thing.
What makes a person laugh? Why, humor does, you may reply. And you would be right. But such a reply would not be sufficient to fit the inquisitive nature of our inspection. What we really want to know is, what is humor? What makes something funny? After all, if we laugh when nothing is funny, we should get our heads checked.
Some people have sophisticated senses of humor. They like a complex, drawn-out joke, the subtleties of which you have to intellectually grasp in order to enjoy it to the fullest. Still others have a very simple sense of humor – a mere knock-knock joke, a play on words, or a funny face makes them giggle with glee. Other senses of humor are dry and sarcastic, the kind that doesn’t even seem like humor unless you know the person who possesses it. There are a few people in this world who take their humor from the misfortunes of others, as in the case of a person who laughs when their friend trips over a banana peel (a subset of this category would be the people who actually put the banana peel there in the first place). And then there are my sister and Uncle John (on my mother’s side) who are humorously-challenged. Some jokes are hard for them to fully “get”. And, as I always say, when you have to explain a joke too much, it loses its zing.
But what I am trying to get at is this – what is the nature of humor? I believe much of what makes humor humorous is incongruity. That is, it takes advantage of the “out-of-place-ness” of a situation. If anything is disproportionate, exaggerated, does not fit in, or grossly misses the mark of what we usually call “normal”, it is a candidate to be humorous.* People laugh at a clown with huge shoes or a bulbous nose. They laugh at the zany antics of Abbott and Costello or Bugs Bunny or the Three Stooges. But they most certainly do not laugh at the fact that a man crossed the road because he wanted to get to the other side because that’s where his house is. If they do, then there is something the matter with them. We expect the man to cross the road to get to his house, and we find nothing in this scenario that fits into the realm of “What is wrong with this picture?” And if you laughed at the thought of laughing at such a scenario, it’s because it would be out of place, strange, incongruous to be seriously laughing at it.
Even if humorous things share the same general element of incongruity, there are many different kinds of jokes. There are inside jokes, which only a select few people who know each other get. Closely allied with these are running jokes, which are funniest if you were there when the joke first started running (and all good running jokes tend to grow funnier the farther they run). There are puns, which are simply jokes that play on the meanings and sounds of different words. Knock-knock jokes are similar, although they have the detraction of being some of the lamest jokes ever told. I have witnessed – as I’m sure many of you have if you have been around small children long enough – a small child tell endless knock-knock jokes that made no sense whatsoever, to his own endless delight. I am not sure what made him laugh, but the sheer incongruity of the scene was what made it so funny. There are also parodies, which are jokes that exaggerate a situation or a person so that the absurdities of the situation or person may be highlighted so as to be properly laughed at. There are jokes for just about every season, situation, and condition of human life – jokes about school, jokes about work, jokes about marriage, jokes about age, jokes about the President, jokes about looks, jokes about money. The list is as varied as we are.**
And this brings me to the most salient point that I shall discuss here (not that any of my points here are salient; but this just happens to be the most so of any of them that may have been salient). Humor tells us a lot about ourselves as humans. The observation that humor comes out of incongruity tells us that we as humans tend to laugh at things we believe are out of the ordinary. It may be our way of dealing with the unknown or the unfamiliar, of holding those kinds of things up to the light of the things we do know and are familiar with so as to understand them better.
Unfortunately, humor is also our way as a species of coming to terms with the tragedies of our existence. The Biblical book of Proverbs says, “Even in laughter the heart may sorrow, and the end of mirth may be grief” (Proverbs 14:13). I believe someone once said (and I forget who did say it) something to the effect of “The reason I laugh so much is to keep from crying.” The fact is that life can sometimes be painful, and humor helps us deflect some of that pain. This is not a bad thing, for the same book of Proverbs tells us, “A merry heart does good, like medicine, but a broken spirit dries the bones” (Proverbs 17:22). Even doctors today tell us that having a belly-laugh or two each day helps our health – and it’s certainly better for us than being depressed all day. Why do you think all the great comedians – Bob Hope, George Burns, Jack Benny – lived into their 80s and even to 100? Could there be some connection between a merry heart, laughing, and making others laugh and longevity? It’s certainly something to ponder.
And so ends this brief look at humor and what makes it tick. I’m sure more things could be said. But let’s not just write, think, and talk about humor – let’s actually do it. I’m sure you have already found one good thing to laugh about today, and I’m sure you will be able find one more thing to laugh about before today is over. And there’s nothing wrong with that at all – enjoy it!
But there’s one more thing that strikes me as incongruous and continues to gnaw at my curiosity. Why does “laugh” have an “f” sound on the end even though it’s spelled with a “gh”?

*Author’s Note: It should be noted – and anyone who has taken a course in logic (with its maxim of “all A is B does not imply that all B is A”) will agree – that not all incongruous things are funny. For instance, you may find it uproariously incongruous that this article, by its very title, is about humor and funny things, but never made you laugh even once. I agree. That is quite incongruous. It also isn’t funny at all. Which only strengthens my point that not all incongruous things are funny.

**Author’s Note: I have purposely left off mentioning ethnic jokes. This is not primarily out of concern for any of my friends who may be ethnic (although I love all of you as I would brothers and sisters). My main reason for doing this is that one of the most popular kinds of ethnic jokes is the Polish joke. I am part Polish on my mother’s side, and I did not want to risk offending myself.

