The DangerRuss Files, Installment 1

If you live in Lincoln’s Near South neighborhood, there’s only one acceptable place to buy your groceries: the Russ’s Market at 17th and Washington. Also known as “Ghetto Russ’s” or “DangerRuss’s,” this 24-hour wonderland combines a wide selection of food products with the thrill of possibly being the site of a terrible, terrible crime. Yes, the bearded residents of the tent city located in the juice aisle will demand a toll for safe passage, but it’s a small price to pay. And if you happen to have a young goat on hand, they’ll offer you a lifetime of protection. It’s a decision you won’t regret.

Within the confines of this particular Russ’s, the curious visitor will find a glorious inner sanctum: the dollar section. Things in the dollar section cost a dollar, which is a small amount of money to pay for a thing. The dollar section is stocked with products that exist outside the bounds of time and space. In all likelihood, you have never heard of them. You have never seen them. You have never tasted them.

But I will. Because they cost a dollar, and I need something to write about.

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Dollar Item #1: Daddy Ray’s Blueberry Cereal Bars

I have a soft spot for Kellogg’s Nutri-Grain Bars. Although it may be a completely fabricated memory, I’m pretty sure I ate them on several childhood road trips. In any case, blueberry Nutri-Grain Bars always conjure up the feeling of driving through rural Pennsylvania at dawn. So, I was super excited to try a $1.00 alternative: Daddy Ray’s Blueberry Cereal Bars. Would their flavor transport me to rural Pennsylvania, or a cigarette-butt-littered shoulder of the New Jersey turnpike?

Packaging:

The use of beveled text is a nice touch, recalling the graphic design stylings of your mother, circa 1997. However, the highlight of the package is Daddy Ray himself.


Daddy Ray appears to be of strong Amish stock, with an appropriately stache-less beard and fedora combo. Daddy Ray’s beaming countenance provides the shopper with a sense of serenity, perhaps representing the elusive approval of his or her own father. It’s okay to buy these “naturally and artificially flavored” cereal bars. Daddy Ray thoroughly approves.

FlavorTaste:

These little guys didn’t disappoint. At first, I was a tad hesitant about their texture. Compared to their Nutri-Grain cousins, their outer-layer was dry and crumbly, rather than chewy and tender. But instead of giving the impression that they were stale, the crumbly outer layer seemed fresh and biscuit-like. Their filling was the perfect counterpoint to the hearty cereal exterior -- bursting with blueberry flavor, and just the right amount of sweetness. Each individual bar is on the small side, so I immediately ate two. There are only six bars in a box. In theory, it would be easy to scarf down all of them in one sitting. I can neither confirm nor deny that this definitely happened.

Final Score:

3.5 / 5 Narwhals

At The Very Least, I Think We Can Agree That Jon Hodgman Is Far More Awesome/Hilarious Than The Relatively Obnoxious Justin Long.

For the first time in 7 years, I’m a PC user.

I don’t think this is a big deal.

Don’t get me wrong -- I like Apple. A few quirks aside, Mac OS is by far the most polished operating system currently in existence. And design-wise, Apple hardware is the best you can get. If money is not an object, and you don’t care about playing games, an Apple computer is the best choice out there. If an Apple computer was a car, it would be a Rolls-Royce.

But in the computer world, as in the car world, most people can get along just fine in a Toyota.

On the other side of the equation, Windows isn’t terrible. In fact, it’s kind of cool. Some Windows 7 features, like the window snapping that lets you automatically split your screen between two programs, are delightful. The inevitable bloatware that gets slapped on top of Microsoft’s vanilla Windows distribution is annoying, but most of it can be swept away. Hardware-wise, PCs have the same stuff under the hood as Macs, a fact that makes treating Macs and PCs as two completely different platforms rather dubious. And you can get PCs with some things (Blu-Ray drives, card readers, etc.) that you simply can’t get on a Mac.

Are some PCs crappy and defective? Yes. But no one has a monopoly on glitchy hardware.

