I believe The Bible.
While there has been thousands of years between the actual writing of the last books, and many, many transcriptions of those words, the accuracy of those translations over those thousands of years is remarkable.
We know that, because archaeologists and brainiacs have, through the years, uncovered copies of original manuscripts that go back to within, in some cases, a hundred years of the original writing. And when they translated those copies, they found the current translations in use today were essentially accurate.
When the Dead Sea Scrolls were discovered in 1948, they found a large section of what turned out to be the book Isaiah. And again, when those scrolls were translated, they found very little correction needed to be made in modern translations. That's remarkable when you consider all the copying done of scripture over those thousands of years.
But while I believe The Bible, I certainly can't say I understand it all. Truthfully, I wouldn't expect to. If we're getting a glimpse into the mind of God, how can we expect to understand it all? If I only accept the parts I do understand, then what I'm saying is that I trust my own intellect over all else, making me god. And I know that ain't right.
However, I do believe some of the interpretations (different than translations) we've grown up on may not be exactly the way things actually happened. But I don't know.
That brings me to Jesus. And, of course Easter.
I had a friend tell me once that she didn't think Jesus' sacrifice was any big deal. "I mean,'' she said, "he was God, so he knew that he wouldn't die, that he'd be back. So how tough was that? If you knew you were going to go through great pain that would save the world but that you couldn't die, wouldn't you do that?"
And I understand how she came to that conclusion.
Indeed, one of the most difficult aspects of Jesus is this whole concept of "fully man, fully God." What does that mean? How can someone be both God and man at the same time? Was Jesus born knowing he was also God? Or did that realization come upon him as he lived and studied the Scripture (which we know, according to the Scripture, that he did) - reading Old Testament prophecy and somehow realizing that it was he (him?) that the Scripture was talking about?
Yes, what I'm saying is that what if this boy grows up, hearing stories of his birth - being made fun of by the locals who don't know who his father is but know it's not Joseph - and finding comfort in the OldTestament, where he somehow begins to see a picture of who he is.
If you or I did that, they'd call us crazy. As C. S. Lewis wrote in Mere Christianity, “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic-on a level with the man who says he is a poached egg-or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God: or else a madman or something worse.”
Indeed, at one point in his ministry, Jesus' own family came to have him committed - even his mother, Mary, who knew better than anyone who Jesus was.
Jesus did get confirmation at his baptism, when he heard - for the first time, as far as we know - his Father's voice speak to him. Imagine, if you will, growing up only hearing stories about your father, but never hearing from him until you're an adult. And how amazing that the first words you hear from your father would be, "This is my Son, in whom I am pleased!"
From that moment on, could Jesus have been looking for further confirmation from his father?
Again, if you or I acted this way, we'd be considered crazy, along the lines of people who think they are Napoleon or a brown squirrel. But if Jesus did indeed live a sinless life, if time after time he saw how his life did indeed fulfill Old Testament prophecy, if he found he did indeed have insight and some power that wasn't "normal,'' it would mean Jesus would be that one man who believed he was God and was actually correct. (Just like there was that one man who was, indeed, Napoleon, and there is such a thing as a brown squirrel).
It would take an awful lot of faith, however, to live that way - true to who you believe yourself to be, in the face of a world that says you're crazy.
And even as Jesus began to realize he was destined to die on the Cross - which he went to willingly after asking his Father if there was any way to avoid it - could Jesus have realized that upon his death, he would face the wrath of the Father that he'd never actually had any human contact with? That, in fact, the Father that Jesus longed to be united with would actually turn His back on him, rejecting him because on Jesus was placed the sin of the world? (remember Jesus' cry from the cross, "Why have you forsaken me?")
And, of course, the only human who had no sense of sin or guilt or shame was suddenly exposed to it, full blown. He didn't have a chance to learn it the way most of us do, with those little sins and guilts that we grow up with and slowly learn to accept. By the time we're adults, we (hopefully) hate our sin and are troubled by our guilt, but we've also got a lifetime history to help us deal with those feelings that Jesus didn't have.
I'm sorry, but I just don't accept that it could have, in any way, been "easy" to be Jesus.
But then again, I could be wrong.
Then again, it really doesn't matter if what Jesus did was easy or not. The point is, Jesus was the only one who could have done it - the only one who was without sin, who could take on the sins of the world because he had no sin of his own, who would be acceptable to restore the broken relationship between God and man.
I believe that.
Even if there are many parts that I don't fully understand.
A radio host in Atlanta, Erick Erickson, wrote this and I think it fits:
"Christ is for everyone, but not everyone wants him as he truly is. They want their Christ. Everyone, all of us, fall into that trap. But some refuse to recognize it and get out of it. They want their sin and their Jesus.
Over the next three days we remember the three days that have had a bigger impact on the history of mankind than any other.
You can deny that Christ was crucified, despite historic, secular sources that confirm the event. You can deny that Christ rose again from the dead.
What you cannot deny is that what so many treat as fact and others scorn as cheap, recycled myth has shaped art, science, culture, literature, and government more profoundly than any other event.
I personally have a hard time believing that any myth would be so powerful and so lasting. Today we remember Christ’s death. On Sunday, we remember He lives."
Friday, April 6, 2012
Wednesday, April 4, 2012
Easter: the Judas factor
It's Easter week, and in the midst of everything else that makes this week meaningful to Christians, I sometimes wonder about Judas.
Rightfully so, Judas is generally thought of as the villain of Easter. Now, we could get all theological and talk about how Adam's sin, or my sin and your sin, of just the appearance of sin in this world, required a sacrifice if the relationship between God and man could ever be restored, so Judas didn't send Jesus to the cross because we did.
But I don't want to get all theological. I can't think that way for very long. I tend to insert myself into stories to figure out how I'd feel if I were there.
Up until Easter week, was there any reason to think that, of all the disciples, Judas would be the one to sell-out Jesus to the authorities? After all, it was Peter who wound up denying Jesus (shortly after promising to identify with Him forever). It was Peter who said "If you really are the Christ ..." and to whom eventually Jesus would say, "Get behind me, Satan!"
Sometimes I think we forget that Judas must have been doing everything all the other disciples were doing. He was there in the boat when Jesus calmed the storm and walked on water; he was there handing out baskets of food at the feeding of the five thousand. When Jesus sent the disciples out to do miracles, Judas must have gone along and performed his share of miracles, too.
We know thousands of people followed Jesus, and that the disciples ministered to those thousands in very personal ways. So it is not far-fetched that - while people followed Jesus - they also connected very personally with individual disciples.
Some people may have identified with James and John, the "Sons of Thunder;" some would connect with Peter "The Rock;" others might relate to Matthew the Tax Man, or Thomas the Doubter, or Simon the Zealot (sounds like the tag lines for a series of trading cards).
Judas was the money keeper, so he had to have had a position of some trust and authority. When a certain woman came and poured the very expensive contents of an alabaster jar of perfume on Jesus head as an act of worship, Judas is known for being bothered by the gift of perfume because he saw the value of that "wasted" gift in terms of what it could have done for the poor. However, in every version of the story except John it says "the disciples" were bothered by this 'waste' - the suggestion being many, if not all, of the disciples.
And Jesus' answer is interesting in that He says not to criticize the gift because "... you will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me."
However, John singles out Judas in his Gospel, saying, "One of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected,. "Why wasn't this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year's wages." He (Judas) did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it." (John 12:4-6).