Random Ramblings, Volume III

This evening I find myself in an astonishing situation. I have no schoolwork that I am required to do, and none that I desire to do. Having this much free time on my hands could be dangerous to myself and others, so I decided to do what I often used to do when I had this much time on my hands – write.
There are many things I could write about. For instance, many of my readers may be aware that my sister got married just two weeks ago and that I was a groomsman in that wedding. I could share my observations about that momentous, historic event, and I plan to. But the fact remains that I have yet to even write about it in my personal journal, and I am not ready yet to write an official history of that weekend here on this blog. And so I have decided to write about nothing in particular and many things in general, in the rich tradition of my “Random Ramblings” series, of which this happens to be the third volume.
My current situation (besides being notable for the astonishing amount of free time it contains at the moment) is one which I had not experienced in 20 years. To be more specific (for it is essential for accountants-in-training to be as specific as they can), I have not been in this position since April 3, 1989, when I was all of five years old. No, I am not sitting at the dining room table coloring in my ALF coloring book. Nor can the reader deduce from my statement that I am currently watching “Sesame Street” reruns and singing along with Cookie Monster (although I will probably have a similar ode to his in my heart for the chocolate I will in all likelihood be consuming tonight in front of the television).
On the contrary. What I mean is that, for the first time since April 3, 1989, I am a member of a three-person household. The next day my sister was born, transforming the residence into a four-person version of its former self. This condition persisted for more than two decades until November 1 of this year, when my afore-mentioned married sister found it painfully necessary to accompany a certain man to San Antonio – an inconvenient three hours away.
And so, ever since then, I sit for the most part alone, pursuing the weary, misunderstood life of an artist. Okay, so maybe it’s not connected with my being any kind of an artist, but that’s beside the point. It’s just not the same around here anymore, and I thought I was going to have a hard time with that. The first day was, honestly, pretty hard, but since then it hasn’t been so bad.
You see, I’ve learned a few things in my quarter-century here. Life has a funny way of not staying the same for long. Just when you start to get comfortable, it shifts on you, forcing you to look at it a little differently than you did yesterday. I used to struggle with this, but now I realize it’s part of life. But just because circumstances change, that doesn’t mean the greatest things in life have to change with them. Loved ones don’t leave your heart when they leave your home; the bond remains as secure as ever, and no amount of miles can stretch it beyond its power to hold. Love, friendship, and family, along with all the rich memories that go with them, never fade.
And there are advantages to life changes. If my sister never got married, there would never be the possibility of experiencing the joy of watching her and David’s relationship grow ever richer, or the thrill of seeing her one day give birth to my little nephew or niece (who, if they’re lucky, will look just like their uncle). This kind of change is, in the long run, for the better. That stage was only supposed to last about as long as it did, and I am thankful for it. My job as a big brother at home is now over, as is my job as a “chaperone” to my sister and her chosen mate (their subsequent marriage, as my fellow former chaperones would no doubt agree, leaves it to conjecture as to whether my job was actually successful or not). I will miss those times, but I can do nothing to bring them back, and eventually I will realize that I don’t really want to. My job now is to still be a good brother to my sister, a brother-in-law to her husband, a son to my parents, a friend to others. Those are important jobs, just as important as the ones I don’t have to fulfill any longer.
But there’s another angle. What about me, here, the older brother who’s still living at home with his parents after a quarter-century? My parents often joke that I will still be here at forty, like a deadbeat redneck in Arkansas. Still others, after my sister got married, said that it was “my turn”.
Neither is quite the case at the moment. For one thing, I am not even close to being forty yet, and if I play my cards like Jack Benny (who stopped counting birthdays after his 39th), I never will be. And for another, I am still a few semesters away from graduating college and getting, hopefully, my first job. And so I feel as if I’m hanging in a strange balance. I feel almost as I something weird happened at some point to make it so that I am still at home at 25 while my little sister is already married and moved out of town. And I also feel as if life is in the process of shifting for me as well as for her. This may be the time that I begin to branch out on my own and do things I’ve never done before, exploring new horizons I’ve never before ventured toward.
We all face such times in our lives. Do we embrace the change, whether it be slight or dramatic, trusting God to bring us His best? Or do we fail to see the opportunity inherent in life’s shifting landscape? It’s a hard thing sometimes. Change is certainly not my middle name (it’s actually Andrew if you were wondering). But it’s also no fun being miserable, and it’s far more worth it to try to find the good in everything. After all, God knows what He’s doing.
And so this weary, misunderstood artist sits at another crossroads. Where will the road lead? Who knows. But I have to admit – it still feels a little weird being a freeloader in an empty nest.

The Fall Classic

Tonight is a very special night, because tonight of all nights of the year is the night upon which Game 1 of the 2009 World Series will be played out between the New York Yankees and the Philadelphia Phillies at the Yankees’ brand-new, ritzy stadium. It is the culmination of a long 162-game, six-month season in which the field of contention was whittled down to just eight playoff teams – four each from the National and American Leagues. Then the Division Series whittled that down further to just two teams from each league, who battled it out in the League Championship Series. And now there are two, and we all know there can be only one champion.
The World Series is made up of seven games, and the first team to win four of them takes home the title of World Champion of Baseball (for instance, if the Phillies were to win the first four games, the next three would be irrelevant and thus never played). America is not the only country that plays baseball, but we invented it and have christened it as our national pastime – thus our championship series is the best and most closely watched in the world, and thus it is the World Series.
It is a magical time of year. Anything can happen in a baseball game in late October (although this will be only the second time that a World Series will have been played in the month of November; the first was in 2001, when the terrorist attacks delayed the season), and it usually does. One only needs to look back on the history of our World Series to see how exciting it can be.
The World Series has been played in one form or another for over a hundred years, since 1903. In 1904, the American League came into existence and the National League champion refused to play the AL champion because the former thought the latter inferior. Thus there was no World Series that year, and it only happened again once, in 1994, when pouty players went on strike in the summer, cutting short what would have been a fabulous season. But other than that, nothing – not even two world wars, economic and political unrest, and terrorism – has been able to strike out a World Series. We have almost always set our calendars for October, when the world stops (or should) to sit down and watch the World Series.
My fellow Houstonians know how exciting it is when the World Series finally comes to your town and your team. The Astros got there in 2005, and even though we got swept by Chicago’s White Sox, it was a ride of a lifetime for many of us fans. That’s the feeling that the New York and Philadelphia fans are cherishing right now (and the Philly fans are experiencing it for the second straight year).
You ask for exciting moments? None are more exciting than when the Series goes to a full seven games. The last time that happened was in 2001, when the Arizona Diamondbacks beat the Yankees with a base hit in their very final at-bat of the game. Since then, we’ve had mostly four-game sweeps and five-game outcomes – but it’s still exciting, because you never know.
There have been other dramatic moments. In 1993, the Toronto Blue Jays won the Series over the Phillies with a home run in Game 6 by Joe Carter – that hasn’t happened very often. Drama takes other forms, like when Yankees (and later Astros) pitcher Roger Clemens picked up a broken piece of bat and chunked it at New York Mets catcher Mike Piazza (neither liked the other very much) during a game in the 2000 All-New York City “Subway Series”. It snowed in a World Series, in Cleveland in 1997. More frighteningly, there was an earthquake in the 1989 World Series between the Oakland Athletics and San Francisco Giants – the big Loma Prieta earthquake in San Francisco. The quake struck just as the teams were about to start playing, and the drama was caught on live national television.
There were other great moments in the days before any television cameras could picked them up. In 1932, Babe Ruth, the greatest ballplayer of them all, called, as legend would have it, his own home run before he hit it at Chicago’s Wrigley Field. I say “legend” because the stories of the event vary. I personally believe he did, because the Babe was that kind of a ballplayer. His equally legendary teammate Lou Gehrig hit a home run immediately after that, but no one remembered because they were too busy talking about the “called shot”.
I have some history in the World Series. No, I’ve never played in one, though I would have liked to. My great-grandfather, Joe Boley, a light-hitting, slick-fielding shortstop for the Philadelphia Athletics, went along for the ride as his team went to every World Series from 1929 to 1931, winning it twice. In 1929, he singled and scored a run in a furious 10-runs-in-one-inning Athletics comeback over the Cubs. Those A’s teams were some of the best you never hear about, with such greats on them as Jimmie Foxx, Al Simmons, Lefty Grove, Mickey Cochrane, and manager Connie Mack.
There are other moments I’m thinking of. In 1956, pitcher Don Larsen of the Yankees did what nobody else has ever done in a World Series – limit the opposing team to exactly no hits, no runs, and no bases reached on fielding errors. In baseball nomenclature they call this a “perfect game”, and Don did it in ’56 to the crosstown rival Brooklyn Dodgers.
What magical moments await us this year? Nobody knows for sure. What I do know is that I will planted firmly in front of my television set, watching this year’s World Series from start to finish. Why don’t you join me, in spirit if not in person? It’s televised on a national network, as it always is. Oh, and by the way – I’m rooting for the Phillies.