I’ve used two Apple laptops over the past 7 years. Both had major hardware issues, including defective graphic cards, ridiculously defective batteries, chronic overheating, and dead pixels. Since both of the computers were purchased by the company I worked for, I didn’t lose much sleep over those problems. But if I had been the one dropping $2500 for a laptop, I think it would have been a different story. This isn’t to say Apple makes crappy computers. Consumer reliability surveys indicate that Apple generally makes pretty decent computers. However, I am saying that Apple isn’t magical. Apple's computers are assembled by sweatshop workers in China, just like that hideous HP box your cousin has. The biggest difference: once Apple’s computers exit the sweatshop, they cost a grand more.

And thus, I purchased a PC.

On the most basic level, a computer is something you use to do things. When I was young, and just wanted to mess around with stuff, my DIY Linux box was ideal. When my job provided me with a Mac to do digital media work, I couldn't have been happier. And now, as a recent graduate who doesn't have an obscene amount of money, a PC laptop fits the bill.

Everyone wants you to chose a side in the computer wars, and defend it with your life. But in computers, as in politics, partisanship just makes you look silly. I’m a techno-pluralist to the core. I love Apple’s ruthless focus on design and minimalism. I love the .conf-editing and command-line-hacking craziness of Linux. And I love Microsoft’s hit-and-miss, and often endearingly nerdy, approach to innovation. Once you stop treating your platform of choice as an article of faith, you can start to appreciate that they all bring something to the table.

In other words: chill, people.

All The Ugly People

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For the sake of your name, LORD, forgive my iniquity, though it is great.

Psalm 25:11

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I don’t like ugly people.

I’m not trying to be senselessly provocative, and I’m certainly not making a moral statement. But it is a true statement.

If you live in a normal, American, middle-class neighborhood, with normal, American, middle-class neighbors, you may not know any ugly people. What’s more, the magic of suburbia is such that it’s likely that you never have to encounter ugly people in your day-to-day life. Except, perhaps, at Wal-Mart.

In a poor, high-density neighborhood, you don’t get that luxury. Where I live, a lot of people are impoverished. Many of them are ugly. They wear ugly clothing. They have terrible hygiene. They speak with slurred, ugly voices. They didn’t finish college, or high school. They aren’t the kind of people I want to be friends with, or spend time on.

Sometimes, they ask for help. Or money. I don’t give it to them. They’ll probably just buy drugs anyway, right?

The doctrine that all men are image-bearers of Christ can be repeated to the point of cliché. I know it by heart. But even so, my heart doesn’t really know it. When I walk past a vagrant, I’m much more likely to think white trash than eternal, glorious reflection of the Creator.

In the evangelical world, it’s popular to focus on big-ticket sins you can write books on conquering. Addictions like pornography and alcohol. Social problems like marital unfaithfulness and divorce. But beneath the surface of my life, I know there’s a world of deep, rooted sin that I can’t even begin to comprehend. There’s so much pride and hatred stored up that I could spend a lifetime fighting it, and never achieve victory.

Wishing that someone would cease to exist is the highest level of hatred I can think of. But as I avoid eye-contact with the undesirables smoking on the porch of my apartment building while littering the yard with Corona cans, this unspoken wish passes through my mind. When I take an honest look at my heart, I see more Hitler than Jesus.

Even when my mind tries to mask the hate in nice little thoughts.

Wouldn’t it be nice if this neighborhood were a little more... gentrified?
Full of quirky young people who listen to Grizzly Bear and repair bikes?
What if that charming Victorian could be restored to a single-family home, with a responsible, middle-class family inside?
Perhaps there wouldn’t be so many of THOSE people here...

Maybe that’s one of the reasons I don’t like ugly people. My heart’s reaction to them reveals my true self. It shows that despite the fact that I’ve gone to church every Sunday since I was born, I’m more inclined to hatred than love. I’d rather lock myself inside and read a book about God’s grace than show grace to anyone who doesn’t reach my standard of personhood.

It turns out that I’m ugly too. Fortunately, there’s someone else who doesn’t just like ugly people, but loves them. And better yet, forgives them.

The Hour Of Judgement

Author's note: I don't really write fiction, but I wrote this short story on a whim a few months ago. It may or may not be somewhat or completely autobiographical. It isn't meant to call into doubt the reality of salvation; I was simply trying to honestly depict a struggle that I feel a lot of kids who grow up in Christian homes go through.

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“Lights out!”