I wonder if John added that as he and the others looked back and asked themselves how Judas could have betrayed Jesus. Maybe John didn't want to admit other disciples were appalled by the act too. Maybe the disciples had suspected Judas all along of helping himself to the money.
Or maybe John recognized there was a little bit of Judas, the potential to be a "Judas,'' in all of them
Regardless, Judas was hardly the first - or last - "man of God" to dip into the church's coffers for personal gain.
I'm not trying to defend Judas.
Oh, I have always been curious about how someone who could have been so close to Jesus, seen what Judas saw, do what Judas must have done, could then turn on Jesus. When in college I was in a play in which I portrayed Judas. The little theatre group that put on this play wanted a really dramatic scene where Judas realizes what he's done and is consumed with guilt. They wanted some potentially dramatic speech by Judas before he throws the reward money away and goes off to hang himself, and asked me just to write it myself. And there is a scene in "Jesus Christ, Superstar" - I think it is, and I don't have time to research it to be honest - where Judas essentially blames Jesus and even turns the tables on Jesus, saying "You (Jesus) murdered me!" The implication that Jesus had to have someone betray Him in order to get to the cross and complete the mission, so Judas was a victim.
But again, I don't mean to get all theological here. It's a subject that requires more than I can do in this blog.
Truthfully, I believe Judas was like all of us - a creature of free will who was allowed to make his choices,. And he will be known forever for the choice that he made (as all of us will).
What I wonder about are the people ... those thousands that followed Jesus as various times ... those disciples of Jesus who were not part of the "twelve" but had been affected in a positive way by the ministry of not just Jesus but the disciples.
Imagine, if you will, being someone who was drawn into following Jesus by Judas; who used to sit and talk about 'the mission' from Judas' perspective and, not realizing he was a thief (as John tells us after the fact); people who perhaps even thought "I want to be like Judas."
That's natural, isn't it? I mean, we all want to be like Jesus. But we also see people who appear to be closer to being "like Jesus" than we are, who appear to have a relationship to Jesus that we long to have, who appear to have "it." And the truth is, we learn by copying, and it's easier to copy someone who appears to have overcome flaws rather than lived a perfect life as the Son of God.
I don't know about you, but I've been disappointed by people who I thought really were "walking like Christ" but turned out to be stealing from the church (some literally taking money and others simply betraying the trust that people in the church placed in them)
And, if I'm honest, I've probably disappointed people who may have looked to me (as foolish as I'd say that would be) to see how a Christian is supposed to live.
Maybe, in that sense, there are lot of Judases' running around - maybe even some in your church, in your pew ... in you.
Maybe it's just all the more reason to be aware of our shortcomings, to be aware of how easily we can not only be led astray but lead astray, and stay focused on ... the Cross.
The fact is, those early band of followers survived the embarrassment of having Judas in their midst. There may have been people who wondered, "Well, if Judas was like that, what about Peter? Or James? Or Andrew? Or ..."
And I wonder if the surviving disciples wondered how close any of them came to being a Judas, and if that fear drove them to the acts that followed after Jesus' resurrection and ascension.
The church has survived many "Judas'' moments in its history.
Perhaps the real key is how we survive our own "Judas" moments.
Thank God we have a forgiving God who allows us to survive those moments.
Thank God for the cross.
Rightfully so, Judas is generally thought of as the villain of Easter. Now, we could get all theological and talk about how Adam's sin, or my sin and your sin, of just the appearance of sin in this world, required a sacrifice if the relationship between God and man could ever be restored, so Judas didn't send Jesus to the cross because we did.
But I don't want to get all theological. I can't think that way for very long. I tend to insert myself into stories to figure out how I'd feel if I were there.
Up until Easter week, was there any reason to think that, of all the disciples, Judas would be the one to sell-out Jesus to the authorities? After all, it was Peter who wound up denying Jesus (shortly after promising to identify with Him forever). It was Peter who said "If you really are the Christ ..." and to whom eventually Jesus would say, "Get behind me, Satan!"
Sometimes I think we forget that Judas must have been doing everything all the other disciples were doing. He was there in the boat when Jesus calmed the storm and walked on water; he was there handing out baskets of food at the feeding of the five thousand. When Jesus sent the disciples out to do miracles, Judas must have gone along and performed his share of miracles, too.
We know thousands of people followed Jesus, and that the disciples ministered to those thousands in very personal ways. So it is not far-fetched that - while people followed Jesus - they also connected very personally with individual disciples.
Some people may have identified with James and John, the "Sons of Thunder;" some would connect with Peter "The Rock;" others might relate to Matthew the Tax Man, or Thomas the Doubter, or Simon the Zealot (sounds like the tag lines for a series of trading cards).
Judas was the money keeper, so he had to have had a position of some trust and authority. When a certain woman came and poured the very expensive contents of an alabaster jar of perfume on Jesus head as an act of worship, Judas is known for being bothered by the gift of perfume because he saw the value of that "wasted" gift in terms of what it could have done for the poor. However, in every version of the story except John it says "the disciples" were bothered by this 'waste' - the suggestion being many, if not all, of the disciples.
And Jesus' answer is interesting in that He says not to criticize the gift because "... you will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me."
However, John singles out Judas in his Gospel, saying, "One of his disciples, Judas Iscariot, who was later to betray him, objected,. "Why wasn't this perfume sold and the money given to the poor? It was worth a year's wages." He (Judas) did not say this because he cared about the poor but because he was a thief; as keeper of the money bag, he used to help himself to what was put into it." (John 12:4-6).
I wonder if John added that as he and the others looked back and asked themselves how Judas could have betrayed Jesus. Maybe John didn't want to admit other disciples were appalled by the act too. Maybe the disciples had suspected Judas all along of helping himself to the money.
Or maybe John recognized there was a little bit of Judas, the potential to be a "Judas,'' in all of them
Regardless, Judas was hardly the first - or last - "man of God" to dip into the church's coffers for personal gain.
I'm not trying to defend Judas.
Oh, I have always been curious about how someone who could have been so close to Jesus, seen what Judas saw, do what Judas must have done, could then turn on Jesus. When in college I was in a play in which I portrayed Judas. The little theatre group that put on this play wanted a really dramatic scene where Judas realizes what he's done and is consumed with guilt. They wanted some potentially dramatic speech by Judas before he throws the reward money away and goes off to hang himself, and asked me just to write it myself. And there is a scene in "Jesus Christ, Superstar" - I think it is, and I don't have time to research it to be honest - where Judas essentially blames Jesus and even turns the tables on Jesus, saying "You (Jesus) murdered me!" The implication that Jesus had to have someone betray Him in order to get to the cross and complete the mission, so Judas was a victim.
But again, I don't mean to get all theological here. It's a subject that requires more than I can do in this blog.
Truthfully, I believe Judas was like all of us - a creature of free will who was allowed to make his choices,. And he will be known forever for the choice that he made (as all of us will).
What I wonder about are the people ... those thousands that followed Jesus as various times ... those disciples of Jesus who were not part of the "twelve" but had been affected in a positive way by the ministry of not just Jesus but the disciples.
Imagine, if you will, being someone who was drawn into following Jesus by Judas; who used to sit and talk about 'the mission' from Judas' perspective and, not realizing he was a thief (as John tells us after the fact); people who perhaps even thought "I want to be like Judas."
