"It's unlikely that I will make apologetics for my actions."

What’s the chance that world hunger is erradicated by the end of the day? Unlikely.

What's the chance that world peace is realized by 2012? Unlikely.

What’s the chance that the Messiah has already arrived? Unlikely.

What’s the chance that millions of people are reading this right now? Unlikely.

We arguably live in a time when we allow things that can happen and that are happening to be defined by the most unlikely influences:

• Republican or Democrat
• Wikipedia or Wikileaks
• X, Y or Z blog
• Fox News or CNN
• Glenn Beck or Wolf Blitzer
• Old or New Testament
• Nachos or quinoa

So, whom should you believe? A little unlikely history might offer illumination to the “idiocy” we should assign to believing anyone. Imagine that:

You are a Jew living in Egypt under the harsh rule of Pharaoh during the 400^th year of enslavement. An old guy in a threadbare robe, carrying a gnarled wooden walking stick, sporting a white beard and stuttering, rumored to be a murderer, stumbles into the community. It’s the end of another typical day of molding and schlepping bricks, heat exhaustion, lashings and general humiliation. He delivers the following news, while a satisfying camel dung fire crackles in the distance.

“Here’s the deal: I just had a chat with a flaming shrub the other day that told me he was God, and I am glad to give you the good nnnnnnnews; I have been chosen tttttttto rescue you from captivity. That’s right, we’re going to walk out of here and take a long walk to our own land. Yyyyyyyep, being that we are God’s chosen people (something about a deal he made with some distant relative of mine, Abe something-or-other), he’s locked up some property on the other side of the desert and we’ll bbbbbbe manufacturing and distributing organic milk and honey products to make a living. So, I am going to ask Pharaoh to let you go, and he’ll gggggo for it.

Now for the bad news: as you can tell I have a bbbbbbbit of a speech impediment, I’m very old, can barely walk with these corns, I have no idea what I am going to say when I talk to Pharaoh, I’ll have to repeat my sales pitch numerous times, there’s going to be some really lousy plagues and I am cccccclueless as to why I have to carry this really heavy stick everywhere that I go.

Oh, and did I tell you that once we get to the new neighborhood, we’re going to have to defeat some really tttttall enemies and other tribes who currently own the land?”

If you were there at that time, would you have gleefully rushed to your tent to gather your matzos and get ready to hit the sand? Unlikely.

Now, fast forward +/- a few thousand years to somewhere in the “promised land” the Israelites would actually inherit. There’s a new rabbi in town that’s stirring up the dust, flipping over tables by the temple and breaking bread with hookers, thieves, lawyers and lepers. This rabbi-rouser named Jesus is from Nazareth, and we all know that there’s nothing good about anything that comes from that town. He’s claiming that he is God’s only son, performing some pretty cool tricks and is conducting free healing clinics with a dozen guys, most of whom smell like fish. Even though you’re convinced he’s been smoking too much myrrh, you have to admit that he’s gathering throngs of people everywhere he goes, AND there’s endless supplies of free bread and fish served for lunch.

The local Pharisees and Sadducees are up in robes about this guy who has the audacity to claim that you can experience all of God’s love and every blessing under the chuppah (a Hebrew canopy); all you have to do is accept that He is who He says He is, say you’re sorry for your donkey sack full of screw-up’s, love each other like he is loving you and follow him towards a new way of living by grace. You’ve just heard him describe this all in detail with some attitude from atop a beautiful mount. Even though you’ve heard that the other rabbis and “sees” were using every trick in the Torah to prove him a heretic, you have to admit you are stoked about what sounds like some really good news.

And then it happens. Jesus walks past your house and knocks at the front door. You answer, amazed to have the man of the hour himself address you with the following offer:

“If you will follow me, I promise you the boundless gifts of heaven here on earth, and then eternal life in the glory of God, my Father. All you have to do is give everything you own away to poor people and hungry little kids, forget your family, leave home without any food or provisions, walk endless miles to places in which you’d never be caught dead, share this good news about me and my Father. You need to love everyone you meet unconditionally while being scorned, chased, flogged, abandoned, shipwrecked, imprisoned, stoned and finally hanged, beheaded or crucified. And, you have to leave with me right now. Are you in?”

