Our Redeemer… October 12, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog

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It was a five-pound mini-barrel of pretzel chunks, stuffed with peanut butter, given to me by a friend who was beaming with delight when I opened it on Christmas morning and eyeballed the monstrosity for the first time.

He was nearly leaping with joy, explaining how he purchased the gift thinking it was ideal for me, in my travels, to have a ready-made snack which would last for quite a while–and to make sure that every time I grabbed a handful, I should think of him and know that he was praying for me.

Having some acting chops, I was able to feign great appreciation over the humongous container of over-salted carbohydrates and even dodge his ongoing discussion of it during the day over turkey and dressing.

Here’s the truth: nothing is more useless to a traveling person than a five-bound barrel of peanut-butter-stuffed pretzels. Even if you enjoy the flavor, lugging such a burden around is not worth the occasional benefit you would receive in tastiness.

I regifted.

That’s much the way I feel about the idea of heaven. Being informed by highly theological sorts that if I accept certain beliefs and receive adequate amounts of grace, that I will someday have an eternal home with golden streets and jasper walls just doesn’t get me through the daily chores of human struggle. I can’t become a better person by thinking about the day when I will no longer BE a person.

So as I head off tonight and tomorrow to Our Redeemer Lutheran Church in McMurray, Pennsylvania, I will tell you what I think of the word “redeemer.”

Candidly, if Jesus is no more than a sacrificial lamb for my sins, it will be difficult for me to conjure any sentimentality for him in the midst of a traffic jam in the Steel City. At that point, I will revert to my training, giving into my frustration and festering nasty notions of mythical murders of nearby motorists. Here’s the kind of redeemer I need:

First and foremost, he needs to be a friend.

• A friend is someone who tells you the truth but you still like him enough that you want him to hang around.
• A friend is someone who catches you on a bad day but still shows up at eight o’clock the next morning for the next round.
• A friend is someone who sticks closer than a brother.

My redeemer also needs to be a spotter.

• I’m referring to that person who stands nearby when you’re lifting weights in a gymnasium, just in case what you’re attempting to take on becomes too much, and he or she can walk over and help lift the danger from your head.
• I need a spotter who knows that I’m constantly trying to lose weight, and gently nudges me towards less caloric choices.
• I need a spotter who knows me, loves me, but also challenges me to not bathe in God’s grace, but instead, pursue excellence by multiplying my talents.

And finally, I do need a savior.

If I were to describe the journey we call human life, I would refer to it as “pulling up a little short.” There always seems to be a few feet necessary to complete the task just when exhaustion suffocates our soul. At that point, I could use someone to carry me across the finish line.

If all God has to offer is heaven, He’s going to have some awfully crappy followers on earth. But I believe there’s more to being spiritual than waiting to be “spirited away” to the angelic Holiday Inn.

I believe that our redeemer is our friend, our spotter and our savior.

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The Sexiest Thing … December 29, 2012

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Everyone thinks they’re sexy. If you don’t believe me, just challenge their prowess in the bedroom between the sheets on the magical bouncy bed. Total and complete prudes will turn into defensive, cornered animals at the notion that they lack any ping in their pong.

I remember counseling a minister a few years back who had fallen from grace by having an affair. Actually, he had fallen ON his secretary, Grace, causing quite a scandal in his congregation. He was in tears. He was contrite. He wanted to make a new start with his wife. And then I asked him to explain how the relationship had flowered. Suddenly he transformed into a sixteen-year-old boy, telling a tale of romance and first love with complete detail, including the lavish compliments his lover had heaped upon him for “rocking her world.”

It was so gross. (But as a counselor, you have to listen to such nonsense while nodding your head and choking back the gag reflex.) Our society is the worst. Somehow or another, women have begun to believe there are magical men out there who have cornered the market and know how to “oom-pah” better than other polka performers. It’s embarrassing.

Here’s the truth: sex is just as good as the excitement we feel prior to it with the person we’ve decided to include in our personal fantasy. If you’re not excited over the person, the magnitude of the thrill of the roller coaster diminishes greatly. That’s why I’m going to briefly share with you the sexiest thing I’ve ever done.

I was seventeen years old and had invited my girlfriend over for Thanksgiving dinner. We barely made it through dinner, which included turkey, dressing and all the trimmings–each one prepared in some way with Mazola corn oil, which my mother was convinced was the least offensive to heart health. We stayed at the table as long as our young hormones would allow, finally excusing ourselves to trip down the stairs to our basement, where our “couch of love” awaited.

Now, we didn’t have sex. What we did was every contortion, exercise, endeavor and passionate move that was permitted to us while still allowing us to sport the chastity card printed for the senior high youth group at the local Church of Christ. The whole marathon of lovey-dovey was exhilarating and exhausting, especially on a full meal. After about an hour of pursuing the odyssey of carnality, I pulled away, fully satisfied that I was Mark Antony and she, Cleopatra.

She, on the other hand, looked a little green. The first words out of her mouth were, “I feel nauseous.”

My thought was how cool I was to be dating a girl who used the word “nauseous” instead of “sick to her stomach.”

The second proclamation from my dear girlfriend was, “I think I’m going to throw up.”

This was immediately followed by her fulfillment of self prophesy. She vomited all over the basement floor. It wasn’t very sexy. It was nasty, and I was hoping that no one upstairs caught ear of the process. My girlfriend was embarrassed–mortified.

I glanced down at the ever-expanding circle of ick, and nearly got sick myself. There were only two things I knew at this point: (1) God, I wish I was somewhere else; and (2) somebody will need to clean this up–quickly.

I didn’t want to do it. But on the other hand, I thought it really cruel to make my girlfriend get on her hands and knees and scrub up her own urpings. So I did something really sexy. I grabbed a bunch of paper towels and Clorox, and I cleaned it up. In the background, as a soundtrack to my project, was a chorus of varied apologies from my make-out partner.

But I did it. It was then that I realized what it means to not only love somebody on the outside, but to love their insides, too–even when the contents are the unnerving remains of a Mazola-oil-soaked Thanksgiving dinner, digested for only one hour.

It was sexy. And even though that girlfriend of mine, who is now my wife of forty-two years, probably doesn’t remember everything I’ve done or said, I guarantee you that she will never forget the night I got on my hands and knees and instead of proposing marriage, cleaned up the remains of her tummy-wummy.

That’s sexy. It’s not pleasant to relate to you, but it is sexy.

Sexy is when we realize that somebody is willing to see us naked without laughing or later whispering her personal disappointment to her girlfriends.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity