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Mr. Photoengraver

Perhaps he was quite old, maybe younger in his late 50’s but most probably, older. He probably learned this technology as it was dying out in the early 50’s and 60’s. The technology was first used in the 1850’s. Were talking old, and were talking about the graphic art technology called “photoengraving”. At a major newspaper where I work, I just put through the forms to let go of a man whose title was “Photoengraver”. I asked someone, and upon their brief explanation of what it was, I became intrigued and dug a little deeper. It was chemical/mechanic process of taking a photo of a subject through a fine mesh of wire, so that a transfer of negative to metal plating, would be more accurate. Where light hit the metal, an acid was applied so as to engrave the image of the negative on the metal. In the newspaper industry they would apply the metal image to a newspaper cover or columns, and voile! you have a picture on newspaper. Back it up a step, just leave the metal as is (don’t press paper to it), and you have the way they used to engrave metal plaques for names, organizations and such.

I wonder if he probably made photos for Al Capone, the World Wars, etc. In a way, just honoring this mans work while looking back into the history of photography.

Look at the photo below, and notice how it looks kind of copperish color, because it is. The common metal used for posters like this were made from copper.

If you’re a photographer and want to shed light on this, clarify, add, or correct, feel free.

Because its Friday...

This is just because its Friday, and I want to post a breakdancing video, or more like creative dance meets breakdancing. Enjoy!

Whats the big deal with Jesus and sex? REVISED

If God ate the food that he created, why is it such a big deal that Jesus could not have participated in a sexual act, which he also created.

The question really is, does it compromise Jesus as who he was? Fully God, yet fully man? Because if it doesn’t, then no I have no problem considering that. But does it compromise Him? Yes, absolutely! It actually makes him out to be a hypocrite. Bible memory 101 is John 3:16, “God so loved the world (but Mary Magdalene the most)…” Oh my bad, that’s not in the Bible. To think that Jesus “must have” had sex in the first place is such a human thing. "It just makes sense, that men everywhere have had the desire at least once, for a woman." The people claiming this, purporting this, writing novels and making lay-readers’ minds spin with bewilderment, are those who simply don’t get the life of Christ in the first place. Here are a few points I’d like to make on this matter concerning the person Jesus Christ.

Jesus, the hypocrite?
Jesus’ message of love and salvation was equally for everyone. To admit that Jesus chose a favorite compromises his universal message and makes him out to be a hypocrite. To say “No, he didn’t love everyone equally, Mary the most, but pretty much equally, generally speaking” is worldly and finite thinking. Jesus was deity, in flesh. God incarnate! Immanuel!

Take Christ as the husband of the church model. Just as Christ is wed to his bride spiritually, us collectively the church, it would be selective, partial, theologically incongruous and hypocritical for him to actuate the spiritual understanding in physical form. The act of sex would be an infinitely insufficient act of union between Jesus and a woman, to exemplify his relationship with himself and the church. Why? Because eternity in perfect relationship with God himself, FAR ECLIPSES any sexual relationship one can ever have. That is what’s promised to us, his bride, the church. On top of that, there is no record, anywhere, that he ever got married. If he did have sex and never got married, obviously that is a sin, thus nullifying his ability to be offered as a perfect sacrifice, without blemish, as was Jewish law. If no atoning sacrifice, there would be no forgiveness of sin, and if no forgiveness of sin, God would be totally just in wiping out everything offensive (mainly, us) to his Holy presence. “Put to death therefore what is earthly in you: sexual immorality, impurity, passion, evil desire, and covetousness, which is idolatry. On account of these the wrath of God is coming.” Colossians 3:5-6

Divine Lineage?
If Jesus had relations and a son birthed, that would create theological chaos, not to mention sexual immorality. What if the fountain of youth was found in a young woman, and the only way you could live forever was to have relations with her. She would be the most sought after young woman, the world would ever know. Men would do whatever they needed to get her to ensure their children were in the divine lineage, in order that they may secure life everlasting. This would be the case if salvation were by means of lineage, if Christ had relations and his offspring were the “sons and daughters” talked about in the gospels. When Paul said that we are adopted into the family of God, that could then come to mean, you are adopted by God, IF you insert yourself into the divine lineage. “And because you are sons, God has sent the Spirit of his Son into our hearts, crying, "Abba! Father!" Galatians 4:6 The lines of theology would be blurred to utter confusion.