Re-Connecting; or, Hello Again

Many of you will not know what this is. A very few of you will have a very momentary feeling of déjà vu, as if you have seen or experienced something vaguely like this before; but that will quickly dissipate. If there is any one out there who immediately recognizes this and has any kind of familiar reaction to it (whether of welcome or disgust), I would be surprised. In fact, I myself have trouble reacquainting myself with what this is, even though I probably should know it best.
I will say it slowly, lest the brain of the reader not be able to process it all at once. Well, actually, I will type it at normal speed and ask the reader to read it slowly lest they not be able to process it all at once.
This is a blog entry.
Some of you will have completely collapsed out of your computer chair at this point. Depending on your frame of mind and on your personal level of clumsiness, you will also have knocked the computer chair itself over, or caused the computer monitor to shake (or even fall over), or thrown the computer tower onto the floor, or ripped the mouse out of the USB port in the back of the computer, or hurled the keyboard up into the air, or spit out whatever it was you were drinking or eating all over the keyboard or monitor. If this is indeed the case, I will pause (or ask the reader to pause, since word processing is not at all like music and cannot stop for anyone) and allow the shocked reader to take the necessary measures to restore their computer area to some semblance of normalcy.
Now then, I will repeat it – this is a blog entry. There was a time – long, long ago – when I used to publish such things rather regularly. I have so completely fallen out of that habit as to run the risk of forgetting how to write and of convincing my former readers that I had given up the activity forever. The purpose of this particular blog entry is to break that vicious cycle, begin the old habit anew, recover and restore my writing ability, and assure the not-so-crowded public square that I have not and shall not give up writing.
It shouldn’t be surprising that things got this way. Amid all the getting up early two out of five weekdays to go to school, spending all day at school once I’m there, reading in my free time, working on assignments, and studying for or taking tests, I have a lot less time than I used to have for thinking of and writing new blog entries. It’s not that I have a shortage of material, but a shortage of time. I am sure there are plenty of things I could write about at least a couple times a week. Even if there weren’t, my readers know well my penchant for what we in the business call a placebo – a misleadingly dressed-up version of the real thing that really has no substance to it.*
In any event, this blog entry represents a renewal of my efforts to write more regularly. That is not to say that it is a good entry, for anytime you are coming off a couple of months in which you published all of two blog entries, you do not exactly have a wealth of momentum at your back. I am writing, shall we say, with that same spirit that swells in the heart of the one who, not having had a campfire in a long time, decides to build one in his backyard.** The effect is nothing like the real thing, but it so sufficiently reminds one of the real thing that he or she immediately purposes that they will go camping in the near future, and that they shall have a real campfire, rain or shine.
And so, I hope, future blog entries will soon seem more like real blog entries. I hope to make time to write and eventually get back into the old swing of things. It always does me good to fashion my impressions of everyday life into something I can share with others. My days have been a little less enriched for not having done so as often as before. Here’s hoping I can get back in the habit in earnest.

*Author’s Note: I am fully aware that “placebo” is a term used only in the medical profession. I do not mean to imply that I am a doctor, nor that I play one on television. Literalists should note that the sentence herein duly noted by the author is what we in the business call a tongue-in-cheek joke – one that you either get or don’t get. Whether you do or don’t is out of the author’s hands.

**Author’s Note: Some of you may be taken aback (or even appalled) at the idea that any civilized person could or would make a campfire in their backyard. As a denizen of that most uncivilized place, Rosharon, let me assure you that it is not as uncommon as all that. In our neighborhood, fires in backyards are as common as automobiles on cement blocks and old refrigerators on front porches. We burn wood, trash, grass, and anything else we may not need or want at the moment. And I have actually had a campfire in my front yard. I believe it was on Christmas Day, at that.

September 11, 2001 -- In Memoriam

The following selections are entries or portions of entries from my personal journal.

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 – Just like 60 years ago, this must be a day that will live in infamy. I’m writing at 10:40 am, as opposed to at night before bed. The World Trade Center has been blown up, as has the Pentagon. We don’t know all the details, but four planes have been hijacked and crashed into their targets. Aunt Anne emailed to briefly say she’s okay. We didn’t understand at first, but Dad called later with the news. What a horrible situation. Hundreds, if not thousands, will have been killed. The country is in chaos and confusion. Is this the beginning of the end? World War III? God is in control. More details possibly later. Writing at 9:30 pm. This day has been horrible. The pictures on TV, of the plane crashing into the World Trade Center, the Towers collapsing straight down, and the people casting themselves out of the windows, were not easy to see. The Pentagon was in flames. President Bush addressed the nation and talked about freedom being attacked, a “quiet, unyielding anger”, and quoted from Psalm 23: “Yea, though I walk through the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me.” He looked grim and uptight. But he showed true leadership. It’s all really unbelievable. This is believed to be worse than Pearl Harbor. I think so. There’s been news coverage all day. Really, I can’t write in words what this day means, or what happened. Unbelievable.

Wednesday, September 11, 2002 – One year since the horrible day of 9/11/2001. Remembrances all morning long in New York, Washington, and Shanksville, PA. All the names of the 2,801 dead of the World Trade Center were read. Silences were observed at 8:46 Eastern, the time of the first plane’s attack on the North Tower; 9:03, the second plane’s attack on the South Tower; and the times of the Pentagon attack, the Pennsylvania crash, and the World Trade Center collapses (they stood a while, and the last one stood alone for a long time)…It is a very sad day today, but what is even sadder is that God is largely left out. Those 3,000 may have had a large number among them that died without Christ. Many also were saved. God, give us an eternal perspective, and grant true repentance for America….I perused the Washington Post from 9/12/01..It took two and a half hours to recite the World Trade Center names…I listened to the sad Adagio for Strings. Read last year’s entry for today.