If you were there at that time, would you have gleefully rushed out the door and walked in the dust from his sandals? Unlikely.

What about today? Right now? Would you believe him? Would you go? Unlikely.

Here’s what’s likely:

• We go to work every day, many of us disliking what we do.
• We go to our places of worship, listen to gifted teachers, hurt when we hear stories of suffering, praise God for our blessings, tithe sometimes, and then walk past the destitute person asking for change or the man on the corner with a sign reading, “Fallen on hard times. Homeless. Needing any help. God bless.”
• We spend countless hours complaining and arguing about the political situation in Washington, contribute to the candidate du jour and say nothing to the young man or woman in uniform sitting next to you on the plane to thank them for fighting and dying for freedom in the world.
• We say that we believe in the gospels of the Old and New Testament, but 93% of us have never read the books from cover to cover.
• We are all broken, scared sinners and people who are starving to be seen, known and loved.

I make no apologies for the fact that I am no better than anyone else who is struggling with the ways to be the best version of myself. And, I have come to know for sure that I am desperately in need of grace and that I am the unlikeliest candidate to receive the gifts of love from a loving God who continues to love me just the way I am.

If the rabbi-rousing messiah knocked on my door today and made me the offer, I’d hesitate. And, I am glad that He keeps knocking. What about you?

Knock, knock.

In the embrace of the brackets – (b)

"We are saved, finally."

As testimonial to the positive impact of the Internet, and its invaluable re-shaping of many behaviors that (heretofore unknown to us due to our unconnected existence) will undoubtedly improve the human condition and extend our life span, I offer for your consideration (NOTE: sent to me by email today):

As we move into the last quarter of this year - I want to thank all of you for your educational e-mails over the past year. I am totally screwed up now and have little chance of recovery.

• I no longer open a bathroom door without using a paper towel, or have the waitress put lemon slices in my ice water without worrying about the bacteria on the lemon peel.
• Eating a little snack sends me on a guilt trip because I can only imagine how many gallons of trans fats I have consumed over the years.
• I can’t touch any woman’s purse for fear she has placed it on the floor of a public bathroom.
• I must also send my special thanks to whomever sent me the one about rat crap in the glue on envelopes because I now have to use a wet sponge with every envelope that needs sealing.
• ALSO, now I have to scrub the top of every can I open for the same reason.
• I no longer have any savings because I gave it to a sick girl (Penny Brown) who is about to die for the 1,387,258th time.
• I no longer have any money, but that will change once I receive the $15,000 that Bill Gates/Microsoft and AOL are sending me for participating in their special e-mail program.
• I can’t have a drink in a bar because I’ll wake up in a bathtub full of ice with my kidneys gone.
• I can’t eat at KFC because their chickens are actually horrible mutant freaks with no eyes, feet or feathers.
• I can’t use cancer-causing deodorants even though I smell like a water buffalo on a hot day.
• Thanks to all of you have learned that my prayers only get answered if I forward an e-mail to seven of my friends and make a wish within five minutes.
• Because of your genuine concern, I no longer drink Coca Cola because it can remove toilet stains.
• I no longer buy gas without taking someone along to watch the car so a serial killer doesn’t crawl in my back seat when I’m filling up.
  
• I no longer drink Pepsi or Fanta since the people who make these products are atheists who refuse to put ‘Under God’ on their cans.
• I no longer use Cling Wrap in the microwave because it causes seven different types of cancer.
• Thanks to you I can’t use anyone’s toilet but mine because a big black snake could be lurking under the seat and cause me instant death when it bites me.
• And thanks to your great advice, I can’t ever pick up a Penny dropped in the parking lot because it probably was placed there by a molester waiting to grab me as I bend down to pick it up.
• I no longer drive my car because buying gas from some companies supports Al Qaeda, and buying gas from all the others supports South American dictators.
• I can’t do any gardening because I’m afraid I’ll get bitten by the Violin Spider and my hand will fall off.
• If you don’t send this e-mail to at least 144,000 people in the next 70 minutes, a large dove with diarrhea will land on your head at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow afternoon, and the fleas from 120 camels will infest your back, causing you to grow a hairy hump. I know this will occur because it actually happened to a friend of my next door neighbor’s ex-mother-in-law’s second husband’s cousin's best friend’s beautician . . .
  