Jesus, the less-than sufficient God?
If Jesus had relations, it would admit that Christ had need. We are created, God is not. Everything comes FROM God. There was never, nor will there ever be an instance when God is not in need of something, when there is a void that we can fill for God. “Whom did he consult, and who made him understand? Who taught him the path of justice, and taught him knowledge, and showed him the way of understanding?” Isaiah 40:14 When God created Eve, it was because Adam was in need, he was lonely and had no way of expressing physical intimacy. We are beings who long for intimacy and companionship, and sex is one of those ways. “It is not good for man to be alone,” God himself said in Genesis. Crazy isn’t it? In the garden of Eden, when man had perfect relationship with God, one thing was missing. In the slightly modified words of a cheesy bygone movie, ladies “You complete [us].”

There are many other great resources out there on this subject. If this intrigues you, the person of Jesus Christ is worth digging deeper on. Read the gospels, read the heretical gospels (gospel of Thomas, Mary, Barnabas) and find out for yourself these things.

A home is where hospitality lives

During the civil war, houses that were caught in midst of battles were transformed by need into buildings that could best serve the wounded. Because of the urgent need for shelter, water, and personal attention to wounds many homes turned into hospitals, barns into Intensive Care Units, and the resources on the compound no longer only serviced the needs of the family, but of those in need, the soldiers.

Fast forward to around the early 1900's and you'll find a radical named Francis Schaeffer. His philosophy was also formed around the home, and was also formed around the need of those around him. The need? People wanted answers to life concerning just about anything spiritual: Why am I here? If God is good, why does evil exist? How can God allow pain and suffering and still be a just God? Francis Schaeffer, a theologian, an artist, a pastor, and a philosopher believed that the Word of God and the inspiration of the Holy Spirit is sufficient to answer all these and more. He bravely opened his home to anyone who would want to struggle through their big questions in life, and thus birthed a theory of community that exists in many cities throughout the world, called L'Abri.

I've been thinking some about homes, and how they are an echo of our heavenly home. Just as my home in heaven will be perfectly God exalting, so I want my home to be. Christ exulting, brother and sister admonishing, where broken-hearts are lifted and the refreshing breath is breathed into each others sails.

Brothers and sisters, we have about 70-90 years on this earth. You don't exist for yourself! If you think you were made for coming home to watch your TV 'til you go to sleep, your selling yourself extremely short (I'm not saying TV is bad, we just tend to not be good stewards of things that feed laziness). If you just want to go home and not be bothered by those people who want to "be up all in your business", you may not understand the purpose of the community of Christ. I'll close with a quote I heard recently from John Piper,

If you don't at least have a leaning towards a desire to excercise hospitality to others, you may not have truly felt the love of Christ from the cross."

What do you want your home to be? What do you want your home to be TO people?

"Death is a cruel, brutal, and fearsome trespasser..."

This moving article was published October 5th, on Christianity Today, by Gordon Conwells provost, Frank James III. He lost his brother on a climbing venture to summit Mount Hood and return...he never did. Frank recalls that day in an emotionally stirring article. You can read the whole thing here.

Midnight, it is said, is the portal between this world and the next and is somehow in league with chaos, death, and mystery. It is the moment of dark visitations. So it was for me in December 2006. My sleep was interrupted by a phone call, and I was instantly shocked into full consciousness: My younger brother was trapped in a snow cave on Mount Hood, and an unyielding blizzard prevented rescue.
The mountain proved to be Kelly's final adventure. Losing my brother on Mount Hood has been a painful reminder of my own spiritual fragility. None of us is immune to the heartaches and sorrows that inhabit this misbegotten world. Though I am a preacher, a professor of historical theology, and the provost of a theological seminary, I have found it agonizingly difficult to come to terms with my brother's death. It is one thing to talk about death in the abstract. It is entirely another to cope with the death of someone you love very, very much. The truth of the matter is that losing a loved one hurts down to the deepest parts of your soul.
I was the first to learn the news days later. Hearing those words announcing his death was like a blow to the solar plexus knocking the breath out of me, but telling the rest of my family was more dreadful. I had known heartache before, but this transcended every previous emotion I had ever experienced. My vision blurred. My feet were heavy and seemed to resist carrying me to the next room, where my family anxiously awaited the latest news of the rescue mission on Mount Hood. Kelly's wife, Karen, the children, our mother, three brothers and a sister—they took the news hard. I have never heard weeping like I heard that night in the village at the foot of the mountain. The Bible sometimes refers to "wailing" as an especially forlorn kind of weeping. That is what I heard that night—wailing. I hope I never hear that sound again.
Death is ugly, and we cannot—indeed, should not—try to make it palatable or explain it away with pious platitudes. Death is a cruel, brutal, and fearsome trespasser into this world. It is an intruder and a thief. It has severed an irreplaceable relationship with my brother. We shared the same story, and he knew me in a way no other person did. Kelly would no longer return my calls. Never again would I hear him cheerfully mock me as "Frankie Baby." Sometimes I see him in a dream, and I reach out to grasp him—but he is not there.
We are created for life, not death. Kelly had a shameless zest for living life to the fullest. When death strikes suddenly from the shadows or claws at us until the last breath, those left behind experience numbness and disorientation. Somehow we know in our hearts that it is not supposed to be this way.

