Our Outing In Dealey Plaza (or, "Yet Another Way I Can Kill A Day Without Writing In My Thesis")

The wife has Spring Break this week. Spring Break is apparently a period of time in which some people have absolutely nothing to do—for an entire week. Not being one of those people, I have to take her word for it. Typically, during Spring Break, the wife will suddenly develop an interest in Making Sure No Leaves Remain Unraked in the yard, or Developing A Comprehensive List of Furniture That Is To Be Moved Around. I have tried, to no avail, to engage her Spring Break Motivation Engine to such worthwhile activities as making me a pie, or perhaps making me two pies. Today, her need to Go Do Stuff was mollified by a trip to Dealey Plaza in downtown Dallas, Texas.

 I should say right off that I am not one of those Dallasites that moans and opines about what a backwards, soulless city Dallas is, and how the poor artists and loft-dwellers have to walk four whole blocks to get to the park where they’re going to shoot meth or whatever. I think that’s all crock. Dallas is one of the most historic cities in the South, and anyone who says otherwise simply hasn’t seen it—period. My advice to the bellyachers is to move to New Orleans. They’ve got a lot of Culture and Stuff, there, too…and a state income tax, which the Gripers always seem to believe is a great idea. But I digress. My point is that I love Dallas. I love visiting things in Dallas, and discovering history there.

I hate parking in Dallas, however. Seriously….parking in Washington D.C. was easier….and those are all Yankees who hate Southerners who insist on driving. I drove right up to the Smithsonian district in a big red truck with Texas plates and a God Bless John Wayne bumper sticker in the backglass and had no trouble whatsoever. But if you want to park in Dallas, make sure you’re riding a bicycle.

Our outing was to visit Dealey Plaza. She’d never been down there, and I had only driven through there hundreds of times on business. Our first order of business was to park. I had carefully researched the Sixth Floor Museum and learned that they even had their own parking lot. I found it and proceeded into the entrance, where I was met by a helpful attendant who helpfully told me that I would helpfully have to pay with cash to park. Now, I haven’t carried cash since the Clinton Administration—much like the rest of civilization except  for the citizens of Red Oak, Texas, who don’t go in for all that newfangled bank card hocus-pocus—so this was a bit of a problem. But Helpful Attendant allowed me to pull to the curb and walk around the museum to an ATM that he promised would be just inside. Naturally, the ATM that was inside was out of order, so the lady in that building directed me to another ATM in the OTHER Sixth Floor Museum, confusingly located directly across the street from the real Sixth Floor Museum. I crossed the street and went into this “other” museum and overheard the lady in there explaining to another man that there was no ATM there, but we would find one around the corner near the Subway. Mind you, I have left the wife in my truck—now two blocks away—while I visit the ATM, and by now the Helpful Attendant is surely starting to wonder whether or not I have just left him the wife and truck and skedaddled to Phoenix. Fortunately for Dallas’ keen sense of adventure, the ATM located around the corner near the Subway ALSO was out of order. I decided to go back to Helpful Attendant and helpfully explain why I was going to go park some place more helpful. He wasn’t there, but, strangely enough, the wife still was. I got in the truck and explained the drama to her while I began to maneuver the labyrinthine maze of one-way streets in downtown Dallas, looking for a parking attendant from the 21^st century.

I have never understood the rationale of the strange street situation—I’ve always imagined a bunch of fat guys in the 30’s smoking cigars and standing over maps in a locked room, saying, “No, Hersch, this would make too much sense to just let them drive normally down here. Let’s make this street one way, and this street one way—and let’s make this street come to a complete dead-end at this park where people are shooting meth.” But of course they didn’t have meth then, so I’m sure that conversation didn’t quite happen that way. In any event, every other person who is driving in downtown Dallas knows EXACTLY where the frickety-frack they’re going and how to get there, and they don’t feel much like tolerating the guy who’s questioning the city planning rationale.

Over the course of the afternoon, I finally found a parking garage with the soothingly familiar “Visa” ensignia on its sign. I pulled into the building, where I was met with a uniformed man. I’ll call him “Achmed.” Achmed informed me, in a tongue known only to Allah, that I would drive up past the 3^rd floor to park and I would pay a machine on the first floor. Simple enough.

You know those parking garages with wide driving lanes and helpful arrows telling you which lane to get in to go UP and which lane to get in to go DOWN?

This wasn’t one of those parking garages.