Thursday, September 11, 2003 – It’s the two-year anniversary of that terrible day in 2001 when hijacked planes crashed into the World Trade Center in New York, the Pentagon in Washington, and an empty field in Shanksville, PA. It’s a more subdued day than last year as far as observances go. There was one with the readings of the victims’ names at Ground Zero by children who are relatives of them….There were quiet ones at the Pennsylvania field, the Pentagon, and the White House…I think the saddest thing of all was not the sudden unexpected events on that day, as heart-rending as they were; it was the days after, when the heroic rescuers pursued their tragic, lonely, futile effort to find survivors in the rubble amid the smoke and dust. That is the indelible image of 9/11. There’s not really any sufficient way to express all of these feelings – words can’t do it…To some degree here (to a greater extent in New York), the skies are as clear as they were on that Tuesday morning. Fewer people are flying those skies today…I’ll carry on my tradition of reading the 9/11 newspaper reports so I won’t forget what it all really means. I’ll also listen to Barber’s Adagio for Strings…At Ground Zero tonight, two beams of light stretch upward from where the collapsed towers once stood 110 stories into the air. Once again, read the entries for this day the past two years. Never, ever forget September 11, 2001.

Saturday, September 11, 2004 – It has been thirty-six months, three years, since the terrorist attacks. Quiet remembrances and readings of names were held today at Ground Zero, the Pentagon, and Shanksville, PA, without an orange terror alert especially for today…I still feel powerful emotion today; at breakfast I fought back tears as Jess and Dad were talking about their memories of 9/11. At supper, too, I felt sad. After I write this, I will pore over the newspaper articles and listen to the Adagio for String. I began writing a remembrance musical piece that might sound best played by strings. I thought of its opening notes right after 9/11. It begins in A minor, as the notes swiftly rise to a high octave, illustrating the majesty of the towers; after a small pause, they come crashing down to where they started, symbolizing their collapse. I am formulating the notes after that; I want it to be heart-rending and emotional, with portions of sad, mournful lack of resolution, but also with outbursts of sunny hopefulness and resolute triumph. I also thought of these lines:

Two great towers, standing tall;
Airplanes hit them, see them fall.
Thousands die, brave men rush
To save the rest before they’re crushed.
This is why we fight; this is why we’ll win;
Never forget – it could happen again.

I especially think about and pray for all those poor families – they’re just like mine, but with normal lives shattered forever by the evildoers. That’s why I am thankful for my life and family; it could have been me. Let’s all live each day in the spirit and memory of 9/11/01 and the days following. Never, ever forget.

Sunday, September 11, 2005 – The fourth Patriot Day, marking four years (48 months) since Al-Qaeda attacked our country in New York and Washington. What with Hurricane Katrina and time, this year’s remembrance was rather understated…It hasn’t been as emotional for me as it was last year, but it still is sad; it’s a day I can’t forget and never will. We never should…This afternoon, I saw part of a History Channel feature on the World Trade Center, covering its grand beginnings, the 1993 attack, and its fall in 2001. The images of 9/11 – the plane slamming into the second tower, both towers burning with thick black smoke, the collapse of the South, then the North Towers, the utter chaos in Manhattan as they collapsed in giant clouds of ash and dust, and the sad, lonely aftermath when they searched for survivors and then removed the unbelievable mountain of debris – brought it all back powerfully. Jess says we need to see “how it happened” more often, and I agree – not overload, but enough so we don’t forget. And why not forget? Because this war isn’t over. We need to realize what the consequences are if we we’re not vigilant and wise…Lord, may we take refuge in You. May You, first, be our Strength and Protection, and the backbone of all that is good in our nation and in its spirit. Let us return to You…Today, here and in New York City and Washington, it was sunny, clear, and warm, just like the day four years ago when 2,973 people died. Never forget.

Monday, September 11, 2006 – It has been sixty months, or five full years, since America was attacked on September 11, 2001. Today is sunny and warm with a few white clouds in the sky – just as I remember well that it was when I looked out my window (I’ve since moved my bed to the other, windowless side of the room) that morning and stared at the horizon to the east, where hundreds of miles away, chaos was ruling. There were no planes at all in that sky anywhere over America. It was that day that transformed me into a vigilant news-watcher; but before that I was less aware of daily events. So, I had no idea of that morning’s time line as I sat working on a writing course…Mom, who was about to go with Jess to run errands, had just gotten off the phone with Dad, who had told her the latest. She came down and said, “You’d better turn the news on. That was your Dad. Did you know they bombed the World Trade Center and the Pentagon?” She said the last sentence slowly. The Pentagon stuck in my mind more than the World Trade Center, of which I had only a vague picture in my mind. I felt as if I’d had the wind knocked out of me. I could barely breathe as I said “What?” and turned on the radio. They were carrying ABC television, with Peter Jennings’ familiar and now-silent voice. It was clear to me that our country was under attack, and I gradually learned the details over the radio. By that time, it was all over. It’s amazing how quickly it all unfolded. The first plane hit the North Tower at 8:46 am ET; the second plane hit the South Tower at 9:03. A third plane hit the Pentagon at 9:37. The South Tower collapsed at 9:59, and the North Tower stood alone until 10:28, when it also collapsed, each floor falling quickly on top of the one below it. At10:48, Flight 93 was reported to have crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, not far from Pittsburgh. In just two hours and two minutes, all the main events of September 11 were over…We saw the scenes on TV later that day and in following days. I remember how horrifying the footage of the impact of the second plane was, and how shocking it was to see people jump out of the towers. That night as I watched the world news, I couldn’t believe that, in America, the pile of rubble I was staring at was the remains of the once-mighty and presumably invincible World Trade Center, America’s tallest structures and New York’s most prominent skyline feature…Today we look back and grasp it, but we need to remember what it really was. As on all the anniversaries, we have calm, silent moments of memorial at the key minutes at each site; the names are read tearfully at Ground Zero; news people reminisce; and politicians make their speeches. But there was none of that on 9/11. That day was a day of incredibly brutal violence, chaos, confusion, dramatically unpredictable events, and unspeakable horror. Just seeing the mammoth clouds of dust from the collapsing towers bearing down to envelop all of lower Manhattan brings that home. It was evil and darkness in all of its cold, ugly nakedness; but it was also goodness, kindness, mercy, and love on display for the world to see as man helped his fellow man and grieved over the lost. It is an overlooked fact that many times more people than the 3,000 who died were saved out of danger and are with us now to tell their story. And the stories will always be told, and it is the people of 9/11 that are the most powerful. I sat watching famous scenes of that day this morning, and it all came back in a powerful way. We need to be reminded. Yet it didn’t bring that overpowering wave of emotion over me until I turned on the History Channel and saw a show about normal people’s stories and especially the photographs taken in the heat of the moment. The emotion hit me. And it always hits me whenever I think about the people. If I let myself, I could cry my eyes out thinking about it. And that’s okay. I’ll keep up my custom of quietly poring over the newspapers and listening to the Adagio. I always will. A clap of thunder just sounded. At least it was clear and sunny this morning, five years later. Never forget.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007 – It has been 72 months, a full six years, since 9/11/01. Today has been such a different anniversary for me, mainly because it was a school day, and I was not able to focus as much as in past years on the meaning of this day…September 11 will always be a very special date for me, and I hope for all who were old enough to understand six years ago. The day itself will never be just another day ever again as far as I am concerned. I’ve written much the past six years about what 9/11 was like and about the deep emotion. I’m rather disappointed that the emotion isn’t there for me this time; maybe it will come later. It’s not that I have forgotten, as it seems too many have. We do move on in a way, but when it comes to 9/11, we must not simply move on. There is too much left to be done to move on. There is too much still at stake to not carefully assess and follow the lessons that day screamed to us. Have we learned? I fear that we haven’t, that we have fallen asleep again…Why is 9/11 so important now, six years after the fact? If for no other reason, it is simply because it could happen again on a far larger scale…We must understand the brutal nature of our enemies, and to do so we need only see the 9/11 footage which the politically correct news outlets rarely show anymore. We lose our resolve at the drop of a hat…we’re too distracted for all this “consequential times” stuff. If anything, 9/11 is a spiritual wakeup call…America is in her most dangerous time, yet she is least spiritually prepared for it. And now, a prayer on 9/11. Father, we pray for America. We don’t deserve Your mercy, but we ask that You would continue to pour it out on us. We are a sinful people, but I pray You would grant repentance and revival on a scale unrivalled at any point in our history. Please protect our people, our cities, our leaders, our soldiers, our first responders. I pray that our evil enemies will all be brought to the justice they so richly deserve. Lord, I pray that never again would a terrorist attack mar this great land, and may America once again be truly great in Your eyes. In Jesus’ name, amen. Never, ever forget.