Later in the article he asks the question Why would God let his brother freeze to death on that mountain? In his struggle he says this:

One of the profoundly difficult lessons is that amid all the spiritual consternation in the shadow of Mount Hood, God has manifested himself in my grief. Somehow he is found in the disappointment, the confusion, and the raw emotions. This does not exactly make sense to me, and I'm quite sure I don't like it. But I have felt the divine gravity pull me back toward God, even while I am dumbstruck by his hiddenness. My conception of faith has become Abrahamic—which is to say, I must trust God even though I do not understand him.

Dying on vacation

This is a re-post I thought very compelling. I find myself guilty of this..."at least" I'm not doing XYZ or ABC, like so'n'so...when if I have the eyes of God, I'll realize that whatever I do to offend an almighty, is an offense, period. Enjoy!

If it were up to me, you’d be allowed to board an airplane based on how fast you took your shoes off in the security line. Clock a good time? You’re on the plane first! Slowly unlace waist high boots? You’ll board last.

It would be like the Olympics of airport security. And it would be awesome.

These are the kind of things I think about when I fly. If you follow me on twitter, and you really should, you know all of this. You know that last Saturday I tweeted about the four year old next to me who shook his sippy cup like he had just won the NBA Championship. Milk flew on my book and my face. It was a scene man, a real scene.

Eventually the flight attendant stepped in when the kid made a play for the fire extinguisher and the bullhorn. Party time!

But that kid wasn’t even the most interesting thing that happened on that flight. There was an officer in the army sitting on the other side of me. He was flying back to Afghanistan and said something that really surprised me. I asked him what was one of the biggest misconceptions about Afghanistan and here’s what he told me:

“We statistically lose more 18-25 year old soldiers when they go home for R&R than we do in combat in the field.”

That surprised me. If you asked me which was more dangerous, being in the middle of an armed conflict in Afghanistan or going home for a few weeks of rest and relaxation, I’d pick the first option. But the more the army officer explained it, the more it made sense.

“What sometimes happens is that you have folks that go back home after being out of the country for months at a time. They’re flush with cash, haven’t been in a lot of social situations lately and think they’re out of danger.”

They buy motorcycles and crash them. They make crazy financial situations that wreck them. They get in DUIs. In a million different ways they make the kind of mistakes that can ruin you. All at home. All on vacation.

The more I listened to him, the more the story started to sound familiar. In fact, I think we do a similar thing with our faith sometimes.

We all know the “neon sins” we’re not supposed to do. We all know the big things we should avoid like the plague. Adultery, murder, money laundering, robbing banks, chances are if I suggested we shouldn’t do those things you’d agree. There’s nothing groundbreaking about that. But sometimes we play the “at least game.”

My friend reminded me of this a few years ago. I told him I felt like I was struggling with some lust issues. I told him I was feeling pretty wrecked by some decisions I was making. In the middle of our conversation he said,

“Yeah, but at least you’re not sleeping with hookers.”

That’s true, I wasn’t sleeping with hookers. I was avoiding some neon sins in my life. I wasn’t involved in prostitution. I was staying away from the combat zone types of sins, the at war in Afghanistan type of dangers. I was escaping the trenches in my life on the battlefield of my heart.

