tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-86468902011-04-21T18:09:13.656-07:00A simple place for creative thoughts about life, especially in the context of Christian faith.Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.comBlogger331100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1134249477927312282005-12-10T14:16:00.000-07:002005-12-10T14:19:30.186-07:00

As you know, the Christmas season is in full swing. For many, it’s become a generic holiday so tepid that even the word “Christmas” is avoided. “Merry Whatever,” I guess.As the Christmas — I mean “holiday” — season began, one department store decided not to sell Christmas trees. Instead, they’d call them “holiday trees.” Another store took all references to Christmas out of their advertisements,

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1131250051030041552005-11-05T21:06:00.000-07:002005-11-05T21:08:29.546-07:00

Okay, okay, I’ll admit it: I was eavesdropping. I couldn’t help it, really. The woman across the way was so excited she was hard to ignore. And, really, let’s be honest: we all listen in on other’s conversations once in a while.I’d been sitting in the coffee shop for quite some time. It’s one of my favorite places to hang out. I love the environment, the java, the spicy mango salad, and the

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1130044735238375072005-10-22T22:18:00.000-07:002005-10-22T22:18:55.243-07:00

They both called on the same day: my son and my father. One called to see how I was doing. The other called to tell me how he was doing. Long conversations in both cases. Neither call was expected; both calls made my day.There’s something about family, isn’t there? The source of our greatest pain and our greatest joy, both rolled into one. Odd, isn’t it, how love and pain seem joined at the

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1110331760352649082005-05-20T18:08:00.000-07:002005-06-25T22:46:44.180-07:00

Yes, I'm one of those guys in the tight shorts on a bike. You know, the kind that irritate you on the road. Why just the other day I was pedaling up a ten mile stretch when I was startled by a crack on the back of my helmet. I nearly fell off my bike for fright! Catching myself, I saw a harmless chunk of ice bouncing on the road, apparently thrown at me by the Jeep jaunting merrily ahead.I

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1114238063772653332005-04-22T22:26:00.000-07:002005-06-25T19:27:36.466-07:00

I saw Mr. Holland's Opus when it first came out and, frankly, didn't think too much of it. For one thing, while Richard Dreyfuss is a terrific actor, he's not much of a conductor. It reminded me of Elaine's dance on Seinfeld. I kept thinking, "couldn't they cast someone who looked like a real band director?"The problem's much more noticeable when it comes to casting actors as athletes. Did any of

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1112758016327775972005-04-05T20:22:00.000-07:002005-04-05T20:29:07.053-07:00

Just time for a quick note: We've recently moved and have temporarily lost internet access and, more importantly, the ability to read/send emails. So if you've tried to contact me, please be patient. I'm not ignoring you, really! It's just that your email is lost in cyberspace. Hopefully I'll be up and running soon. Just wanted you to know.Oh, and, while I'm thinking of it I realize I've

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1108363877859716312005-02-25T23:18:00.000-07:002005-02-23T00:05:16.270-07:00

Like any good camp counselor I was doing my best to be sociable. Sitting among a crowd at a large wooden table during lunch I spied a quiet girl. She was aloof and substantially overweight. Feeling sorry for her, I tried to initiate a conversation. "Are you enjoying camp?" I innocently asked. "Yes," she said in an oddly squeaky voice. We exchanged a few pleasantries. She didn't seem too bright. "

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1108622682499403062005-02-16T23:32:00.000-07:002005-02-16T23:47:40.676-07:00

There’s no question about it: Jose Canseco is a money-grubbing sleaze ball. He’s an embarrassment to the game of baseball -- the very game which made his name a household word. He has broken the athlete’s honor code: don’t rat out a teammate.It serves baseball right that someone with Canseco’s dubious pedigree finally forced players and managers to talk honestly about steroid use. After all,

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1107142847038410442005-02-12T20:02:00.000-07:002005-02-12T14:20:52.226-07:00

We'd been on the road nearly five hours. It was a beautiful night but we were tired and anxious to make it home before 11:00 p.m. After all, I had to preach in the morning. The weekend had been miserably chilly and wet. It was a lonely desert road, the kind where the speed limit is merely a suggestion. I'd set the cruise control on 79 hours before.As we neared civilization the speed limit changed

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1108103067615917282005-02-10T21:37:00.000-07:002005-02-10T23:24:27.620-07:00

I didn't grow up in a liturgical church. In fact, I grew up thinking or assuming anyway that liturgical churches didn't really believe the Bible, and that they put more trust in their traditions than God. We, on the other hand, believed the Bible and were not bound by religious tradition.That's a lie, of course, but I didn't know any better. In fact, I'm still trying to figure it out. In my

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1106204554182157952005-02-01T21:33:00.000-07:002005-01-31T23:41:28.056-07:00

I've been leading a double life. It's time for me to come clean. For some time now I've had two blogs: a public blog and a secret blog. The one identified me, the other didn't. One was known to only a few friends, the other was posted on our church website. I'm tired of living an edited life. It's just too much trouble trying to post on one site and edit it (or omit) on the other. So, with a