That's natural, isn't it? I mean, we all want to be like Jesus. But we also see people who appear to be closer to being "like Jesus" than we are, who appear to have a relationship to Jesus that we long to have, who appear to have "it." And the truth is, we learn by copying, and it's easier to copy someone who appears to have overcome flaws rather than lived a perfect life as the Son of God.
I don't know about you, but I've been disappointed by people who I thought really were "walking like Christ" but turned out to be stealing from the church (some literally taking money and others simply betraying the trust that people in the church placed in them)
And, if I'm honest, I've probably disappointed people who may have looked to me (as foolish as I'd say that would be) to see how a Christian is supposed to live.
Maybe, in that sense, there are lot of Judases' running around - maybe even some in your church, in your pew ... in you.
Maybe it's just all the more reason to be aware of our shortcomings, to be aware of how easily we can not only be led astray but lead astray, and stay focused on ... the Cross.
The fact is, those early band of followers survived the embarrassment of having Judas in their midst. There may have been people who wondered, "Well, if Judas was like that, what about Peter? Or James? Or Andrew? Or ..."
And I wonder if the surviving disciples wondered how close any of them came to being a Judas, and if that fear drove them to the acts that followed after Jesus' resurrection and ascension.
The church has survived many "Judas'' moments in its history.
Perhaps the real key is how we survive our own "Judas" moments.
Thank God we have a forgiving God who allows us to survive those moments.
Thank God for the cross.
Monday, April 2, 2012
It's Saturday, and Jesus is ...
Dead.
OK, let's back up a minute.
It's Easter Week in the Christian tradition. We had a thoughtful sermon on Palm Sunday, in which the preacher talked about something I've often thought a lot about: Saturday.
Think about the two major events of Easter week: on Friday, Jesus is crucified; on Sunday, he's risen from the dead.
Imagine the followers of Jesus on that weekend. On Friday, their hopes and dreams die on a cross. Perhaps they remember Jesus saying he'd rise from the dead, but do they really believe it? Oh, they may hope it's true, but do they really believe?
So now they sit and wonder if all the promises they believed were real or just lies.
That's Saturday.
In a sense, all Christians are currently living in Saturday. We believe Jesus was who He said He was (the Son of God), that he lived and died and rose again - and someday He's coming back!
So we wait.
Those first followers hid. There aren't a whole lot of verses of what happened in between Friday and Saturday, but we know Peter denied knowing Jesus, that they rest of them fled and hid behind locked doors, afraid to come out.
I can relate. I'm ashamed to say there was one time, in particular, when I denied knowing Jesus. It shames me to this day.
And there have been times when, as a Christian, I was living in such a way as to not be found out; locking my doors so to speak.
Years ago, I read Foxe's Book of Martyrs. It's both an inspiring book and a depressing book, in the sense that it's inspiring to read about the commitment and unwavering devotion of some very common people who lived like, well, saints; and depressing in the sense that I don't know that I have the courage or strength to do the same. I don't do well with torture.
As a kid I grew up hearing stories of great "heroes of the Faith,'' people who sacrificed it all for their call. People who went to India and Africa and the most remote jungles of South America; people who faced down demons and drug lords and headhunters.
In my little Southern church. the biggest threats to our faith were over zealous legalistic Christians who condemned boys with long hair and listened to rock music and went to movies.
It was tough to be a "hero of the faith'' when the people you most feared were the people who were supposed to be the examples of what the Christian life was supposed to be. Sad to say, sometimes it's hardest to be a Christian when faced with the threat of judgement from other Christians.
When I was younger, deep down I secretly dreamed of being put in a position to give my life for Christ. I could see myself being arrested in some future country by the authorities who order me to renounce my faith or die; I choose death, of course, but I'm allowed to speak my last words and so I boldly and loudly recite the 23rd Psalm or the Apostles Creed or John 3:16. And while the firing squad still kills me, my last words so move people who witnessed my execution (it's televised, of course) that it causes them to rethink their own lives, to become Christians, and one day they bring their children and grandchildren to the place where I was martyred and they say, "See? Here's where Ray died" and they'd have their pictures taken and leave heartfelt notes and flowers in my memory.
Of course, most of us will never (thankfully, I must admit now) be asked to make that big sacrifice; to - as I heard it described once - "cash that big check. Instead, most of us cash checks for $1.23 or for 87 cents or maybe every now and then one for 11 or 12 dollars."
But then, that's really what life is like for most of us, isn't it? We're living here in Saturday, looking back at Friday and what we know happened while looking forward to Sunday and what we believe will happen.
There's an interesting verse at the end of Matthew, the 17th verse of the 20-verse 28th and last chapter of the book. Jesus has been crucified and risen. the disciples have been lured out of hiding, and come to the mountain where Jesus told them to go, where they'd see Jesus. And the verse says, "And when they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted."
Amazing, isn't it? They saw him, they worshipped him, and yet there still remained some doubt.
That's what Saturday is all about. We worship, even as we wait. And as we wait, sometimes we wonder.
It's Saturday. Sometimes it feels like Jesus is never coming back.
The waiting is always the hardest part.
That's what I think about every Easter: the wait.
.
OK, let's back up a minute.
It's Easter Week in the Christian tradition. We had a thoughtful sermon on Palm Sunday, in which the preacher talked about something I've often thought a lot about: Saturday.
Think about the two major events of Easter week: on Friday, Jesus is crucified; on Sunday, he's risen from the dead.
Imagine the followers of Jesus on that weekend. On Friday, their hopes and dreams die on a cross. Perhaps they remember Jesus saying he'd rise from the dead, but do they really believe it? Oh, they may hope it's true, but do they really believe?
So now they sit and wonder if all the promises they believed were real or just lies.
That's Saturday.
In a sense, all Christians are currently living in Saturday. We believe Jesus was who He said He was (the Son of God), that he lived and died and rose again - and someday He's coming back!
So we wait.
Those first followers hid. There aren't a whole lot of verses of what happened in between Friday and Saturday, but we know Peter denied knowing Jesus, that they rest of them fled and hid behind locked doors, afraid to come out.
I can relate. I'm ashamed to say there was one time, in particular, when I denied knowing Jesus. It shames me to this day.
And there have been times when, as a Christian, I was living in such a way as to not be found out; locking my doors so to speak.
Years ago, I read Foxe's Book of Martyrs. It's both an inspiring book and a depressing book, in the sense that it's inspiring to read about the commitment and unwavering devotion of some very common people who lived like, well, saints; and depressing in the sense that I don't know that I have the courage or strength to do the same. I don't do well with torture.
As a kid I grew up hearing stories of great "heroes of the Faith,'' people who sacrificed it all for their call. People who went to India and Africa and the most remote jungles of South America; people who faced down demons and drug lords and headhunters.
In my little Southern church. the biggest threats to our faith were over zealous legalistic Christians who condemned boys with long hair and listened to rock music and went to movies.
It was tough to be a "hero of the faith'' when the people you most feared were the people who were supposed to be the examples of what the Christian life was supposed to be. Sad to say, sometimes it's hardest to be a Christian when faced with the threat of judgement from other Christians.