But I was dying on vacation.

I might not have been sleeping with hookers, but I was slowly wearing myself away with lust and pornography. My death might not have been dramatic or extreme, like a rocket-propelled grenade from an enemy, but it was happening nonetheless. My faith had grown weak and comfortable. I wasn’t growing, I wasn’t being renewed, I was a adrift. And I don’t want that.

I don’t want “at least” faith.

I don’t want to find somebody who is worse off than me in order to feel better about me.

I don’t want to prepare and train and fight hard against the big enemies of my life, only to die in the middle of an ordinary weekday, during an ordinary vacation.

The battlefield is a scary place. We’re constantly reminded of that as pastors and friends alike give in to big terrifying foes. But in our desire to prepare for the battlefield bruises, in our focus on the big, loud, neon sins in our lives, let’s not lose sight of the little things.

Let’s let go of “at least” faith.

Let’s not die on vacation.

Read the whole post here.

Tomato's, USA's new weapon of mass destruction

There are times when I can’t help myself from laughing. This morning was one of those times when I read an article about the chief of the ministry of education in Turkey talking about how the country needs to research how to produce more native tomato seeds in Turkey, rather than importing them from Israel and USA. Why? Because we are implanting “genetic mechanisms” into the seeds in the pursuit of world domination. Here is what he said;

The seeds of the tomatoes and wheat we grow in Turkey mostly come from abroad, because we don't have enough seeds of our own. They come from the US and Israel. As a Turkish intellectual, sometimes I feel very little.

I mean, can't we produce our tomato seeds here in our country?.... And we don't know the consequences either. You're buying these tomato seeds. There is something called 'genetic programming.' They can implant a genetic mechanism into the tomatoes and we can eat it without even knowing. We can be infected with some diseases that we don't know anything about. In the meantime, you can destroy a whole nation. They can implant such things that people who eat these seeds die in the meantime. There are things like that and it is very dangerous. Therefore our universities need to help us in that matter.

This is where I read it.

I’ll give him the benefit the doubt, perhaps hes heard wind of genetically altering vegetables to be bigger, but to wipe out a nation? How can you not laugh at that?

Don't like to read theology, you may enjoy this book!

Or watch it here!

Why learn theology? Am I already a theologian? True theology manifests true living.

From freak to fighter!

This is a short story I found on Boston Reviews Creative Short Story contest website.
Its a beautiful story, and about a 10 minute read! A great read at that! Its good to taste a good literary work once in a while. Enjoy!