This parking garage seemed literally held together with bailing wire, and each turn I went around brought me perilously close to parked cars, structural columns, and other disasters. I finally made it to the 8^th floor…the very top…and carefully backed into a spot. I say “carefully” because there was no wall separating my truck from an 8-floor drop to the ground below. My wife and I nervously boarded the elevator and were relieved to end up on the ground floor. Once at the bottom, I went and asked Achmed if there was a certain way to drive down, and he responded with “the same way you went up.” I asked him how that would work if someone was going up at the same time. I even used helpful hand gestures. His response: “be careful.” I shrugged; I’m in a one-ton pickup truck. The final scoreboard will definitely be in my favor, if it comes to a contest.

We walked to the Sixth Floor Museum, and decided that we’d eat lunch first. The Other Sixth Floor Museum and Café looked pretty inviting, so we went in. Unfortunately, they didn’t have anything that men would want to eat there—just a selection of muffins and coffees. Of course, my wife thought it was just charming…but I was actually hungry, so we left to go find real food.

Naturally, there’s not any restaurants down near Dealey. Oh—other than the Record Café. The Record Café was cheap but crowded, and definitely in danger of being shut down by the Health Department sometime soon. We ate and trekked across the street to the real Sixth Floor Museum. I looked down Elm Street where the President had been shot, and noticed two X’s on the street. Sure enough, a helpful conspiracy theorist happened upon us and explained that the nearest X was where the President had been shot first, and the second X was the fatal head shot. I looked closer and became disturbed.

I admit I’m not a conspiracy guy. My default position is OPPOSITE of any position Oliver Stone takes, so I’m sort of down with the Warren Commission. But I’m also the owner of a bolt-action rifle—and I know how long it takes to throw that bolt after firing a round. Those two X’s looked awfully close together for 2 torso shots at a moving target. The Museum itself was worth the drama and the money ($16 apiece). It was very informative and put together well.

Eventually, however, our outing was finished, and it was time to go back to the Parking Garage From Hell. The wife told me that she was going to wait on the ground floor this time, and I could just go up and get the truck and drive it down to her, thank you very much. I went over to the elevator and pushed the button, and when the door opened I noticed that it was pitch-dark in there….not one light working in the elevator. I quickly decided it was time for an 8-flight climb…and I walked all the way to the top. Driving back down the Maze of Doom was easier—until I ran across the lady who was having her tiny car towed from the garage. I’ll let you picture a tow truck with a car trailing behind trying to navigate those narrow lanes and turns—with the woman walking helpfully behind and in my turn radius. Approximately 3 weeks later, I finally made it down to the bottom, and picked up my wife. She told me that she tried to call me and tell me about the tow truck headed up that way, but then realized that I had stashed my cell phone in her purse. I’m a genius that way.

It was more fun than I made it out to be…but mostly because the wife was there, laughing at my calamity the whole time. The fact that she’s always mildly amused at how much drama seems to gravitate my way is itself amusing to me. All in all, a fun time—and I didn’t have to eat any muffins whatsoever.

And don’t worry, Dr. K…..I came home and wrote on my thesis anyhow.

Dr. Howard Hendricks, Sculpture of the Exegete.

I sat in your office with you, laughing and discussing the underrated significance of Charles Dickens to the literary world. We both concurred that a literary education was optimal for a theological one. I listened in awe-struck envy as you talked about your days as a chaplain to the Dallas Cowboys—in the good days of Landry and Staubach—and what a big fan you were even then. I knew, even then during that semester as I sat in your class, that I was witnessing greatness of the “legendary” sort. Of course, you had little tolerance for hero worship: you saw yourself as a disciple charged with making other disciples. And so you did, and I was one of the last to execute your infamous Acts 1:8 observation assignment.

You gave me permission to film you in class once, and that footage I have of your teaching is near to my heart now. Your northeastern accent and gruff voice are distinctive on that film, but nothing says “Hendricks” quite like your sense of humor. The one-liners and jokes in class were always punctuated with your tell-tale wipe-of-the-lip gesture that signified to first-semester students that it was ok to laugh in seminary.

You taught me to read the text for what it ACTUALLY said, not just what I WANTED it to say.  You taught me to observe the text carefully, not sloppily. You taught me to interpret the text correctly—an offensive thought in and of itself to the subjective experientialist, for whom the text says whatever he needs for it to say. In the process of teaching me to read the Bible correctly, you taught me a deep respect for it. I stopped seeing it as a handbook for living and started recognizing it as the living Word of God--a doctrine I had theretofore affirmed but not completely understood. What you taught stood up to scrutiny and question, even from a classical Enlightenment-era man like me.

“Men, it’s good to find a wife,” you’d say to the men in the class. Because you believed that, others did too. Your Bible bore the scars, scribblings and marks of a scholar who had translated and interpreted it so many times he could breathe it in his sleep.  You are an example of the patient, diligent, and careful life of the expositor, but something more, as well.

For yours is an example of beauty. Those weren’t just words you translated and interpreted; they were art. They breathed, and breathe still. They soar and sear, inflate and puncture, penetrate and protect. They are hilarious, powerful, beautiful. They were before you, and they are after you. That you considered them so worthy as to entirely give your life to them is the statue of the true exegete.

It is the model of the man of God, sculpted patiently, painstakingly, beautifully, by The Supreme Artist. You are His Art, finally finished after years of labor, and you exist  so that the next cohort of theologians may observe, interpret and apply…correctly, earnestly, thoroughly—and become, themselves, the sculpture of the exegete for the next generation.

Thanks, Prof.

TOP TEN REASONS WHY AN O.U. GRADUATE SHOULD ACHIEVE WORLD DOMINATION

10. Classes in Goat Herding, Hog Slopping, Cow Tipping and Line Dancing will come in handy when dealing with Al-Qaeda.

9. Constant blaring of Tim McGraw’s “Truck Yeah” would bring enemy to their knees in desperate surrender.

8. “Dueling Banjos” from Deliverance would be new national anthem

7. Governor’s promise of “two squirrels in every skillet” would ensure economic prosperity

6. An OU grad can fashion a spit cup out of a beer can in seconds while watching NASCAR.

5. New administration cabinet Position: Department of Trailer Park Development.

4. Inability to spell “Sooner” is irrelevant to world domination—oops, that’s for “Why Texas A & M Grad Should Achieve World Domination.”

3. The horrific sight of a butter-eating, liquor-swilling female OU grad would frighten the enemy into submission.

2. That Idiotic Bob Stoops Hat. Enough said.

1. Annual embarrassment at being from Oklahoma would keep nation humble.

Student-Run Tolkien Fan Group Holds Meeting On Campus Near The Gnarled Oak of Wonderment and Community

The 6^th Quadrangle Community Gathering of the Tolkien Fan Club at Dallas Seminary met last Thursday near The Gnarled Oak of Wonderment and Community on campus. Secretary Warzarn the Hobbit took the minutes.

The meeting was called to order by Pantafar, Wizard of The Good. He reminded all members that they are to refer to one another at the meeting using only their code names, not their given names. A discussion quickly arose among several members who all claimed to bear the rightful name of Gandalf, and Pantafar was unsuccessful in stopping that discourse before it erupted into an argument.

“I should be the rightful Gandalf, because I am older and wiser than the rest of you,” said ______ Smitherington.

“But I came back from a C average last semester, so that’s analogous to rising from the dead like Gandalf,” replied ________  Covingslap.

The disagreement quickly disintegrated into fisticuffs, with Gandalf Smitherington prissily waving his manicured fist in the general direction of Gandalf Covingslap’s perfectly goateed face. After several Middle Earth insults were tossed back and forth, Pantafar retook control of the meeting and declared both Gandalfs to be Bagginses.

The next item on the agenda was the LOTR Viewing Party that is currently scheduled for The Third Day at Saruman’s dorm room. Some question existed about whether or not all three films would be shown, but the group was alarmed to learn that Saruman had left “The Return of the King” in his mom’s basement. Fortunately, Samwise Gamgee Johnson raised one bony finger to the heavens and exclaimed lispily that he had a dvd copy in his cloth knapsack (made from recyclable fibers). The group held its breath with anticipation as he sashayed over to where he had carefully laid his knapsack. His Toms shoes made only ecologically responsible noise as they swished to the rhythm of his delicate gait. Reaching into his knapsack, Johnson retrieved his own copy of “The Return of the King,” and the group sighed with relief.

The next item on the agenda was a scheduled debate between Gamling  Habernathy and Theoden Gleem regarding the true nature of Old Man Willow. Gamling claimed that Old Man Willow was a tree that made a brief appearance in the first novel, but Theoden argued vociferously that Old Man Willow had actually been born long ago, before the Dawn of Time, before the Awakening of the Elves--thereby rendering it transcendental and outside the lines of narrative truth. Some follow-up rebuttals were exchanged, mostly dealing with Gamling’s lack of precision in understanding the Middle Earth narrative, and Theoden’s preoccupation with producing a special chart he had made to prove the actual time line of Old Man Willow.