Wednesday, September 10, 2008 -- …And, lest we forget, tomorrow is September 11. I fear many have forgotten and see that day as just another day now. It’s natural to lose sight of the event as we move farther away from it. But we can’t forget, because freedom isn’t free and we must fight to keep evil from our shores. With a hurricane in the Gulf, this promises to be a different anniversary, one with pressing distractions from an otherwise quiet day of sad reflection. This could be “our little 9/11”. When you’re facing a possible dramatic change of life as you know it, it puts your life in perspective, much like the remembrance of that clear sunny morning should. Still, we are dealing “only” with property loss – not, hopefully, the loss of our lives. THEY never came home from work. THEY never came out of those burning buildings. THEY never deplaned at an airport. We can try to pick up the pieces; THEY can’t. We should never take anything in this life for granted. 9/11 and Ike both teach us this.

Thursday, September 11, 2008 – Eighty-four months, or seven years, since that clear Tuesday that changed our nation’s history. Today has been so complex. The waves of deep, choking emotion that I have always had every year on this day since 2001 still came. But they have intensified as they combined with the overwhelming focus of the day – preparing to evacuate from approaching Hurricane Ike. It was the deep emotion of a past tragedy coupled with the deep emotion of the possible personal tragedy of losing my home that left me with a heavy weight much of today…McCain and Obama quit their mudslinging for a day and marked the anniversary together in New York…When we view things in the light of 9/11, all of a sudden politics seems so petty. That day we were all Americans – would that were true now. But the scenes of September 11 have become too familiar, in one sense because we wish they had never happened, but in another because they have become so much emotionless history, like the events of World War II or the Civil War, which we can rattle off without the realization of what those events meant and were like. Don’t let 9/11 become a storybook. Remember what it was truly like as it took place, and what the gnawing pain of those first anniversaries felt like. Remember how impossible it seemed that heavy machinery was rummaging through the rubble of the world’s tallest buildings hours after their collapse. Remember watching and re-watching the raw horror of people throwing themselves out of the flames and of planes violently smashing into structures they were never supposed to approach in such a way. Remember the shock that left you unable to grasp what had happened, that took your breath away. Remember the flag at the Pentagon, the unity of a nation, and the sad resolve of a president. And then remember the aftermath. Remember the grief at the National Cathedral. Remember the annual reading of the names. Remember the children who lost moms and dads. Remember the teddy bears and flowers placed at the memorial sites. Remember the overwhelming waves of sadness. September 11 is the worst day of the year for me. I never feel normal on it. But I never want it to be any other way. It shouldn’t be, because it was real and personal. I don’t ever want to get to a point where I don’t cry or choke back a strong wave of emotion at least a few times every 9/11. Today was hard because it was unlike any September 11 before or since 2001. I was barely able to scan the old newspapers because they were going out in storage with everything else. But I was able to scan a couple, and I still felt that emotion keenly today. That’s how it should be. Live in the light of it and never, ever take anything for granted. Tomorrow will be another day. But today is 9/11.

Thursday, September 10, 2009 – Eight years ago today we were in blissful ignorance of the dangerous enemy that was preparing to strike. “September 10” will forever be a symbol of that time in America – now forever lost – when a foreign attack on our soil was unthinkable, and when our strongest cities and building were unassailable. We had a sense of security – a sense that is never in any area as accurate as we imagine. Our security is only as strong as our awareness, preparedness, and dependence on God. I fear that in eight years we have lost all these and gone back to sleep. Don’t think that anything “can never happen”. Those who eight years ago today tucked their kids into bed, kissed their spouses, and went to sleep – all for the very last time – were victims of that which was never supposed to be a threat according to the best and brightest of our “experts”. Let them teach us their valuable posthumous lessons. Every day is September 10 because every day could be September 11, even if it be only in a very small, localized way. We must always cherish those we love, savor every moment of our lives (the good and the bad), and be sure of where we stand with our Creator – for it all could be gone very quickly before we know it. These are not lessons only for Homeland Security, or for politicians, or for diplomats. It is for each of us. They were us – only the names were different. Most of them led humble lives, just as we do. What happened then, to them, could happen now, to us. Live not in fear, but live in love, peace, joy, kindness, holiness, and the fear of God. They made us richer because we whom they left behind still have time to learn these lessons freely. They do not. Never forget.