Levi slowly closed Matilda, and tucked it carefully under his pillow. The light switch above his head waited for his next move. It waited. And waited...

“Levi! Mom said light’s out!”

“I know! I could hear her!”

“Then turn the light off.”

“I KNOW! I’m not stupid.”

Levi’s hand slowly reached for the switch, and flipped it.

Across the room, Elijah was still reading his lovingly-worn collection of Calvin and Hobbes comics by the dim glow of his maglight. It was nice to know that someone else was still awake. That he was still safe.

Then, a click. And total darkness.

At Sunday school that morning, Mrs. Carlson had taught everyone how they could make sure they were safe forever. Levi had heard about this so many times that it was hard to care. But when it was dark, things were different. Lying there alone in the dark, without a single distraction, death seemed so close. And that place beyond death...

“Hell is being separated from God. You can never be loved by God again. When you’re in hell, you’re all alone. Forever.”

Death. Hell. Darkness you couldn’t get rid of with the flick of a switch. Levi pressed his face firmly into his pillow. Maybe if he tried hard enough, the thoughts would vanish. All he could feel was a big empty space in his stomach. Or was it his soul?

But -- there was a way out! Levi knew he shouldn’t have to worry about anything. Jesus had saved him. He was... almost... sure of it.

“Jesus makes things right between us and God. All you have to do is invite Jesus into your heart, and you can live with God forever in heaven!”

Did Jesus really live in his heart? He always imagined a tiny room inside of his heart, sparsely furnished, where Jesus would sit on a small red couch reading a book. (Probably the Bible, although Levi felt that Jesus might tire of reading his own book all the time.) But as much as Levi strained, he just couldn’t feel him in there. The little heart-couch was empty.

“Jesus stands at the door of your heart and knocks -- all you have to do is let him in!”

Levi had invited him in so many times. But one more time couldn’t hurt, just to be safe. He took a deep breath, concentrated, and began to pray.

“Lord Jesus Christ” -- using His full name couldn’t hurt -- “I want you to come live in my heart forever, and forgive me of my sins.”

What else?

“Jesus, I want to live with you forever. Please come into my heart.”

Just... one... more... time...

“Jesus Christ, please come into my heart.”

“Please.”

Beads of cold sweat began to collect on Levi’s brow. He couldn’t feel the door of his heart opening. He couldn’t feel anything. The method. It had to be the method! He was only thinking these prayers. What if he spoke them out loud? He’d have to keep it to a whisper...

“Jesus, come into my heart,” Levi whispered.

Again, and again. An incantation.

He had to fall asleep eventually, didn’t he?

And when he did, Levi hoped he would dream of the end times again. Those dreams were always the same. He would see his family, and others -- the Smiths from down the street, Pastor Will, even Mrs. Carlson -- herded like cattle into dark pens. Above them he could make out the decaying roof of a vast warehouse, barely illuminated by the dim electric lights hanging from the ceiling. Not that Levi had much of a chance to study his surroundings.

“Keep moving, CHRISTIAN.”

As they marched to the holding place, everyone was assigned numbers by tall men with dark glasses and gloved hands clutching M-16s. As soon as the rusty gates clanged behind them, Levi’s father would gather the family around him, and everyone would link hands. Then, they sang. But it wasn’t a lament. It was always a hymn of triumph, sung with heads raised toward heaven.

Finally, a distorted voice on the PA system would summon them to their executions, one by one.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Because when Levi’s number was called, and the guards’ clammy leather mitts gripped his wrists, he finally felt at peace. The peace that passes all understanding -- just like they sang about in Sunday school! After all... if he was giving his life for Jesus, Jesus had to be in his heart.

At night, alone, on that bed, you could never tell if you were destined for heaven or hell. But on the Antichrist's killing floor, salvation was an absolute certainty.

'Murican Cuisine And Other Things

I had a Taco Bell chalupa for lunch today. And it was beautiful.

Yes, I know I risk becoming someone who just writes ridiculous stuff about food.  But please, let me explain:

America's vast excesses are usually mocked. The sprawling suburbs. The ubiquitous Wal-Marts. The fried Twinkies. People tell us that Americans are destroying the world with our uncultured culture of unsustainable consumption. 

Maybe that's true.

But in all of America's absurdities, there's a terrifying beauty.

