Gems from a Reformission Rev.

I've been reading Mark Driscoll's book Confessions of a Reformission Rev. Driscoll is a Reformed pastor who started a successful church in Seattle. He's also "The Cussing Pastor" from Blue Like Jazz (gasp!). Admittedly, the first 70 pages or so only moderately kept my attention. But, the second half of the book sucked me in with some really intertaining stories and statements--what I hold to be some good insights on how to both do and not do ministry. I think the major thing that caught my attention, though, is the humor. Here are a few parts that either made me laugh out loud or made me think about the church in unconventional ways:

"Things were starting to get out of hand with the men, so I called a meeting and demanded that all of the men in our church attend. I preached for more than two hours about manhood and basically gave the dad talk to my men for looking at porno, sleeping witih young women, not serving Christ, not working hard at their jobs, and so on. I demanded that the men who were with me on our mission to change the city stay and that the rest leave the church and stop getting in the way....On their way out of that meeting, I handed each man two stones and told them that on this day God was giving them their balls back to get the courage to do kingdom work. Guys put them on their monitors at work or glued them to the dash of their truck and kept them like stones of remembrance from the Old Testament. The next week the offering doubled and the men caught fire. It was a surreal time, since I was basically fathering guys my own age and treating them more like a military unit than a church."

"We also began 'boot camps' for our young men, teaching them how to get a wife, have sex with that wife, get a job, budget money, buy a house, father a child, study the Bible, stop looking at porn, and brew decent beer."

"Next door to our church lived a very large, very loud, and very unpleasant woman. She went to another local church and often walked into our services to publicly cuss us all out. I nicknamed her 'the finger lady' because she often sat on her front porch giving our people the finger and calling them whores and bastards while they walked to the church, as she chain-smoked and perfected her self-induced Tourette's syndrome."

On having diarhhea and having to preach at four services in one day:
"Knowing that I had four services to preach and that each sermon lasted about an hour, I was feeling optimistic during the third service--until I crapped myself about fifteen minutes into the sermon and was left with a terrible dilemma. Do I finish the sermon and just not move much on the stage? Do I say something spiritual like the Holy Spirit just notified me that everyone is to break up into prayer groups, so I could sneak off and clean up the oil slick?
They don't cover this part of the job in seminary, and I was perplexed but chose to just keep going and finish the sermon, which took about another forty-five minutes, during which time I tried to breath out of my mouth to lessen the stench."

What I'm Reading

Lately, I find myself with an abundance of books. Actually, it's a bit overwhelming at times.

What I'm Reading:
-Liberty For Latin America: How to Undo Five Hundred Years of State Oppression-by Alvaro Vargas Llosa
-Less Than Two Dollars a Day: A Christian View of World Povery and the Free Market-by Kent A. Van Til
-La Capital: The Biography of Mexico City-Jonathan Kandell
-Confession of a Reformation Rev: Hard Lessons From an Emerging Missional Church-Mark Driscoll

What I Hope to Conquer Next:
-Bobos in Paradise-David Brooks (This one's been on my list forever!)
-Opening Mexico: The Making of a Democracy-Julia Preston and Samuel Dillon

We'll see how much progress I make before I head to Mexico. I suspect I will not get all of them read.

Eric Volz Poem

I wrote this poem a few months ago after a letter from Eric Volz was released as a Myspace bulletin. I took quotes of Eric's and responded to them.

The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away

“I live in my head.”

No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.

Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?

“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”

There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.


“My spirits rise and fall.”

Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.

“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”

Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.

Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.