Church-Growth Strategy

This is just too good to be true.

It seems as though some guy named Rev. Craig Rubin has started a new "church" in Hollywood, California called Temple 420.

To some of you, the name will immediately clue you in as to what goes on at this "church," but for those less informed (the ones with all their brain cells remaining), read on.

This "church" welcomes people of any and every religious persuasion, which isn't necessarily unusual... what is unusual is the fact that they are the the target of a criminal investigation.

This criminal investigation was due to fact that the Reverend Rubin uses marijuana smoke to carry the prayers of the congregation up to God. The pot is smoked, apparently, in some kind of censer in front of the congregation (imagine an old Catholic priest... but he's really mellow. And smells like burning rope).

Apparently, members can also purchase some of this burning bush for a small "donation" for use in the home. New members must sign an agreement professing, among other things, that "the God of the Bible created cannabis for the healing of all nations."

That's quite a doctrinal statement.

The comment by the investigating officer is priceless: "They were trying to set it up under the guise of a religious right and then be able to sidestep marijuana laws. The deal was for a $100 initiation fee and $100 annual fee, you could buy all the pot you wanted for quote-unquote 'religious purposes.' That's bull$#!%."

I thought I'd heard it all.

Apparently not.

College Sports

If you need a reason as to why college athletics are better than those offered by professional jocks, the argument is now officially over.

Spare me the "I want to watch the best athletes in the world" argument.

I'm watching the Tennessee / Florida men's basketball game, and sitting in the stands is former UT quarterback and Superbowl XLI MVP Peyton Manning.

And UT Football coach Philip Fulmer.

But if that's not enough, Pat Summit (the UT Lady Vols Basketball coach) is dressed in full cheerleader regalia (I mean real cheerleader uniform, not sideline-tramp getup). This is in response to Bruce Pearl's (the UT men's coach) chest-painting at a nationally-televised Lady Vols Basketball game.

Two other coaches.

A campus legend.

If you want pure spectacle... pure entertainment... pure fan-experience, you gotta go with the college game. You like passion? You like athletes playing every game as though something were on the line? You like to watch a football game and hear the sound of a marching band, rather than some jackass pushing the button for Gary Glitter's "Rock and Roll, part 2?"

The college game is where it's at.

Etymology

Several have asked, "what in the heck is the name 'Priests and Paramedics' all about?"

I've blown them (or you) off, but here's the scoop.

In a nutshell, it's a song by Pedro the Lion (née David Bazan). I'll explain at another time my uderstanding and the significance as to why I've christened my online presence with this name.

Here are the lyrics:

Paramedics brave and strong
Up before the break of dawn
Putting poker faces on
Broken bodies all day long

The neighbors heard a fight
Someone had a knife
It must have have been the wife

Husband's lost a lot of blood
He wakes up screaming "Oh my god!
Am I gonna die... am I gonna die?"
As they strapped his arms down to his sides

At times like these they've been taught to lie
"Buddy just calm down, you'll be alright"

Several friends came to his grave
His children were so well-behaved
As the priest got up to speak
The assembly craved relief
But he himself had given up
So instead he offered them this bitter cup:
"You're gonna die, we're all gonna die
Could be twenty years, could be tonight."

Lately I have been wondering why
We go to so much trouble to postpone the unavoidable
And prolong the pain of being alive

The Greatest Show on Earth

You probably didn't hear about this, since it is an obscure little news story buried in the back pages of your local fish-wrap (that would be "newspaper" for the Jim Rome-impaired), but apparently a woman named Anna Nicole Smith collapsed and died in our own backyard.

Again, you've probably been distracted by the incessant barrage of updates on the genocide in Darfur, or the continued global insouciance toward Iran's nuclear arms race, but believe it or not Anna Nicole is dead. And the world wants to know!

The world wants to know so badly that three helicopters have been parked over my house in the hopes that they will catch someone (maybe Smith's mummified body) walking out of the courthouse. And while the sound of the helicopters was bad enough to drive me to do an internet search for the schematics of a Howitzer cannon, what really set me off was my recent foray through downtown Fort Lauderdale.

As I drove down the street where the church that I pastor meets, I ran into a road block. It seems as though every camera and microphone in the news world was parked in front of the Broward County Courthouse. For nothing.

I don't know what's more sad: our rabid obsession with all this, or the fact that this deceased woman led such a tragic life.

John Mayer

So I have this friend who raves about John Mayer. He frequents his blog. He just went to his latest South Florida concert. He thinks the guy's the latest incarnation of Robert Johnson. He longs to hear Mayer tell him that his body is, indeed, a wonderland.

I dispute this of course. But my argument against the credibility of John Mayer has never been his musical acheivements, or anything really. My argument has to do with his audience.

It's all 15-year-old girls.

Case in point: check out this video. It's from a recent concert (Oklahoma City on February 3rd of this year). In it you'll see sweet John make every pre-pubescent girl's dream come true, and in the process, get deafened by the cacophony of screams from said young women.

Greatest Bad Album Covers

This post is not entirely original, but it was inspired by a song selection at the tail end of a burned CD that was given to me by a good friend. This heretofore unmentioned person was setting out to enlighten me on the band Midlake (they're really good... check 'em out), but he unknowingly - or knowingly - focussed my attention to some bad 1970's soft-pop.

So without further ado. I present to you the greatest bad album covers of all time:

10. Stryken, First Stryke - first of all, it's bad enough when Christians imitate "secular" bands.

But it's altogether different when a "Christian" band imitates a bad Christian imitation of a "secular" band.

Bravo, Stryken. You did the unthinkable.



9. Ken, By Request Only - This begs the question: "who requested this?"











8. Orion, Reborn - He is wearing a mask... and a light blue satin shirt... and matching light blue Sansabelt slacks... and a really bad toupee.

Oh, and he's wearing a mask.







7. Colonel Sanders, Tijuana Picnic - When did Harlan Sanders start making records? And why would I want to eat Kentucky Fried Chicken at a picnic in Tijuana?









6. Devastatin' Dave, Zip, Zap, Rap - Call me politically correct, but is it appropriate to call one's self a "Turntable Slave."

Discuss.








5. Jo Calypso, He He Nick - There are some things in this world that are just plain creepy.

This is one of those things.









4. Wayne Carr, Jesus Loves Me - But Jesus hates your outfit, Wayne.











3. David Hasselhoff, Night Rocker – It's a little play on words. "Night Rocker"... like "Knight Rider."

You know, like the TV show I'm in. I'm not above shilling my show in order to get you to buy my crappy record.

Please buy my crappy record.



2. Joyce, Self-Titled - Madonna. Cher. Pelé. Oprah.

Joyce.










1. Orleans, Waking and Dreaming - well ladies and gentlemen... this is it. This was the inspiration.

This is the album featuring the classic soft-pop ballad "Dance With Me." Put a shirt on, and we'll talk.