Take the chalupa, for example.

In Mexico, there is something called a chalupa. The Taco Bell chalupa is not that thing. The Taco Bell chalupa is a deep fried taco drenched in some kind of fatty sauce. But, of course, none of the tacos served at Taco Bell -- including the chalupa -- resemble a Mexican taco. The chalupa is an advanced food product scientifically developed in a corporate laboratory to appeal to your body's survival mechanisms. Nothing about it is natural. Which makes it amazing.

It's fattening. It's salty. It's a freaking chalupa. Your primal nature craves it.

On one hand, things like the chalupa will probably kill us all. But on the other hand, it's a miracle of the capitalist system.

It's an easy target for derision, but the sheer scale and ingenuity of the consumption-driving society we've built is jaw-dropping. Viewed as a panorama, the endless tracts of identical homes in our suburbs can be as arresting as the pyramids. Our big-box stores sell an array of goods unparallelled at any other point in history. And our titans of fast food produce tiny miracles like the chalupa every day.

The Titanic may inevitably sink. But until then, it's a pretty impressive boat.

On Urban Missional Cultural Relevance.

According to conventional wisdom, the American city is back. And the American church seems to have gotten the message. If you’re young, ambitious, and entering the ministry, planting an urban church is the thing to do.

Even if your congregation is actually made up of middle-class suburbanites.

(Google “City Church,” and you’ll find a multitude of churches -- many of them located in gritty metropolises like Anchorage and Chatanooga).

The trend toward bringing the gospel to previously un-churched and culturally influential urban areas is exciting, and necessary. I would argue that this movement is one of the most important developments in modern Christianity. However, it’s important to draw the line between truly serving a city, and attempting to capitalize on the image of urban hipsterdom. Buzzwords like “cultural relevance” can mask a real cultural disconnect with the local community.

The vast majority of Christians in middle-America aren’t that artistic. They aren’t overly concerned with refuting the deconstructionist philosophy of Jacques Derrida. They don’t all enjoy sitting through Swedish art films from the ‘60s. And like it or not, they need pastors too.

This isn’t a screed against hipsters, or so-called “hipster Christianity.” Many of the people that get branded as hipsters aren’t trying to put on a phony identity. Some people (including Christians) have a passion for art, listen to obscure bands because they genuinely enjoy them, and wear retro glasses because they have bad eyesight, and thought they just looked good, dangit! That’s okay. But it isn’t a sin to wear dad shorts and listen to Casting Crowns. The chronically un-hip aren’t second-class citizens in the kingdom of God.

The return of Christian interest in urban ministry is an incredible development. A few decades ago, few would have believed that New York City and Seattle would become vibrant centers of evangelical Christianity. But the church is made up of Christians. It should exist wherever Christians are, and reflect where they live. A church on Manhattan island won’t be the same as a church in Manhattan, Kansas.

If being “relevant” in your community means discussing grad-school level literature and cinema, more power to you. If you’ve been called to serve in a true cultural center, you should take that mission to heart. There’s no doubt that the church has a long way to go in ministering to America’s great cities. But if “authenticity” is going to be more than a buzzword, church leaders need to truly take into account the needs and identity of the specific community they’ve been called into.

Even if that community thinks Bud Light is a legitimate beverage choice.

You Know You Want To.

Some things in life are complicated.
Banana bread is not one of those things.

There’s only one reason why someone decides to make banana bread. You make banana bread because banana bread is extremely delicious. It’s moist, and sweet, and tastes like bananas. Eating banana bread is a good experience. Always.

The deliciousness of banana bread is such that it can turn normally awkward social situations into times of awesome. Example: need to host disgraced former governor of Illinois Rod Blagojevich? Banana bread has you covered.

You: Oh, Mr. Governor, your company is a delight! Are you enjoying your fresh slice?
Blago: I would sell out my ****ing mother for this ****! It’s ****ing delicious.
You: I agree with your views on banana bread whole-heartedly! Can we share hair secrets later? Please, do say yes!
Blago: **** yes! I can do whatever I ****ing want! I’m a ****ing god!

In the end, everyone is happy. Because everyone’s eating banana bread.

So, I’m basically just saying that you should make banana bread. And eat banana bread. I know I will.