Friday, September 11, 2009 – Ninety-six months, eight years, since 3,000 of our fellow Americans were murdered in broad daylight. As I began my day, I worried (as I have done the past few years) that the emotion would not be there this year, that the memory of that day would at last be swallowed up by time. But it was not so. The emotion still comes, but it cannot be forced. I found myself getting a lump in my throat as I watched the news. I had to bow my head and wipe away a tear as I drove, listening to the radio and reflecting. I sat in one of the buildings at school and observed how the cavernous architecture garbled all the voices and combined them into one dreamlike echo – and I wondered what it was like to be in those buildings before they collapsed. I thought I’d type out all my personal journal entries for this date and post them on Facebook – and as I did so I every now and then audibly choked back a sob. I found myself smiling at and greeting people I would normally pass by without a word. I found myself being just a little more patient with those drivers whose cars can’t seem to go over forty miles per hour. Today had that same quiet, sad, reflective, grieving quality that it should have. If we don’t stop to remember where we were on 9/11; if we don’t fight a lump in our throat; if at least one tear doesn’t trickle down our cheek; if we don’t find a little more kindness in our hearts toward our fellow man than usual; if September 11 isn’t at least a little different form all the other days for us, even only in feeling if not in routine – then perhaps we have forgotten. If 9/11 does not still sincerely produce some of these effects in all of us, then perhaps we should stop commemorating and regard it as little different than the shocking murder story on last night’s newscast. Future generations may well forget; I will not blame them. But not so this generation. 9/11 was our own unique rock thrown into the once peaceful, undisturbed pond of our existence. May its last ripple follow us to that distant shore. Never forget.

The Most Interesting Man in the World -- Chapter Five (Part One)

Chapter V. – In Which Byron Warren Gets Back to Nature, and Barely Back Home.