When I was younger, deep down I secretly dreamed of being put in a position to give my life for Christ. I could see myself being arrested in some future country by the authorities who order me to renounce my faith or die; I choose death, of course, but I'm allowed to speak my last words and so I boldly and loudly recite the 23rd Psalm or the Apostles Creed or John 3:16. And while the firing squad still kills me, my last words so move people who witnessed my execution (it's televised, of course) that it causes them to rethink their own lives, to become Christians, and one day they bring their children and grandchildren to the place where I was martyred and they say, "See? Here's where Ray died" and they'd have their pictures taken and leave heartfelt notes and flowers in my memory.
Of course, most of us will never (thankfully, I must admit now) be asked to make that big sacrifice; to - as I heard it described once - "cash that big check. Instead, most of us cash checks for $1.23 or for 87 cents or maybe every now and then one for 11 or 12 dollars."
But then, that's really what life is like for most of us, isn't it? We're living here in Saturday, looking back at Friday and what we know happened while looking forward to Sunday and what we believe will happen.
There's an interesting verse at the end of Matthew, the 17th verse of the 20-verse 28th and last chapter of the book. Jesus has been crucified and risen. the disciples have been lured out of hiding, and come to the mountain where Jesus told them to go, where they'd see Jesus. And the verse says, "And when they saw him, they worshipped him; but some doubted."
Amazing, isn't it? They saw him, they worshipped him, and yet there still remained some doubt.
That's what Saturday is all about. We worship, even as we wait. And as we wait, sometimes we wonder.
It's Saturday. Sometimes it feels like Jesus is never coming back.
The waiting is always the hardest part.
That's what I think about every Easter: the wait.
.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Chemistry and alphabet soup
As I continue this trek through the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting (read previous thoughts here) I couldn't help but think about Baskin Robbins.
I can remember going to Baskin Robbins ice cream when I was a kid and marveling at the huge array of ice cream options. They were constantly changing, and some of the names were unrecognizable with any known flavor of ice cream.
We used to joke that you could walk into a Baskin Robbins and utter any three words in the human language - "Rock, Paper, Scissors" or "Asphalt, Shoeleather, Feathers" and they'd give you three scoops and send you on your way.
Maybe a better analogy for today would be Ben&Jerry's.
The same thought hit me today while listening to chemist and researcher after chemist and researcher at this national meeting.
They use a lot of words that I've never heard. "Cowellia'' is not a county in Georgia. Oceanosyphologia - and don't hold me to the spelling of that one - is not a communicable disease you get from swimming in salt water. Heptones are not a music group; alkines and hopanes and terpaines and Chromatographic fractions are not ... well, I don't even know what those things are, much less what they are not.
We use a lot of acronyms in all of our businesses, and certainly that's true in what I do now with the world of energy - "AOR" and "SOMs" and "IMT" and on and on.
But the truth is, I'm convinced you could stand up in front of a bunch of chemists and link any three letters of the alphabet and hit on some chemical combination and they'd be nodding their head in complete understanding.
"PAH" and "ESI" and "DBE" and formulas like "C4C>C3C>C2C>C1C" and ESI FT-ICR MS make perfect sense to these folks.
And then, after hearing these litanies of letters and letter-number mix formulas, they all start to asking questions about consistency of Y axis on the graph and ... well, about the only thing I do understand is these guys treat graduate assistants like they are pledges in a fraternity. They joke about "that's a job for a grad student" or "we almost lost a guy on that, which is why we have grad students do these kind of things.''
There was one funny moment, however. The conversation in this room is all research done about the Gulf of Mexico after the Deepwater Horizon incident. At one point, one of the scientists asked if, given the apparent obvious resiliency of the Gulf ecology, that oil companies should focus its efforts in drilling in areas like the Gulf of Mexico.
One actual oil scientist laughed and said, "I can tell you that oil companies' decisions on where to drill will be determined by where they think they can find substantial amounts of oil and gas."
The response was, "It sure would help things if you guys would drill where there wasn't any oil."
And the oil guy responded, "That happens. Unfortunately, you don't stay in business very long when you do that."
So occasionally the conversation does get to a practical level that I can understand.
And we all LOL.
I can remember going to Baskin Robbins ice cream when I was a kid and marveling at the huge array of ice cream options. They were constantly changing, and some of the names were unrecognizable with any known flavor of ice cream.
We used to joke that you could walk into a Baskin Robbins and utter any three words in the human language - "Rock, Paper, Scissors" or "Asphalt, Shoeleather, Feathers" and they'd give you three scoops and send you on your way.
Maybe a better analogy for today would be Ben&Jerry's.
The same thought hit me today while listening to chemist and researcher after chemist and researcher at this national meeting.
They use a lot of words that I've never heard. "Cowellia'' is not a county in Georgia. Oceanosyphologia - and don't hold me to the spelling of that one - is not a communicable disease you get from swimming in salt water. Heptones are not a music group; alkines and hopanes and terpaines and Chromatographic fractions are not ... well, I don't even know what those things are, much less what they are not.
We use a lot of acronyms in all of our businesses, and certainly that's true in what I do now with the world of energy - "AOR" and "SOMs" and "IMT" and on and on.
But the truth is, I'm convinced you could stand up in front of a bunch of chemists and link any three letters of the alphabet and hit on some chemical combination and they'd be nodding their head in complete understanding.
"PAH" and "ESI" and "DBE" and formulas like "C4C>C3C>C2C>C1C" and ESI FT-ICR MS make perfect sense to these folks.
And then, after hearing these litanies of letters and letter-number mix formulas, they all start to asking questions about consistency of Y axis on the graph and ... well, about the only thing I do understand is these guys treat graduate assistants like they are pledges in a fraternity. They joke about "that's a job for a grad student" or "we almost lost a guy on that, which is why we have grad students do these kind of things.''
There was one funny moment, however. The conversation in this room is all research done about the Gulf of Mexico after the Deepwater Horizon incident. At one point, one of the scientists asked if, given the apparent obvious resiliency of the Gulf ecology, that oil companies should focus its efforts in drilling in areas like the Gulf of Mexico.
One actual oil scientist laughed and said, "I can tell you that oil companies' decisions on where to drill will be determined by where they think they can find substantial amounts of oil and gas."
The response was, "It sure would help things if you guys would drill where there wasn't any oil."
And the oil guy responded, "That happens. Unfortunately, you don't stay in business very long when you do that."
So occasionally the conversation does get to a practical level that I can understand.
And we all LOL.
Tuesday, March 27, 2012
Revenge of the Nerds
I keep wondering if Mr. Jabbar would be proud.
This week I'm in San Diego, attending the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting and Exhibition. That number - 243 - is kind of hard to believe. If this is an annual event, it means they've been holding these things somewhere since 1769.
What is less impressive is that is about the only number I've understood in two days of attending seminars, listening to topics like "Biodegradation of armoatic and saturated hydrocarbons associated with oil in the water column" and "Chemical characterization and acute toxicity of water accommodated fractions from artificially weathered and field weathered MC252 oils."
I've never heard so much and understood so little.
But there is whimsy. I'm sorry to say I missed the presentation on "Lost in Translation: Why Lies, Metaphors, and Mixed Messages are Essential to Communicating Science."
I also missed "The Disappearing Spoon and Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and History from the Periodic Table."
Which brings me back to Mr. Jabbar.
The last science class I have any memory of taking was 10th Grade Chemistry, under Mr. Jabbar. The reason I have such fond memories of this class is that occasionally Mr. Jabbar allowed me to take him down a rabbit trail that had nothing to do with chemistry. He always had a quote from some philosopher on the blackboard - usually Kahlil Gibran (who, as it turns out, was not related to former Chicago Bears coach Abe Gibron, much to my dismay) - and, being a know-it-all, I would engage him in a discussion of whatever saying he posted, particularly if I could find reason to disagree with it.