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by Adam Sturtevant

You could say the trouble started a couple weeks ago in art class, or you could say it started long before that, back when Kyle’s teeth started coming in crooked, when his chin buckled under his jaw and ceased to grow, when they first noticed his crossed eyes, when the neighbor’s freckled son first called him those names that made his throat close up, planted that seed in his mind that grew and made him cower from the world and especially other children.
He could feel that he didn’t look quite right, that he didn’t act quite right, that his clothes didn’t fit, sagged over his skinny shoulders and curved spine. He’d look in the bathroom mirror and see it. Even when they weren’t calling him names he knew that if they caught a good look at him they’d start in, so he kept his eyes down, bent his face away toward something on the ground or the wall, pretending to be absorbed by a poster or a book. Afraid to show his teeth, he would cover his mouth with his hand as he turned the pages and pray that no one noticed him. Sometimes he was sure he could hear his name being whispered behind his back. Sometimes he’d think he was only imagining it, but then he’d feel something hard or something wet or something sharp smack against his skin and he’d twist around and bat his arm in the air. Like a gerbil doing a trick. They’d laugh harder each time.
It had been like that forever, and Kyle could have endured it for one more year until high school, where there would be more kids, more distractions; it would be easier. But then in art class, he let his guard down. On his way back to his desk from the pencil sharpener in the corner, he bumped Joey’s desk. Yellow acrylic paint spilled onto the crotch of Kyle’s corduroys. Joey had been painting a lion under a tree, with a drip of blood on its whiskers and a pile of red flesh its feet. He looked up, locked eyes with Kyle, saw the fear, saw the stammering, slack jaw. Kyle took a step back, waving his wrists in front of him, a clumsy apology, but it was too late. Spit sprayed from Joey’s lips, and he pointed at Kyle’s crotch. Look, everyone, the freak pissed his pants, he howled, and the room howled with him. What happened next was strange and cruel, if an accident can be something like cruel. Kyle really did wet himself beneath the yellow paint.
The principal explained to Kyle’s mother what had happened while Kyle sat in the waiting room in his gym sweatpants with his corduroys in a plastic bag at his feet. He covered his mouth and turned his head away, staring at the knick-knacks on the secretary’s desk, careful not to let the gawkers in the hall see his face. Pissed his pants, pissed his pants, they whispered. They scattered when his mother and the principal finally came out.
Kyle was taken out of that art class and switched to music. The teachers were on the lookout, but the children were cunning. The teachers didn’t see them spray Kyle’s locker with ketchup, spelling the word “freak” on the door. They didn’t see the boys piss into a water bottle in the bathroom and pour it into Kyle’s open backpack while it sat on the floor in homeroom. Joey orchestrated the whole thing, whispering in the other boys’ ears, pointing, sneering, making sure Kyle could see them. The word, “freak,” was murmured constantly in the halls when he passed. He looked away, pretended not to notice. Joey spit down Kyle’s shirt and flicked his ears on the bus, leaning in close and whispering that word over and over, so often that it took on a new meaning, so often that Kyle believed it because it was the only explanation. When he got home he went straight to the bathroom, gripped the sides of the sink, and watched himself cry in the mirror.
His mother got him to open the bathroom door, helped him wash his face, sat him on the couch, and gently rubbed his back. He caught his breath and told her he didn’t want to go back to school anymore. You can’t run from your fears, she said. I should just beat the shit out of him. Violence doesn’t solve anything. You know that, Kyle. You just need to talk to him, like an adult, ask him to stop. He’ll listen. He won’t listen. He will. Just talk to him.
On the bus on Friday morning Kyle scribbled a note in his notebook—Joey, can we talk please? When Joey got on the bus and walked past him down the aisle, Kyle held it out for him and he took it, walked back a few rows and sat with his friends. Kyle turned toward the window, covering his mouth, straining to hear. He heard the unfolding of paper, a lot of whispers, but no laughter. When they reached the school and filed off onto the sidewalk, Joey handed Kyle a response. He stuck it into his pocket and didn’t read it until homeroom. It said, Meet me at bathroom before lunch.
That morning he rehearsed in his mind, repeating words and phrases over and over until they sounded right. Please . . . discuss this like adults . . . what did I do to you? . . . not fair
. . . yourself in my shoes. His leg shook as he covered his mouth and watched the clock on the wall.
After fourth period, before lunch, he went to the boy’s bathroom, and Joey was standing outside the door, waiting.
What do you want?
I want to talk.
About what?
Why are you picking on me?
Because you’re a freak. Look at you. Look at your fucking teeth. Your glasses. You’re disgusting.
Listen, I just want to talk, like adults, about this.
What, are you going to cry now? Are you crying?
I’m not crying.
You are! You’re such a fucking little wimp, you can’t even talk now, can you?
If you don’t stop, I’m gonna . . .
You’re gonna what? Kick my ass? Right! You’re going to piss your pants again, you fucking freak!
When the tears really started to come, the other boys rushed out of the bathroom, cackling. One sprayed more piss from a plastic bottle onto Kyle’s pants and another snapped a picture of Kyle, bawling, teeth protruding, pants wet.
Kyle?
Hi, Dad.
Hit him in the nose first.
What?