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1106789794597734102005-01-26T16:05:00.000-07:002005-01-30T16:30:43.120-07:00

Yes, I've been quiet for a while. Perhaps it has to do with my 45th birthday which came and went last Sunday. Actually, that's not the reason, but it's as good an excuse as any. All in all, it was a good day, full of the ordinary moments which make life extraordinary. It began with every preacher's worst fear: oversleeping on church day. Having been in ministry more than half my life, I've set

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1106090896878311912005-01-18T15:25:00.000-07:002005-01-18T16:28:16.876-07:00

At first I was pleased. Then I was offended. Now I'm furmished (is that a word?) I was pleased ... because a friend from long ago emailed me out of the blue. She'd gotten our annual Christmas card and responded with a few greetings of her own. As a vital part of a former church, she had gone on to marriage, parenting, and the like. You know, the usual stuff. I was pleased to hear from her

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1105663214329465982005-01-13T17:36:00.000-07:002005-01-13T23:11:27.760-07:00

Warning: Thinking out Loud. I've begun to read novel called The Red Tent. It's a story about Dinah, Jacob's only recorded daughter in the Old Testament. One of the new believers in our church told me she'd read it, so I decided to give it a whirl. So far, it’s a pretty good novel, but critiquing it is not my purpose here. Instead I’ve got some thoughts rattling around my brain which I’ll now

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1105124893034287282005-01-07T11:40:00.000-07:002005-01-07T12:08:13.033-07:00

"But you've got to kill the terrorists before the killing stops. And I'm for the president to chase them all over the world. If it takes 10 years, blow them all away in the name of the Lord." (Jerry Falwell, CNN Late Edition, October 24, 2004). Does this statement trouble you? It does me. I'm certain that I am to pray for others in the name of the Lord. It's also clear that I am to baptize

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1105053226899494662005-01-06T16:12:00.000-07:002005-01-06T16:13:46.900-07:00

Like many adult males I did a little last minute Christmas shopping. My motto is, "why do today what you can put off until tomorrow?" (I keep angling for a new motto, but it seems these things rather find us than the reverse.) Anyway, I wanted to buy a Christian book for a good friend. Usually I'd simply order it off the internet but, as I said, this was the last minute. I instinctively

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1104991992156609542005-01-05T22:22:00.000-07:002005-01-05T23:15:19.923-07:00

Mary's in a fix. Her family's all upset and I can understand why. A few days ago her aunt died. Well ... "Aunt" is what she called her, though she wasn't your typical kind of aunt. See, Mary's aunt was the long time companion of Mary's aunt. Yes, Mary's Aunt Mary was "married" to Mary's aunt. Or sort of. You get the picture. I'm not defending Mary's "aunts." I'm simply telling their story -- a

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1104873531460827612005-01-04T13:49:00.000-07:002005-01-04T14:20:41.726-07:00

John Donne (1572-1631) has long been my favorite poet. Following are two reasons why: Batter my heart, three person'd God; for, you As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend; That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow mee,'and bend Your force, to breake, blowe, burn, and make me new. I, like an usurpt town, to'another due, Labour to'admit you, but Oh, to no end. Reason, your viceroy in

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1104575045817919232005-01-01T03:12:00.000-07:002005-01-01T03:24:05.816-07:00

How to begin a new year? Perhaps with old words. Homer... Sing in me, Muse, and through me tell the story of that man skilled in all ways of contending, the wanderer, harried for years on end, after he plundered the stronghold on the proud height of Troy. TS Eliot: Four Quartets, Little Giding, stanza V... What we call the beginning is often the end And to make and end is to make a beginning.

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1103444664997869202004-12-18T15:02:00.000-07:002004-12-19T01:41:35.913-07:00

As usual, we were rushing headlong to make it to my son's soccer game. Some people are perfectly punctual; others are punctually late. I'm in the latter group. I'm sure it's genetic. Anyway, I was scurrying for the door and called to my older son, "Are you coming to the game?" Like most 17 year olds, he's got better things to do than watch his 13 year old brother play soccer. He peeked out from

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1102974010815580922004-12-13T14:16:00.000-07:002004-12-13T18:49:33.633-07:00

Good morning, Lord. Monday morning. Bored. It’s not as though there’s nothing to do. There’s just no motivation. What’s the matter with me? It’s a…. At the drop of a hat I leave my Quiet Time to peek at the movies on TV. Don't ask me why; does there have to be a reason? Maybe I’ll see some flesh! Whoopee! Who cares about responsibility? Who cares about doing the right thing? What's the harm in a

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1102617814271129052004-12-09T11:24:00.000-07:002004-12-13T14:46:20.840-07:00

At first I was just sending anonymous messages to cyberspace. Now a few of you know I'm out there. I've mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, like any writer I want to be read. On the other hand, it's easier to write to an imaginary rather than a real audience. I'm glad you're there. Sooner or later I'll get used to you. But for right now I'm a little skittish. Don't worry. I'll get over