The twins, Alice Vera Warren and Robert George Warren, eventually outgrew their diapers (as most babies will) and entered that clumsy and no less hectic stage of life called toddlerhood. In fact, they had both reached the ripe age of four (and their brother the riper age of eleven), when their parents had an idea which they had not even been able to have for quite some time. Horatio Warren, the overworked man of business, came home to his wife Leona (the exhausted homemaker and mother of three) one fall evening with that idea, the divulging of which we shall witness. As we enter with the bread-winner, we find the wife half-asleep in an easy chair while the twins play somewhat quietly together with building blocks and Byron Merrill Warren, that most interesting of lads, colors (very neatly and without going outside the lines, mind you) in his superhero coloring book.
“Leona!” stated Mr. Warren very pointedly as he set down his briefcase. “We need a vacation!”
Leona Nora Warren, nee Crabapple, looked askance at her husband as only a very quizzical – nay, doubtful – spouse can do. Mr. Warren batted not an eyelid.
“And I believe we shall do just that!” he continued, as if he had revealed the whole of the matter to his audience.
“And I assume you have been promoted to President of the company?” asked Mrs. Warren very dryly.
“No – what does that have to do with anything?” returned the husband.
“Oh, I don’t know – I was just thinking that if we were going on the first family vacation in recent memory, we might need something to pay for it,” said Mrs. Warren, continuing in her dry manner.
“Ah, but that’s where you haven’t thought it out as thoroughly as I have!” said Mr. Warren with glee. “This vacation won’t cost us much.”
“Well, if you’re planning to drive us all up the road and back, don’t bother – we already went to the grocery store this morning. And that cost us a pretty penny as it was!”
“Leona, listen to me. I’ve already planned it. It’s as good as done. Next weekend we’re going camping at the state park not twenty miles away from here. And, Byron, you’ll be glad to know that I’ve also invited a few other families – the Westminsters, the Caldwells, the Sikeses and the Proudfoots! They’ll be camping with us!”
Byron leapt up at the news, while the twins continued building with their blocks, oblivious to the world of camping.
“Oh boy!” shouted Byron. “Chet and Norbert and Albert are coming too? That’d be swell!” Then his young face fell ever so slightly. “But did you say you invited the Proudfoots? Does that mean Raquel is coming?”
“I don’t see why it wouldn’t – she’s a member of the Proudfoots, isn’t she?”
“But she’s kind of – I don’t know – she’s a little…annoying,” said Byron.
“Oh, nonsense, you two get along just fine at school from what I hear from Mr. Proudfoot. Besides, Mrs. P and your mother are good friends, and who knows? Maybe Raquel can look after your brother and sister for a while. She might love that!”
Mrs. Warren had also risen at the news, but she had her hands on her hips and a very exasperated look that suggested she did not share her son’s elation.
“You mean to tell me that you’re going to put me out in the wilderness for a weekend and let me get bitten by ticks and mites and who knows what other wild animals? And get all dirty to boot, and make me smell that smoke for hours on end?”
“They have showers, Leona,” explained Mr. Warren. This produced no visible reaction in his wife, except perhaps that her brow was a little more arched than before.
“There’s no debating it!” announced Mr. Warren firmly. “We are all going camping, and we are all going to have fun! Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some camping gear to go purchase. Byron, would you like to go with me?”
Byron did indeed accompany his father, and in the days leading up to the big weekend, they put their combined energies into preparing, planning, packing, and pondering the trip and all they expected to do in two days. Before long, it was the fateful Saturday morning. The five families met up at the local gas station to compare notes and then drive off in a caravan of sorts. Mrs. Warren was not nearly as apprehensive as she had been earlier, what with the presence of four fellow mothers to cheer her. The Caldwells had a station wagon, which meant that Byron, Norbert Caldwell, Albert Sikes and Chet Westminster could all fit in the back. They spent the entire trip to the park in earnest conversation about many things. As for Raquel Proudfoot, she traveled in the back seat of the car in front of the Caldwells, and was able to make various and sundry faces at the boys at stop lights. The boys, in all likelihood, never noticed.
It wasn’t long before the group arrived at the park, paid for their stay, found five adjacent campsites, parked, and got out to stretch their legs in the fresh forest air. Mr. Warren was pointing out the tall pine trees to Mr. Westminster as the boys charged out of the station wagon.
“All right! Fishing!” shouted Chet Westminster.
“Hold on – we’ve got to set everything up first!” cautioned Byron.
“Do they have ping-pong tables here?” asked Norbert Caldwell. “I love ping-pong; or maybe a TV – Batman comes on at noon!”
“This is outdoors, son,” said Mr. Caldwell, patting his son on the back as he came up behind him. “They don’t have any of those indoor games. We have to find things to do outside. You’ll see before long.”
Albert Sikes, Byron’s “study buddy”, was trailing along, reading a thick book, which happened to be his history book from school. He was reading half-aloud with his eyes glued to the page when he tripped over a rock. Without taking his eyes from his book, he brushed himself off and walked five more yards into a tree, which did not budge but rather knocked off young Albert’s glasses, which he quickly replaced.
“Hey, there sure are a lot of things in the way out here!” he complained. Then he spied his friends farther off and began to jog toward them. “Hey, wait up! Byron, did you know that George Washington was a soldier before he was president?”
At this point there were campsites to set up, and the families separated to do just that. Mr. Warren enlisted Byron’s help in setting up the tent, which they had bought from the store after much deliberation.
“Okay, son, these rods here go through the loops on the tent, and they stretch the tent out to give it shape; then you stick the rods into the ground, and voila! You have your tent.” Mr. Warren beamed proudly as if the job was as good as done. The two spread the tent out on the ground and began putting the rods into their respective loops. As his father put in the last few rods, Byron fell to looking at the instructions, which Mr. Warren had not heretofore consulted.
“Um, Dad – it says here that the gray rods go through the gray loops and the yellow rods go through the yellow loops.”
“Ummm-hmmm,” mumbled Mr. Warren. “Does it, though?”
“Uh-huh, and you’ve done it the wrong way.”
Mr. Warren sighed and looked up at his son. “What do you mean, I’ve done it the wrong way? The rods all fit in the loops just fine – now, give me your help. We need to lift this tent up and stick those rods in the ground.”
“But it says here,” began Byron.
“Never mind what it says! Now, I’m sure it’s all fine and good how the manufacturer wants you to do it, but I’ve already figured it out! Those things just confuse you. In fact, that’s what they’re meant to do. I do things myself.”
Upon lifting the tent, the pair found that the gray rods, which had been inserted through the yellow loops, were too short; and furthermore, the yellow rods, which had been inserted through the gray loops, were much too long. This did not prevent Mr. Warren from forcing the matter. In fact, he forced it so much that one rod (a yellow one) snapped clean in two. As his father groaned in anger, Byron put his hands on his hips and looked at him knowingly.
“I told you,” he began, but his father did not let him finish.
“Never mind! You can run along now. I’ll get your mother to help me. Leona!”
Byron just put his hands in his pockets and walked toward another campsite; as he did so, he could hear his mother saying something about not bringing any duct tape. He stepped into the Westminster’s campsite to find an interesting scene. Chet and his father were bending over a pile of logs. Mr. Westminster was striking match after match and throwing it at the pile, only to sigh loudly each time there was no perceptible result – which happened to be every time.
“Come on – light!” groaned Mr. Westminster. “Hiya, Byron! Did ya get your site up so soon? Hold these matches, son – I think I know what I forgot. Stay here a moment.”
As Mr. Westminster walked off toward his car, Byron put his arm around his pal.
“Havin’ trouble getting the fire going?”
“Yeah, but I’m not sure why,” replied Chet.
“Did you throw any lighter fluid on it?” asked Byron. Chet’s eyes lit up.
“Hey! That must be what Dad’s getting now! I knew we forgot something.”
“Hey, isn’t this a can of lighter fluid?” asked Byron as he picked up a can sitting on a tree stump.
“Sure is! Here, give it to me!” Before Byron knew what to do, Chet Westminster grabbed the can, opened the lid, and sprayed its contents all over the pile of logs.
“That oughtta do it!” he shouted with glee. “Here, let’s light a match. Stand back, Byron!” Chet barely gave him enough time before he struck a match and threw it away from him into the pile, which exploded with a high orange flame.
“Whoa! Neat-o!” beamed Chet as Byron covered his eyes from the sudden heat. “I bet we can throw some pine cones on there to make it really sizzle!” Chet grabbed a handful of assorted matter – included pine cones but not limited to them and including pine needles, dead grass and dirt besides – and threw it onto the fire, which began to crackle loudly and emit thick, strange-colored smoke. Mr. Westminster returned just then to behold the spectacle.
“I thought I left that lighter fluid somewhere – Chet! What in the world are you doing? Here, give me those matches!” Before his son had time to explain anything, Mr. Westminster was poking the fire with a stick and waving the smoke out of his eyes as he yelled to Chet, “Why don’t you and Byron find something else to do? This fire’s too dangerous – let me handle it next time!”
So the two friends walked on to the next site, which happened to belong to the Sikes family. Mr. and Mrs. Sikes were spreading a table cloth on a picnic table and getting some food items out of their car. It didn’t take long for Albert to join Chet and Byron, as follows.
“Hey, Mom, did you know that the Boston Tea Party came before the Declaration of Independence? I know that now, but that was the question I missed on the test yesterday. I think Charlie Barnes missed it too, but he wouldn’t tell me. I think he was embarrassed because he got a 75 and I got a 92. The teacher said I was the best student in her class. How about that, huh? Mom, do you think I’m the best student in her class? I might not be, because Byron got a 98, I think, which is higher than a 92, and…”
“Albert – you can calm down with that stuff,” interjected Mr. Sikes. “Let your mother and I do some setting up for a while. And speaking of Byron, there he is – why don’t you go on a walk on the road or something?”
Albert Sikes closed his history book, tucked it under his arm, and set out toward his two friends, who eagerly beckoned for him to join them as they walked. Together the trio made their next stop at the Caldwells’ campsite. Norbert was sitting on the ground, looking up at the tops of the tall trees. Every now and then he would toss a small rock as high into the air as he could. Simply put, he looked bored.
“Hiya, Norb!” Byron called out. “Come with us – we’re going for a walk!” Norbert hardly needed another invitation, for he sprang up, tossed his last remaining rock aside, and joined his friends on the road.
The last campsite in the group, as the reader will no doubt deduce, was the Proudfoots’. As the four boys approached this site, Byron sped up his pace noticeably, an example not immediately followed by the others.
“Why so fast, Byron?” Norbert inquired. “If ya hafta go to the bathroom, I think it’s in the other direction!”
“Uh, no, I just want to get my exercise – you know, get movin’!” Byron backpedaled quickly up the road as he faced his friends. “Let’s have a race!” Whether it was from the nervous look on his face or from the unconvinced way in which he said this, the other boys did not quite catch on.
“C’mere, Byron! I wanna show you something in my book!” said Albert. “Remember the other day when we were talkin’ about how to spell…”
. Byron barely listened as he continued to backpedal, looking out of the corner of his eye. He spied what seemed to be the source of his anxiety, and it – or shall I say “she” – was running toward him in the form of one Raquel Proudfoot.
“Byron, Byron,” she sang out. “Are you guys going for a walk? I wanna come too! Hold on, let me get my Barbie dolls!”
“Aw, we don’t need any Barbie dolls on our walk!” returned Byron gruffly. “This walk is only for MEN!” The other boys began to guffaw and prepare male chauvinist remarks of their own, but it was quite too late. Raquel Proudfoot had rejoined the group, two slender Barbie dolls clutched in her hands.
“This is Sally, and this is Sandra,” she explained, lifting up each doll as she named them. “We just love going for walks, don’t we? (She addressed this question to her inanimate companions). Where are we going, guys?”
Byron, along with his three friends, just rolled his eyes and groaned. There is nothing more disastrous to the plans of a group of boys than the entrance of a girl, and they knew it. Chet Westminster looked as if he was about to protest, but Byron spoke up before that. He knew it was no use. Raquel would have to come along, and resistance was futile. He knew they couldn’t risk hurting her feelings and getting in trouble with Mr. and Mrs. Proudfoot. Besides, if Raquel saw that they were doing manly things (as young boys will do), she would probably lose interest and go away before long.
“Aw, come on, you can go with us,” sighed Byron. “Maybe we can find a trail around here somewhere.”