Another interesting thing about Mr. Jabbar was that he was of Arabic descent, and (this being the early 1970s, not long after the 1967 Six Day War) another favorite topic between us was Palestine, and the conflict between the Arabs and Israel. He was the first person I'd ever met who argued for the Arabs.
Needless to say, I enjoyed chemistry on those days. So, apparently, did many of my classmates who - needing to catch up on homework or take a nap- would sometimes ask me to get Mr. Jabbar distracted with "one of those stupid discussions'' so they could get a break.
I didn't learn much chemistry. In fact, one day Mr. Jabbar asked me to hang around for a minute after class. It turns out he was worried about one of my friends who was also in that same class. Mr. Jabbar wanted me to encourage my friend, who was not doing very well in this class.
I remember saying to Mr. Jabbar, "Him? I'm not doing very well in this either!"
To which Mr. Jabbar replied with something I remember to this day. He said, "Ray, you're going to pass. You don't need to know chemistry because you're going to do all right in whatever you do. But (friend) doesn't have much going for him and he needs all the help he can get."
That says something about the people I hung around with, doesn't it?
Now maybe, in retrospect, that wasn't being a very good teacher. I can already hear parents screaming.
However, I appreciated that a teacher recognized my gifts were not in science and math but that I might be good in other areas, and that science and math were just boxes I had to check in order to get on to whatever I was going to do. He was affirming the fact that I was going to get my check mark, and that I needed to really pursue the other areas where I had some measure of ability.
Needless to say, my academic history is significant in my ability to navigate to a college degree and some graduate school while taking the absolute minimum of math and science. At the University of Georgia, I once stupidly signed up for a course in "logic,'' convinced this would be a fun course filled with discussing great ideas. Turns out it was a bunch of mathematical formulas, and after the second class I was down at 'drop-add' doing just that.
But back to today: this is a huge convention. It fills the San Diego Convention Center and several surrounded hotels. Even the reporters covering this stuff are smart - I got a card today from a reporter from "Chemical and Engineering News" who has a Ph.D. I never came across one of those in 25 years of covering sports.
I did engage this one major geek in a sports conversation, and even these guys do sports differently. He told me he and his wife decided to run marathons as a way to travel and see the world. So six months after they started, they were running marathons.
But not normal marathons. Apparently, there is this marathon in France through the wine country, and at every mile there is a table filled with shots of the local wine. All the marathoners stop and take a quick hit before continuing their run.
Yes, he said he was very dehydrated at the end of the marathon. In fact, he couldn't remember crossing the finish line.
They've inspired me, however. Next year, I'm presenting a paper on the "Degrading Properties of Ground Water."
You know - ground water; water that's passed through the turbines of a dam. My theory is that once it's passed through the turbines and been ground up, it's no longer any good for producing electricity, which is why you can't have multiple dams on a given river.
I need a co-author.
I wonder if Mr. Jabbar is still around?
This week I'm in San Diego, attending the 243rd American Chemical Society National Meeting and Exhibition. That number - 243 - is kind of hard to believe. If this is an annual event, it means they've been holding these things somewhere since 1769.
What is less impressive is that is about the only number I've understood in two days of attending seminars, listening to topics like "Biodegradation of armoatic and saturated hydrocarbons associated with oil in the water column" and "Chemical characterization and acute toxicity of water accommodated fractions from artificially weathered and field weathered MC252 oils."
I've never heard so much and understood so little.
But there is whimsy. I'm sorry to say I missed the presentation on "Lost in Translation: Why Lies, Metaphors, and Mixed Messages are Essential to Communicating Science."
I also missed "The Disappearing Spoon and Other True Tales of Madness, Love, and History from the Periodic Table."
Which brings me back to Mr. Jabbar.
The last science class I have any memory of taking was 10th Grade Chemistry, under Mr. Jabbar. The reason I have such fond memories of this class is that occasionally Mr. Jabbar allowed me to take him down a rabbit trail that had nothing to do with chemistry. He always had a quote from some philosopher on the blackboard - usually Kahlil Gibran (who, as it turns out, was not related to former Chicago Bears coach Abe Gibron, much to my dismay) - and, being a know-it-all, I would engage him in a discussion of whatever saying he posted, particularly if I could find reason to disagree with it.
Another interesting thing about Mr. Jabbar was that he was of Arabic descent, and (this being the early 1970s, not long after the 1967 Six Day War) another favorite topic between us was Palestine, and the conflict between the Arabs and Israel. He was the first person I'd ever met who argued for the Arabs.
Needless to say, I enjoyed chemistry on those days. So, apparently, did many of my classmates who - needing to catch up on homework or take a nap- would sometimes ask me to get Mr. Jabbar distracted with "one of those stupid discussions'' so they could get a break.
I didn't learn much chemistry. In fact, one day Mr. Jabbar asked me to hang around for a minute after class. It turns out he was worried about one of my friends who was also in that same class. Mr. Jabbar wanted me to encourage my friend, who was not doing very well in this class.
I remember saying to Mr. Jabbar, "Him? I'm not doing very well in this either!"
To which Mr. Jabbar replied with something I remember to this day. He said, "Ray, you're going to pass. You don't need to know chemistry because you're going to do all right in whatever you do. But (friend) doesn't have much going for him and he needs all the help he can get."
That says something about the people I hung around with, doesn't it?
Now maybe, in retrospect, that wasn't being a very good teacher. I can already hear parents screaming.
However, I appreciated that a teacher recognized my gifts were not in science and math but that I might be good in other areas, and that science and math were just boxes I had to check in order to get on to whatever I was going to do. He was affirming the fact that I was going to get my check mark, and that I needed to really pursue the other areas where I had some measure of ability.
Needless to say, my academic history is significant in my ability to navigate to a college degree and some graduate school while taking the absolute minimum of math and science. At the University of Georgia, I once stupidly signed up for a course in "logic,'' convinced this would be a fun course filled with discussing great ideas. Turns out it was a bunch of mathematical formulas, and after the second class I was down at 'drop-add' doing just that.
But back to today: this is a huge convention. It fills the San Diego Convention Center and several surrounded hotels. Even the reporters covering this stuff are smart - I got a card today from a reporter from "Chemical and Engineering News" who has a Ph.D. I never came across one of those in 25 years of covering sports.
I did engage this one major geek in a sports conversation, and even these guys do sports differently. He told me he and his wife decided to run marathons as a way to travel and see the world. So six months after they started, they were running marathons.
But not normal marathons. Apparently, there is this marathon in France through the wine country, and at every mile there is a table filled with shots of the local wine. All the marathoners stop and take a quick hit before continuing their run.
Yes, he said he was very dehydrated at the end of the marathon. In fact, he couldn't remember crossing the finish line.
They've inspired me, however. Next year, I'm presenting a paper on the "Degrading Properties of Ground Water."
You know - ground water; water that's passed through the turbines of a dam. My theory is that once it's passed through the turbines and been ground up, it's no longer any good for producing electricity, which is why you can't have multiple dams on a given river.
I need a co-author.
I wonder if Mr. Jabbar is still around?
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Surrounding myself with much smarter people
My time here in exile has been interesting.