Two more votes were taken: one established The Lord Of The Rings as the Most Awesome Book Ever Written Since, Like, Ever. It was a unanimous vote, taken by a group comprised of 22-year-olds who had never read anything not specifically assigned to them (including The Lord Of The Rings). The other vote was for who would serve as the new chair of the 6^th Quadrangle Community Gathering of the Tolkien Fan Club at Dallas Seminary. Chairman Pantafar the Wizard of Good announced that he will be stepping down to concentrate on writing his Master’s Thesis, which will postulate that the Bible is an allegorical rendering of the true canon of The Lord Of The Rings.

The Witch-King of Angmar mostly pouted in the corner of the room and refused to participate in the proceedings once it had been established that Galadriel the Royal Elf had opened his Tupperware and eaten his arugula salad with the low-fat dressing. He remained silent for most of the meeting, pensively stroking his chin-curtain quasi-beard and biting his nails. Chairman Pantafar promised the Witch-King that he would be the Bearer of the Ring at the next meeting, and would receive a free latte gift card to Starbucks as a result.This seemed to cheer up the Witch-King of Angmar somewhat, and he chewed more joyously on some bean sprouts from The Community Plate of Nourishment.

The final item on the agenda was the LOTR Festival, to be held at Radagast The Brown’s duplex in the Village near uptown Dallas. A vote was taken, and it was decided by the group that all would be responsible for bringing refreshments and handing out fliers. A complaint was lodged by Forlong the Fat about the amount of reading he had to do for his historical theology class. The rest of the group clanged their thumb-cymbals in unison and solidarity with Forlong the Fat, and the meeting was adjourned. Within minutes, the collection of bicycles and Vespas that were parked near The Gnarled Oak of Wonderment and Community had disappeared, and the collective IQ of the campus was raised slightly.

An Open Letter To My Homosexual Friends and Family

I wish to set the record straight on a couple of things regarding Christianity and the furor raging over homosexual marriage. I do this in hopes that we can have future discourse, and that it not be poisoned by straw man arguments or name-calling. Understand that this is written in a spirit of genuine sincerity, by a man who does not wish to be at war with his fellow Americans for any reason.

I am a Christian. This most likely does not mean what you think it means; in fact, allow me to share all the things it does NOT mean—for these myths are merely designed to shut down discourse, not foster it. I was not born a Christian. I willingly chose this path in my life, and was fortunate enough to be born into a country where I have that freedom. Throughout most of recorded history, in other places, making this choice has cost people their lives.

Being a Christian does NOT mean that I hate you. I do not hate you. In fact, I love you. After all, it was because someone else loved me that I learned to trust Christ—and I would be the ultimate ingrate to Him if I responded to that love by not also giving it to you. Being a Christian does NOT mean that I’m perfect, or even consider myself perfect. Being a Christian does NOT mean that I am intolerant or hateful or bigoted or narrow-minded. On the contrary….being a Christian requires me to share my faith, which cannot be done in a vacuum. If I’m to obey that missive, I have to know you and love you and listen to you. I actually have to be tolerant of you to have discourse with you.

Being a Christian simply means that I have come to terms with my own essential worthlessness. I recognize that I am totally depraved. I was born that way; it wasn’t a choice I made. It’s one of the ramifications of the broken world in which we live, and I am humble enough to admit that there is no good in me apart from Him. Being a Christian also means that I accept that the Bible is the Word of God. You may find this ridiculous, but I did not make that choice to win your approval—or anyone else’s. In fact, I was openly hostile to this belief before I came around, and I totally understand that this view is openly reviled in our culture today. I hold it anyhow. Such a belief is no less indefensible than any of the other things we humans put our faith in on a daily basis.

Yes, the Bible does teach that homosexuality is a sin. But in one such passage (Romans 1.24-32), the apostle Paul makes the argument that we are all born into depravity. That infamous list of sins he catalogues also contains “refusal to acknowledge God,” “greed,” “envy,” “strife,” “deceit,” “gossips,” “slanderers,” “haters of God,” “insolent,” “arrogant,” “boastful,” “disobedient to parents,” “unloving,” and “unmerciful.” So, in the eyes of God, being disobedient to one’s parents is in the same category as homosexuality. If I am to point a finger of harshness at the homosexual, I will have to point one at myself, too. Full disclosure: I have been guilty of every single one these things EXCEPT homosexuality. What is the significance of this? It means that I’m no better than you, and you’re no better than I. It means I’m no worse than you, and you’re no worse than I. The Christian, by definition, simply believes that we are all born into sin—and that we are constitutionally incapable of rectifying that. I can’t be “good,” no matter how I try. Apart from God’s grace, I cannot help but continue to be guilty of the aforementioned sins. In fact, even with God’s grace, I frequently have a whale of a time wrestling with them anyhow.