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1102392297113673912004-12-05T20:25:00.000-07:002004-12-07T15:59:25.780-07:00

It was a perfect plan: the three year and nine month anniversary of our first date. "Let's celebrate by going somewhere nice," I said. She was a little surprised but, hey, who's to argue about a nice dinner out? We were students at schools about an hour away from one another, so we met at our usual place, the parking lot of the church we attended together. Our destination? The Warehouse

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1101950506799576512004-12-01T18:08:00.000-07:002004-12-01T18:34:02.180-07:00

I always liked Chuck. He was a good old country boy who loved to 'coon hunt. Being from the west I knew nothing about that kind of thing. Turns out its not really very sporting, as Chuck described it to me. Nor did it sound like much fun. First of all, you had to do it late at night. I like being up late at night, but traipsing around the forest in the cold doesn't sound like much fun to me.

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1101935514370679852004-12-01T14:07:00.000-07:002004-12-01T19:02:41.640-07:00

In her forward to the book Future Church, Sally Morganthaler wrote: Many of us launched our boats on the Mississippi of church growth in the past two decades. We dutifully set them afloat in the world of big and simple. We followed those who had built massive riverboats, along with the equally massive paddlewheels of programs to propel them. But the landscape shifted beneath our feet. From big

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1101550593930370592004-11-27T02:31:00.000-07:002004-11-30T11:15:55.586-07:00

You can find out a lot about a person by looking at his bookshelf, especially his cherished books. One such volume in my library is an old Bible which once belonged to Aunt Nora. Aunt Nora wasn't a blood relative, but as far back as I can remember she shared in all our family celebrations. When Nora died my grandmother saw to it that I was given her Bible. I noticed immediately that Nora was

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1101230489596686002004-11-23T09:52:00.000-07:002004-11-30T10:40:25.846-07:00

Even for adults it was a little embarrassing. When you're in church looking at missionary slides you're not too surprised to see a little exposed breast here and there. But when the guest speaker began to show the aboriginal men with their kotekas all of us guys got a little squeamish. "These kotekas are worn by the Dani and Yali tribes as a natural part of their wardrobe," the speaker intoned.

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1101006566271891202004-11-20T19:36:00.000-07:002004-12-01T23:18:01.533-07:00

I'm one of those drivers you hate to see on the road. Now don't be too critical; you're likely just as bad as me. I know it's not a race, but still, I'd rather lead than follow. Besides, I tell myself, the faster I go, the more quickly traffic behind me can travel. It's like the interminable traffic light. Don't you hate it when the line is so long that you only move forward once the light turns

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1100841450210500142004-11-18T21:26:00.000-07:002004-11-19T15:04:56.936-07:00

He was only six years old, but the stench was unbearable. How would I manage a two hour drive without gagging myself or embarrassing him? I'd already asked him if he had to go to the bathroom. "No, Daddy," he said. It was was true: he'd already gone -- in his pants. "Are you sure you're okay?" I asked, wanting to give him another chance to change his tune. "No, I'm fine." I didn't want to make

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1100152696720623082004-11-10T21:38:00.000-07:002004-11-10T23:15:37.173-07:00

Okay, I knew it would happen sometime. This post arises more from desperation than design: I write for my own sanity and sobriety. Please read with a grain of grace. In case you haven't noticed, there's a lot of crapola on the net. Virtually any deviant behavior you might want to see can be found with a few discreet taps of the mouse. Even good, well meaning people can find themselves doing some

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1099081584000359642004-10-29T13:21:00.000-07:002005-01-01T02:59:52.220-07:00

How she was caught is never revealed. But now that their illicit relationship served to advance the agenda of the religious elite, they were stalked and she was caught. Her accomplice? Mysteriously absent. Snatched from the arms of her lover, she stands terrified before a leering crowd. Her accusers grab stones. Tension drips like a muggy midwestern summer. How will the carpenter-turned-rabbi

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1098660750642942612004-10-24T15:58:00.000-07:002004-11-19T15:15:28.496-07:00

I call them "crusty christians." They drive me crazy. Just today I was talking with two of them after they visited our brand new church. They wondered if we were Calvinistic or Armenian. They wondered what we taught about alcohol. They wanted to know if we were "seeker-sensitive." They wondered why we didn't sing more songs "everybody knows." I did my best to be nice. I know all the stock

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8646890.post-1097297719759207002004-10-08T21:34:00.000-07:002004-11-09T18:24:03.316-07:00

The message was terse: My name, "Remove me from your email list," His name I guess something I wrote offended him. I haven't called or written back yet to find out for sure. I don't want either of us to say something we'll regret. So I'm stewing about it, and you, lucky reader, get to hear about it. What bugs me is this: I always stress over what I write. I craft words, worry about

Steve Gilbertsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15359491522130147152noreply@blogger.com0