By "exile" I mean working in a different city than my family lives in. Don't get me wrong - I love the job, the people I work with, even working here in Mississippi.
During the week I'm in Mississippi, and on weekends - usually - I go home to Birmingham to see The Trophy Wife and The Young Prince.
But during the week, at night, it's just me.
The solitude in the evening has been helpful. It has allowed me time to think, to read, to learn. Above all, to read.
I have lived in two different places here along the coast, and both have been very close to public libraries. Currently I live almost directly across the street from the Gulfport library (next to a McDonald's and a Sonic). It has allowed me to get many books, books of different genre, fiction and non-fiction, essays, whatever. It has taken me awhile to realize I can check out a book and, if I don't like it, don't finish it. You wouldn't believe what a relief that is, because all my life I've always felt compelled to finish a book once I start it.
I find that in reading, I become more self-analytical. Books - all books - add perspective by making me think, prompting my mind to go places where it would not go on its own, unprompted. Books provide valuable insight, reminding us how all of us are different and yet very much alike.
I read somewhere that "Doubtless no man or woman has ever had any experience in life so unique that someone has not been there before." Likewise, I don't think there is a book I've read or a person I've met that hasn't had something worth knowing, if I've only taken the time to "read" (or listen, or ask).
Unexpected revelations occur when you least expect it. C.S. Lewis called it being "surprised by joy,'' those moments when you are overcome by such a wonderful feeling, yet you're not sure why. It's a moment that just feels ... right.
I consider reading the same as surrounding myself with really smart people. I don't always agree with them; some of them change my mind and some don't. Some I've really liked when I first "met" them, then the more I read the more I grow tired of them.
But all of them impact me.
One of the things I do is dog-ear pages where I read something that just seems profound. Like:
"Many of our sorrows can be traced to relationships with the wrong people."
"If a coach cannot stretch an athlete to a higher level, then there is really no need for a coach."
"When faced with a decision, many people say they are waiting for God. But I understand, in many cases, God is waiting for me!''
"Socialism is the end of all invention; it is the happy face of slavery. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by compelling each other to live as seems good to the rest."
"Develop the power to ignore what is popular and do what is right."
"Never forget that unjust criticism has no impact whatsoever upon the truth."
"Avoid lazy people. They will only frustrate you, and eventually drag you down."
I keep these - and many more like them - thinking one day I'll use them.
I guess I just did.
By "exile" I mean working in a different city than my family lives in. Don't get me wrong - I love the job, the people I work with, even working here in Mississippi.
During the week I'm in Mississippi, and on weekends - usually - I go home to Birmingham to see The Trophy Wife and The Young Prince.
But during the week, at night, it's just me.
The solitude in the evening has been helpful. It has allowed me time to think, to read, to learn. Above all, to read.
I have lived in two different places here along the coast, and both have been very close to public libraries. Currently I live almost directly across the street from the Gulfport library (next to a McDonald's and a Sonic). It has allowed me to get many books, books of different genre, fiction and non-fiction, essays, whatever. It has taken me awhile to realize I can check out a book and, if I don't like it, don't finish it. You wouldn't believe what a relief that is, because all my life I've always felt compelled to finish a book once I start it.
I find that in reading, I become more self-analytical. Books - all books - add perspective by making me think, prompting my mind to go places where it would not go on its own, unprompted. Books provide valuable insight, reminding us how all of us are different and yet very much alike.
I read somewhere that "Doubtless no man or woman has ever had any experience in life so unique that someone has not been there before." Likewise, I don't think there is a book I've read or a person I've met that hasn't had something worth knowing, if I've only taken the time to "read" (or listen, or ask).
Unexpected revelations occur when you least expect it. C.S. Lewis called it being "surprised by joy,'' those moments when you are overcome by such a wonderful feeling, yet you're not sure why. It's a moment that just feels ... right.
I consider reading the same as surrounding myself with really smart people. I don't always agree with them; some of them change my mind and some don't. Some I've really liked when I first "met" them, then the more I read the more I grow tired of them.
But all of them impact me.
One of the things I do is dog-ear pages where I read something that just seems profound. Like:
"Many of our sorrows can be traced to relationships with the wrong people."
"If a coach cannot stretch an athlete to a higher level, then there is really no need for a coach."
"When faced with a decision, many people say they are waiting for God. But I understand, in many cases, God is waiting for me!''
"Socialism is the end of all invention; it is the happy face of slavery. Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves than by compelling each other to live as seems good to the rest."
"Develop the power to ignore what is popular and do what is right."
"Never forget that unjust criticism has no impact whatsoever upon the truth."
"Avoid lazy people. They will only frustrate you, and eventually drag you down."
I keep these - and many more like them - thinking one day I'll use them.
I guess I just did.
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Desperado: the great Panama City raid of 1970
I was writing a post about praying when I hear a siren, and it reminded me of the first time I ever rode in the back of a police squad car.
Now, that raises questions, I know. Why was I riding in the back of a squad car? And perhaps more importantly, by saying "first time" it implies there were others.
There were.
But this first time was in Panama City when I was in high school. But this wasn't some gang of ruthless juveniles out tearing up the town, or some drunken brawl on the beach, or any of the "usual" activities that wind up with someone riding in the back of a police cruiser. Oh, my life was never that ordinary.
For one, I was with a bunch of guys from my church, including the youth minister from the church.
For another, it was the dead of winter, a time when nobody - back then - when to Panama City.
(By the way, when I was a kid and I heard about friends who went to Panama City, I thought they were going to the country of Panama. I couldn't figure out how all these people from my neighborhood could afford to just up and take off to Central America for a weekend - much less why they would want to. Needless to say, when I finally learned Panama City was in the Florida panhandle, it all made a lot more sense - and a sense of embarrassment).
Going to the beach in the dead of winter was an economic decision. The kids from the north side of Atlanta - the 'rich kids' - went to the mountains for their winter retreats, and the beach for the summer. But those of us from the south side - the 'not rich kids' - learned to take advantage of off-season rates.
So we'd have these youth retreats in Gatlinburg, Tenn., in the summer, and go to the sandy white beaches of the Florida panhandle in the dead of winter. And we had great times.
But I digress ...
This one time, Dan, our youth minister, arranged for a 'guys only' weekend trip to Panama City. Dan was a great youth director, and the things we did - in retrospect - were things that if our parents had known or, certainly, Dan's bosses at the church, probably would have gotten him fired.
Like riding on the top of the big yellow church bus, holding on to the luggage rack, while rolling through downtown Panama City, dodging the traffic lights as they whizzed by our heads. What the heck were we - and Dan, our 'adult' chaperon - thinking?
Or being left in downtown Atlanta at Fulton-County Stadium after a Braves' game, because some of us refused to leave early and said we'd walk home. (We had a plan. It would have involved walking south on I-85/75 for only a few miles - I didn't say it was a good plan - to an exit where a trucking company that a friend of my family managed, where we'd call for a ride home. However, things always had a way of working out for Dan. He came back for us, and found us in the midst of all the post-game traffic right outside the stadium. Dan could find a needle in a haystack in those days).
Anyway, in Panama city, we'd stay in some near deserted Holiday Inn and, yes, we'd have Bible studies and serious times of discussion about the Bible and what it meant to follow Christ. You'd have to have known Dan to understand how he did it, but it worked.
And then we'd go off and play games - football on the beach in the freezing cold, or at night something we called "Fox and Hounds."