Your Sin Has Been Canceled

Every now and then I will watch a reality show on TV. People of my generation might find it absurd when I say that I’ve never once watched “American Idol” and “Survivor”, but it’s true. The reality shows I’ve seen are different, perhaps less popular ones. I may not have seen “Survivor”, but my Dad and I used to like to watch “Survivorman”. I suspect this show, like some other reality shows, was a reality show in the strictest sense of the definition – that is, it was unscripted but very probably never included much that was truly “real”. The point of the show was that the host (Survivorman, of course) deliberately got “lost” in the wilds of some of the world’s most untamed regions and taught his audience how to both survive in and extract themselves from these kinds of situations in the unlikely but still remotely possible event that they suddenly found themselves lost in the Grand Tetons or the Amazon rainforest. Of course, you and I would not have the convenience of having a camera crew tucked away a few miles back who know that we’re lost and can call for help if our staged adventure goes awry.
Just because I’ve never watched an episode (let alone a season) of “American Idol” doesn’t mean that I’m not aware of who wins each year (it’s usually all over the news, which I do keep a close eye on). In fact, if I were to watch an episode of this show, I’d pick the very early ones in which the most awful singers in America take the stage to try to convince the judges and the people of our country that what their ears flatly reject as a musical travesty of the highest magnitude is really worthy of a victory in the contest and some lucrative recording contract. I love comedy, and it rarely comes in a more pure form than that. I’ve also seen bits and pieces of the shows “Wipeout” and “I Survived a Japanese Game Show”, which struck me as so profoundly dumb (in a rather hilarious way) that I had to watch for a moment to see if what I was watching was really being aired on live national television.
I guess the reality shows I watch most often are on the Food Network and HGTV channels of our satellite package. On my own, I don’t think I’d watch these channels much or be very interested in their general subject matter, but my parents and sister watch them very often, which means I often end up watching with them. Just recently we got caught up in a Food Network reality show (“The Next Food Network Star”) in which talented cooks competed with one another to land a new show on the network. My sister likes the show on HGTV called “Design Star”, in which interior designers compete in a similar way to get their own show on that network. Both these shows go on for weeks and have a panel of judges who eliminate one or more contestants each week until, as in all fair contests, there can be only one remaining. At the end of each week’s show, the contestants all gather in front of the judges, who review their performance in the challenges they were assigned. Some make it to the next week with an impressive performance, while others survive by the skin of their teeth to fight another day. Inevitably there will be one or more contestants who simply bombed their chances and who are clearly marked (whether in this week or some future one) for elimination by the all-knowing panel of judges. In the particular case of “Design Star” (which, incidentally, can be a very uncomfortable show for men not interested in interior design to watch, for various reasons that I shall not discuss now), the host tells the unfortunate contestant in a very distinct British accent – “(Insert name here), your show has been canceled” (referring to the show they would have had if they had excelled in all the challenges).
All this is a roundabout and lengthy way to introduce what that phrase, and in a way the general subject of those types of reality shows, brought to my mind just today. The Bible speaks of a reality that we will all have to face someday. Hebrews 9:27 tells us that “It is appointed for man once to die, and after this the judgment”. The difference is that we will not be standing before a panel of judges, but before an audience of One – Almighty God. And we will not be standing with fellow contestants so that our performances may be compared to one another’s – we will be standing alone for consideration on an individual basis. The outcome of the examination will not be a show on a network, or some prize package – it will be a matter of eternal life or eternal death.
The problem is that we would all fail that test. Why? Romans 3:23 informs us that “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God”; and Romans 6:23 further explains that “the wages of sin is death”. We may point to the fact that we tried our hardest to live life in a good way – we helped others, gave to the poor, went to church, worked hard at what we did, loved our family. Maybe we didn’t do some of the things that would get other contestants quickly eliminated – lied and cheated and stole and murdered. The only problem is that these things are not enough. God’s standard for the people He created is holy perfection, the quality He Himself possesses. And any way in which we come up short of that standard is called sin. It doesn’t matter what the severity of the sin is – whether it’s great or little, frequent or seldom. Any type of sin and even one of them is enough to keep us out of God’s presence forever, because God is so holy that He cannot look upon anything that is unholy. Based on these Biblical facts, we would be forced to admit that God, the Righteous Judge, would have to say to each and every one of us – “(Insert name here), your show has been canceled.”
But God does not want this to happen any more than any of us would want it to happen – and He made a way, without cheating or overlooking the facts of our records, for it to not have to happen. He sent His only Son Jesus to this earth to live as one of us. After He lived a perfect life as only He could do, Jesus died on the Cross for us. He took on our sins in His own body, suffering the punishment from God that each one of us should have rightfully taken. In the process, He charged all of our sins to His account and charged His perfect holiness to our account. Three days after He died, God raised Jesus from the dead to prove that He was satisfied with the substitution. Our role is all that remains – we must individually come to God, admitting our guilt as sinners against Him and turning away from that sin and to Jesus, accepting His death on our behalf as the only remedy for our fatal sinful condition. If we call upon the Lord in this way, He promises to hear and to answer us, making us His children and sending us His Holy Spirit to help us to live in a way that pleases God until He calls us home to be with Him in heaven forever. Even though we have sinned before we asked God to save us, and will sin afterward, the fact will remain that Jesus paid the full penalty for our sin and made a way for us to be accepted completely by a holy God.
You see, God has done everything He possibly could to ensure that we will not have to be cast out of His kingdom forever on that day of judgment. There is nothing more He can do to give us a way to escape our just fates. However, if we do not accept the way He has graciously provided, He will have no choice but to tell us, “(Insert name here), your show has been canceled.” We cannot wait until we stand before God – then it will be too late to change our decisions. We must call on the Lord while we still live on the earth. I hope you do just that today if you haven’t already. Then, when you stand before that Judge on that day, He will be able to say to you, “(Insert your name here), your sin has been canceled. Jesus paid it all! Enter into the eternal joy of your Lord.”