If I try to follow someone else’s rules for being “good,” I will fail. If I trust myself to be “good,” I will fail. I can only find redemption by trusting Christ for my salvation—not my ability to be a good boy, or follow rules, or go to church, or win arguments. I am powerless to save myself; He alone can save me.

It’s very important to me that you understand this last part especially….because my belief in the total depravity of Man is an inherently cardinal doctrine of historic Christianity. It is not a personal judgment that I pass on you. It is not a form of hate. It is not bigotry. In fact, if you’ve ever said, “nobody’s perfect,” you’ve essentially landed on the same fundamental human truth. I believe this, and to the extent that I have any righteousness in me at all—well, it ain’t because of anything I do (or don’t do). Anything good about me at all is a gift from Him.

This is a humbling fact, and one of its ramifications is that I am not at liberty to see anyone else’s sin as being greater or lesser than mine. It means that I am not free to place myself on a level above anyone else. It means that, as long as I’ve been given breath in this life, I should live out my faith sincerely and in love toward others. This doesn’t mean, however, that I must always acquiesce to others’ point of view.

I mentioned earlier that I live in a free country. This individual freedom has its genesis in a group of Puritan Christians who had wandered from England to Holland and finally to these shores, hoping to set up a society in which they were free from persecution for their beliefs. By the time the nation was born more than a century later, the Founding Fathers weren’t explicitly Christian—in fact, they deliberately set up a pluralistic society, in which all are free to worship and believe as they see fit. I personally like this set-up. If we lived in a deliberately “Christian” country, my guess is that it wouldn’t take long to degenerate into sectarian violence and oppression…because, again, that’s just what is inherently in us. But to be free to be Christian or atheist, Buddhist or Hindu, Catholic or Protestant, heretic or unbeliever….this is the essence of individual liberties. I support this—wholeheartedly, because I believe that a free country is the safest place to live out my beliefs.

Because of my beliefs as a Christian, I disagree with many of you on the subject of homosexual marriage. This doesn’t mean that this is the default position of Christians, however: there are Christians who disagree with me on this issue, as well. It is important for you to remember that much of my disagreement comes from my political understanding of the definition of “rights” and freedoms, much more so than it does my faith. But my faith DOES inform my beliefs, and that shouldn't be a bad thing. Many of you no doubt think it’s completely preposterous that a college-educated man could possibly believe that Jesus is the Son of God and that the Bible is His Word. I respect that view, as well. Believe me….walking through this life by faith seems ridiculous to even the most ardent Christians, many times. I’m no angel, and never have been. I don’t hold myself out to be a great example of some sort of model “man of God.” But I believe what I believe, as I’m sure you do, as well.

You are free to think of me as misguided and misled. I am free to think of you the same way. You are free to believe that “sin” isn’t how I have described it here. You are free to reject Scripture. You are free to reject my argument entirely. This doesn’t mean that we hate each other. My disagreement with many of you on this issue is on the basis of principles which I hold very dear. Your support on the other side of this issue is, I assume, also based on principles which you hold dear.  As long as we both realize that there are good people on both sides of this issue, we can keep from descending into the abyss of real bigotry and intolerance by assuming that The Other Guy is motivated by hate. Disagreement on a political issue is not the same thing as hate. Please….let’s both agree to this.

I will, of course, exercise my freedom of speech to advance the cause that I care about. Just as you no doubt find fault with my premise, I will find fault with yours. But this isn’t “hate” so much as it is simple civil discourse. I don’t want to see one homosexual beaten or cut off or harmed in any way. I don’t want to see any business interests by homosexuals shouted out of the public sphere. I don’t want to see building permits denied to homosexuals. I want supporters of homosexual marriage to be free to donate their money to GLAAD without fear of public mugging on Facebook. If you can admit that you feel the same about my side of the equation, then I believe that we have set the parameters for the sort of healthy cultural debate that could only happen in our great nation.

Because I love and value you, I look forward to having it.