In "Fox and Hounds," you divided into two teams. One team went out in the night along the beach to hide, and the other team went out to capture them.
Look, we didn't have video games or laser tag or high tech stuff. We actually had to go out and do stuff like this to stay engaged.
What made Panama City so much fun was that about half the beach-side motels would close in the winter, and we'd run through them, hiding or hunting the other guys.
OK, it sounds kind of lame, now that I think about it.
Unfortunately, sometimes the motels weren't closed, completely, for the winter. Even if they looked like it.
Anyway, it was late, and a couple of us were walking along, kind of casually looking for the other guys but mostly just talking, when we saw this group of three men and one boy standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot of this old motel that looked closed, but obviously wasn't.
The kid we recognized as one of the younger guys from our church; one of the men was talking at a pay phone in the parking lot, while another man was pointing a spear gun at our friend.
As dumb as I had once been about the location of Panama City, by this time I was a little smarter and quickly realized something was not right (Doh!) . So the guys - me and Keeve and I don't know who else - came into the courtyard to see what was going on.
The guy with the spear gun saw us and turned it on me. "Don't come any closer,'' he said. "We've called the police."
The other guys with me stopped, but I kept walking. I don't know - I guess I just didn't think he'd pull the trigger.
Fortunately, he didn't.
"Hey," I said. "that's Danny (not his real name; I remember his name, but there's no point dragging some guy into this story without his permission). He's with us."
And I proceeded to tell the guys that we were with a church group, down on the coast for a youth retreat, and we were out playing "Fox and Hounds'' on the beach, and that "Danny" was not supposed to go up into the motels (at least not if he was going to get caught). While I'm talking, a handful more of our guys strolled up to gather round, standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot next to a pay phone and a swimming pool that was covered for the winter.
"I never heard of a church group like that!" the guy said, and I have to admit, in retrospect, he was right. (This was before the days of David Koresh and "church groups'' that holed up in compounds with heavy artillery).
While I was explaining everything, these two squad cars came flying into the parking lot, probably happy to be able to respond to something during what was the off-season for tourism and, therefore, the off-season for trouble.
This started a whole new round of explanations: the guys who ran the motel told the police what was going on, and I - why I was the spokesman, I don't know, but I guess I've always been the talker - tried to explain what we were doing was harmless fun. (Unless, I suppose, you were managing a supposedly empty motel and a bunch of teenage guys were running around, ducking and hiding).
So the police load us up into the back of their squad cars.
There were four of us in the backseat of one car - Me, my buddy Keeve, a guy I'll call Jeff, and another guy I'll call Steve (because, again, what's the point in using real names without permission? These guys know who they are.)
The squad car was the real deal. I'd never been in one before, but I'd heard about them. Sure enough, there were no handles on the inside of the back doors, so you couldn't open the doors form the inside. There was the metal screen separating the back from the front. A shotgun was hung across the opposite side of the metal screen.
The policeman pulls out, taking us - well, we weren't sure where, until he called in got on the radio.
We're kind of talking and still trying to explain what was going on to the policeman, and suddenly Steve - who has been real quiet the whole time - says in a real serious voice that sounded like he was about to cry, "Guys, I think we should pray," and he bowed his head.
I'm ashamed to admit the rest of us laughed out loud.
At that point, the policeman got his dispatcher at headquarters and said, "This is Unit (whatever), and I'm transporting four juveniles back to the Holiday Inn."
That's when this guy I'm calling Jeff said with some force, "I'm 18; I'm not a juvenile!"
We all froze. Steve bowed his head even more. Keeve and I just looked at each other in horror.
And the policeman said, "Shut up, son. Tonight you're a juvenile - unless you want to go downtown to get booked."
"Jeff,'' I said. "Shut up, man. We're going back to the motel!"
"But I'm not a juvenile!" Jeff said.
I think Keeve punched him in the ribs at that point. Jeff shut up.
Turns out, the policeman was pretty cool. He raced back down the highway and took us back to the Holiday Inn where, as we got out, he said, "Look, it's late. You guys are going back to your rooms, right? You're in for the night, right? And, look - have a good time, but understand some of these guys who manage these motels can be pretty nervous in the winter. Stay off private property, ok?"
Needless to say, we agreed. The other car pulled in right behind with the other guys, and we all went back to our rooms.
Where we found Dan.
By this time we were laughing and having a great time, retelling the adventure, full of bravado because nobody wanted to admit to being scared, and couldn't wait to tell Dan.
But much to our surprise, Dan - who did indeed look a bit shaken - told us, "I know. I was watching the whole thing. I was in the sand dunes and saw what was going on."
"Why didn't you come over and help us?" I remember asking.
"When I saw the police cars, I was afraid they were taking you guys in,'' he said. "I knew someone was going to have to come down to the station to get you out. And I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the church."
I can't speak for the rest of the guys, but I was stunned that Dan had watched the whole thing and not come out of hiding to help us out. At the time, I thought it was cowardice on his part.
Later, I realized he was probably thinking about losing his job, which could have been the end of his ministry, his reputation as a youth pastor. Heck, again in retrospect, he probably should have been fired.
But we loved him.
And it was a different time.
And it was a good time.
For me, it was the first time in the back of a police car.
Maybe some day I'll write about the others.
Sidebar: we went back to Panama City again. And again, while running through what we thought was a deserted motel (nobody said we were fast learners), we got caught by a security guard who actually had a badge, flipped it out, and told us - I swear I'm not making this up - "read it and weep."
Then he told us to line up single file and walk back to the motel office. We fell in line, and all put our hands on our heads like prisoners of war. This time it was Mitch, I think, who started explaining the rules of the game we were playing. But Barney Fife didn't care.
However, once in the motel office, he gave us a good lecture. Meanwhile, I noticed that kid Danny - the same one from the previous story - lurking outside the office, watching and trying to stay hidden.
Somehow, Barney Fife agreed to let us walk out, which we did.
And as we stepped out from the glass doors of the motel office, Danny jumped out and proudly grabbed me, screaming, "Got you! You're captured! All of you are mine!"
Now, that raises questions, I know. Why was I riding in the back of a squad car? And perhaps more importantly, by saying "first time" it implies there were others.
There were.
But this first time was in Panama City when I was in high school. But this wasn't some gang of ruthless juveniles out tearing up the town, or some drunken brawl on the beach, or any of the "usual" activities that wind up with someone riding in the back of a police cruiser. Oh, my life was never that ordinary.
For one, I was with a bunch of guys from my church, including the youth minister from the church.
For another, it was the dead of winter, a time when nobody - back then - when to Panama City.
(By the way, when I was a kid and I heard about friends who went to Panama City, I thought they were going to the country of Panama. I couldn't figure out how all these people from my neighborhood could afford to just up and take off to Central America for a weekend - much less why they would want to. Needless to say, when I finally learned Panama City was in the Florida panhandle, it all made a lot more sense - and a sense of embarrassment).
Going to the beach in the dead of winter was an economic decision. The kids from the north side of Atlanta - the 'rich kids' - went to the mountains for their winter retreats, and the beach for the summer. But those of us from the south side - the 'not rich kids' - learned to take advantage of off-season rates.
So we'd have these youth retreats in Gatlinburg, Tenn., in the summer, and go to the sandy white beaches of the Florida panhandle in the dead of winter. And we had great times.