Oh, by the way.....

A German scientist from Argentina , after a lengthy study, has discovered that people with insufficient brain activity read their e-mail with their hand on the mouse.

Don’t bother taking it off now, it’s too late.

In the embrace of the (sterilized) brackets - (b)

PS: I now keep my toothbrush in the living room, because I was told by e-mail that water splashes over 6 ft. out of the toilet.

“I have depression.”

My father died ten years ago in Dallas at eighty-two-years old. He passed from this life after three months in the hospital, triggered by congenital heart failure. He suffered from a septic coma for the last few weeks, kept alive on a cacophony of machines. Even with his eyes open, he did not react to any sort of visual or vocal stimulation. When his eyes followed your movement, they were like a camera lens without film; vacant, expressionless. The doctors said that any of his mild movements were “likely” neurological responses only. After a lot of council, reflection and prayer, we agreed to move him into hospice and removed all the connections. I received the call from my brother two days later around two o’clock in the morning that he had passed. He said that his heart failed.

My father suffered from depression. His heart failed.

Two years after my father’s death, during a session with my counselor Jim, there I am ranting about an incident involving a client and their lack of appreciating the value I brought to their organization. “I am so damn frustrated with having to constantly explain what I do and why my process is essential to achieving their stated goals. And it always seems to happen just about the time when they are on the verge of breakthrough momentum.” Characteristically (and tremendously annoying), Jim sat there in his comfy tobacco leather chair nodding in rhythm with my staccato complaints.

“And the major thing is that I’m beginning to think that I am becoming my father; that everything I try turns to shit.”

Having stated my carefully rehearsed case, I caught my breath and eased back into the couch. I eagerly awaited some nugget of reassurance that I was fine and that, in fact, they were the ones not taking the time to fully embrace my special gifting and selfless commitment to their success. Their loss. Their stupidity.

After a long pause, sans nodding, Jim responded. “So Brian, am I right that you recently committed your life to faith; that you have broadened your Hebraic roots and are embracing Christianity?”

“Well, umm, yes I have. Why do you ask?”

Without further clarification, he continued. “And would you say that you are a blessed man?”

“Absolutely. Yes, I am.”

Jim nodded like a relief pitcher acknowledging the catcher’s signal for the “3 and 2” pitch to close out the game, and sent the hardball screaming across home plate. “So, how does a bless man behave?”

I responded elegantly with, “Huh?”

Expressionless, and with increased emphasis he repeated the question, “How does a blessed man behave?”

STRIKE THREE; YOU’RE OUT!

If you have ever wondered what it must feel like to be a deer caught in the headlights of an approaching car, wonder no more. Not only now paralyzed from his comment, Jim actually aimed the car directly towards me, sped up and sent me into orbit upon impact.

“If you were really a blessed man you would likely find another way to deal with this situation other than whining, complaining and acting like a spoiled teenager who just got teased by some other kids.”

Nice, huh? But, he was only getting warmed up.

“Here’s the deal. Your father had depression. He wasn’t depression. It’s one of the many ambiguities in life. Like diabetes, you have it; you have the choice whether to “partner” with it and treat it, or you can let it devastate you. Your father chose to let his depression define him, it ultimately destroyed him. Does that make sense to you?”

“Yes.”

Leaning forward slightly he continued. “You are not your father. God gave you a gift of depression. Given this ambiguity, you now have the choice to partner with it or you can let it define you. What do you choose?”

My mind swirled and I suddenly pictured myself as a shabby horse on a carousel; chipped paint, nicked and scarred from countless riders but going round and round nonetheless.

“Brian, one of the challenges being a man of faith is surrendering to God’s will for your life, or choosing to believe that you are victim to the circumstances that are laid in your path…and that somehow if you’ll just complain enough you can have power over the outcome. Your behavior does not sound like that of a blessed man. So, I ask you again, what do you choose?”

________________________________________

It is now eight years since my meeting with Jim. I chose to partner with my depression that day, and that decision characterizes how my life is playing out; serving others by giving away my gifts, so that I can give my gifts a way to really matter. All it took was a little shock therapy from Jim, and a lot of faith in God.

Given the choice of being upbeat or depressed, I’ll choose depression every time.

In the embrace of the brackets - (b)