What a fucking little monster. I’m going to call his mother, she said. No mom, you can’t do that, he sobbed, that will only make it worse. What about the principal? I can call the principal. We can have a conference. No, you don’t understand. She looked away and clenched her jaw. What the hell can we do then? She rubbed her forehead, thinking hard. He was crying, trembling on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, hair still wet from the shower. She rubbed his back, pulled him close, feeling to blame for everything.
She went into the other room and called Kyle’s older brother, at college upstate, talked to him for a long time. He heard the sounds of arguing. No, no, no. He can’t. There must be another way. She came back into the room and sat down, put her hand on his back. He could feel her looking at his buckteeth, his crossed eyes, her heart aching. He said you have to beat him up, Kyle. He said that’s the only way. He said that everyone has to do it, sooner or later. He had to do it when he was your age, and then afterwards, things were better. Kyle stared at the floor, nodding, and she pulled him close again, apologizing.
Suddenly she got up and decided to call Kyle’s father. Kyle tried to hear what was said in hushed tones in the other room. There was some yelling. Maybe if he had a father around, she said. After a while she came into the room, her hair tousled, her eyes exhausted. Your father wants to talk to you, she said, holding out the receiver.
Kyle?
Hi, Dad.
Hit him in the nose first.
What?
It hurts like hell to get hit in the nose. Hit him in the nose first, and then keep on hitting him. Don’t stop until he goes down.
That night Kyle stayed up watching Bruce Willis chase bad guys through the streets, gun in hand. He wore a tight white T-shirt, his muscles bulging. When he caught the bad guys, he threw them up against brick walls, threw punches and kicks. They connected with a popping, slapping sound, the bad guys flew and landed in piles of black garbage bags. Kyle’s heart raced and sent a warm, stinging sensation down into his hands. He clenched his fists hard, until they turned white and trembled. Then the nausea started.
Saturday he went into the woods behind his house with his hunting knife, a gift from his older brother. He picked a tree and taunted it, called it Joey, practiced pulling the knife out of its sheath, waving it in front of him, lunging at the tree, stabbing it in the side, in the front, slicing it across. His lips curled over his teeth, he bit down hard, growling, stabbing fast and hard in the same spot until the bark chipped away. A car pulled into his neighbors’ driveway, so he hid the knife and paced around the tree, face to the ground, kicking dried leaves. He looked at the divot on the tree, at the clean whiteness underneath, the translucent sap beginning to seep out.
On Sunday morning his stomach still ached. His mother was silent and watchful, finding something to clean or rearrange wherever he went. She tried to get him to eat. She asked him once, only once, midday, if he was going to do it tomorrow, and he nodded his head. He sat on the couch, looking out the window at the cars driving by, wishing with every breath to be any one of those other people. On TV he saw more people fighting, punching, kicking. It seemed impossible. His mind wandered, lost, exhausted, until suddenly his whole body clenched and he threw a punch furiously in the air. Startled, he looked around to make sure his mother didn’t see.
He waited until he was on the bus, then he waited until he saw Joey pass down the aisle. He waited until they were at the school, and then he waited until first period. There were no whispers or taunts or laughter. It was as if they had all forgotten. After second period, on the way to his locker, he saw Joey and walked straight toward him, his heart racing, his hands on fire. Then, the sickness, and he ducked into the bathroom, catching his breath in the stall.
After fourth period, he decided, before lunch. Please God, he said to himself, just get it over with.
Third period came, and then fourth, the bile rising in his stomach with every tick of the clock, and then it was time.
He went to his locker first, to do something, anything until Joey came. He opened it and saw, tacked on the inside of the door, the photo: his face contorted and red, in pain and misery, bawling like a baby, his unfortunate teeth sticking out, his crotch wet with someone else’s urine.
He hit him in the nose first, like his father had said. Joey’s head snapped back into the locker, and Kyle kept going. He used only his right hand, over and over, all towards the nose, like a machine, and he felt something crack. So this is what it’s like, he thought. The buzzing in his ears, the tingling in his hands—not like the movies at all. So much faster, so far away, like a dream. Joey bent down and put up his hands but Kyle maneuvered around them, catching him in the chin, the head, the ear. He kept going. He had never touched a person like this before, felt their body, their weight, their density. Joey’s face felt wet and soon Kyle’s hand did too. He began to say things as he did it, using words he had never said before, explaining to Joey what was happening, showing him what was inside him, then asking if he understood. He wanted to be clear. He had never felt such strength, like he could do it forever, so simple, back and forth, over and over, with everything he was.
Someone from behind pulled him off, held his arms back tightly. He realized then that a crowd had formed, that the buzzing in his ears was the cheers of the other kids. They were watching and cheering for him. He looked down at Joey, kneeling there on the ground, touching his hands to his face and looking at them. The wetness was blood, and it was dripping from Joey’s face onto the porcelain floor into round, dark blots, almost as black as night. Kyle realized then—we really are all full of blood. But Joey wasn’t crying. In fact, he looked calm, almost pleased, like he didn’t feel a thing. He looked up at Kyle and said the word again. Freak. Kyle broke free, lunged forward, and tried to explain some more something that Joey didn’t understand.