But I digress ...
This one time, Dan, our youth minister, arranged for a 'guys only' weekend trip to Panama City. Dan was a great youth director, and the things we did - in retrospect - were things that if our parents had known or, certainly, Dan's bosses at the church, probably would have gotten him fired.
Like riding on the top of the big yellow church bus, holding on to the luggage rack, while rolling through downtown Panama City, dodging the traffic lights as they whizzed by our heads. What the heck were we - and Dan, our 'adult' chaperon - thinking?
Or being left in downtown Atlanta at Fulton-County Stadium after a Braves' game, because some of us refused to leave early and said we'd walk home. (We had a plan. It would have involved walking south on I-85/75 for only a few miles - I didn't say it was a good plan - to an exit where a trucking company that a friend of my family managed, where we'd call for a ride home. However, things always had a way of working out for Dan. He came back for us, and found us in the midst of all the post-game traffic right outside the stadium. Dan could find a needle in a haystack in those days).
Anyway, in Panama city, we'd stay in some near deserted Holiday Inn and, yes, we'd have Bible studies and serious times of discussion about the Bible and what it meant to follow Christ. You'd have to have known Dan to understand how he did it, but it worked.
And then we'd go off and play games - football on the beach in the freezing cold, or at night something we called "Fox and Hounds."
In "Fox and Hounds," you divided into two teams. One team went out in the night along the beach to hide, and the other team went out to capture them.
Look, we didn't have video games or laser tag or high tech stuff. We actually had to go out and do stuff like this to stay engaged.
What made Panama City so much fun was that about half the beach-side motels would close in the winter, and we'd run through them, hiding or hunting the other guys.
OK, it sounds kind of lame, now that I think about it.
Unfortunately, sometimes the motels weren't closed, completely, for the winter. Even if they looked like it.
Anyway, it was late, and a couple of us were walking along, kind of casually looking for the other guys but mostly just talking, when we saw this group of three men and one boy standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot of this old motel that looked closed, but obviously wasn't.
The kid we recognized as one of the younger guys from our church; one of the men was talking at a pay phone in the parking lot, while another man was pointing a spear gun at our friend.
As dumb as I had once been about the location of Panama City, by this time I was a little smarter and quickly realized something was not right (Doh!) . So the guys - me and Keeve and I don't know who else - came into the courtyard to see what was going on.
The guy with the spear gun saw us and turned it on me. "Don't come any closer,'' he said. "We've called the police."
The other guys with me stopped, but I kept walking. I don't know - I guess I just didn't think he'd pull the trigger.
Fortunately, he didn't.
"Hey," I said. "that's Danny (not his real name; I remember his name, but there's no point dragging some guy into this story without his permission). He's with us."
And I proceeded to tell the guys that we were with a church group, down on the coast for a youth retreat, and we were out playing "Fox and Hounds'' on the beach, and that "Danny" was not supposed to go up into the motels (at least not if he was going to get caught). While I'm talking, a handful more of our guys strolled up to gather round, standing under a street light in the courtyard parking lot next to a pay phone and a swimming pool that was covered for the winter.
"I never heard of a church group like that!" the guy said, and I have to admit, in retrospect, he was right. (This was before the days of David Koresh and "church groups'' that holed up in compounds with heavy artillery).
While I was explaining everything, these two squad cars came flying into the parking lot, probably happy to be able to respond to something during what was the off-season for tourism and, therefore, the off-season for trouble.
This started a whole new round of explanations: the guys who ran the motel told the police what was going on, and I - why I was the spokesman, I don't know, but I guess I've always been the talker - tried to explain what we were doing was harmless fun. (Unless, I suppose, you were managing a supposedly empty motel and a bunch of teenage guys were running around, ducking and hiding).
So the police load us up into the back of their squad cars.
There were four of us in the backseat of one car - Me, my buddy Keeve, a guy I'll call Jeff, and another guy I'll call Steve (because, again, what's the point in using real names without permission? These guys know who they are.)
The squad car was the real deal. I'd never been in one before, but I'd heard about them. Sure enough, there were no handles on the inside of the back doors, so you couldn't open the doors form the inside. There was the metal screen separating the back from the front. A shotgun was hung across the opposite side of the metal screen.
The policeman pulls out, taking us - well, we weren't sure where, until he called in got on the radio.
We're kind of talking and still trying to explain what was going on to the policeman, and suddenly Steve - who has been real quiet the whole time - says in a real serious voice that sounded like he was about to cry, "Guys, I think we should pray," and he bowed his head.
I'm ashamed to admit the rest of us laughed out loud.
At that point, the policeman got his dispatcher at headquarters and said, "This is Unit (whatever), and I'm transporting four juveniles back to the Holiday Inn."
That's when this guy I'm calling Jeff said with some force, "I'm 18; I'm not a juvenile!"
We all froze. Steve bowed his head even more. Keeve and I just looked at each other in horror.
And the policeman said, "Shut up, son. Tonight you're a juvenile - unless you want to go downtown to get booked."
"Jeff,'' I said. "Shut up, man. We're going back to the motel!"
"But I'm not a juvenile!" Jeff said.
I think Keeve punched him in the ribs at that point. Jeff shut up.
Turns out, the policeman was pretty cool. He raced back down the highway and took us back to the Holiday Inn where, as we got out, he said, "Look, it's late. You guys are going back to your rooms, right? You're in for the night, right? And, look - have a good time, but understand some of these guys who manage these motels can be pretty nervous in the winter. Stay off private property, ok?"
Needless to say, we agreed. The other car pulled in right behind with the other guys, and we all went back to our rooms.
Where we found Dan.
By this time we were laughing and having a great time, retelling the adventure, full of bravado because nobody wanted to admit to being scared, and couldn't wait to tell Dan.
But much to our surprise, Dan - who did indeed look a bit shaken - told us, "I know. I was watching the whole thing. I was in the sand dunes and saw what was going on."
"Why didn't you come over and help us?" I remember asking.
"When I saw the police cars, I was afraid they were taking you guys in,'' he said. "I knew someone was going to have to come down to the station to get you out. And I was wondering how I was going to explain this to the church."
I can't speak for the rest of the guys, but I was stunned that Dan had watched the whole thing and not come out of hiding to help us out. At the time, I thought it was cowardice on his part.
Later, I realized he was probably thinking about losing his job, which could have been the end of his ministry, his reputation as a youth pastor. Heck, again in retrospect, he probably should have been fired.
But we loved him.
And it was a different time.
And it was a good time.
For me, it was the first time in the back of a police car.
Maybe some day I'll write about the others.
Sidebar: we went back to Panama City again. And again, while running through what we thought was a deserted motel (nobody said we were fast learners), we got caught by a security guard who actually had a badge, flipped it out, and told us - I swear I'm not making this up - "read it and weep."
Then he told us to line up single file and walk back to the motel office. We fell in line, and all put our hands on our heads like prisoners of war. This time it was Mitch, I think, who started explaining the rules of the game we were playing. But Barney Fife didn't care.
However, once in the motel office, he gave us a good lecture. Meanwhile, I noticed that kid Danny - the same one from the previous story - lurking outside the office, watching and trying to stay hidden.
Somehow, Barney Fife agreed to let us walk out, which we did.
And as we stepped out from the glass doors of the motel office, Danny jumped out and proudly grabbed me, screaming, "Got you! You're captured! All of you are mine!"
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