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Jesus Wants Your PIN. :
I have to admit, I find it somewhat flattering that a celebrity preacher would go through all the fuss of creating an AOL Journal so as to address my concerns regarding the use of "tithing kiosks."
Anyway, Mr. Baker, the problem I have is best stated in the Times article here:The Bakers charge between $2,000 and $5,000 for the kiosks, which come
in a variety of configurations. They also collect a monthly
subscription fee of up to $49.95 for licensing and support. And a
card-processing company gets 1.9% of each transaction; a small cut of
that fee goes to SecureGive.
I find this to be somewhat interesting in that these machines not only give to the church, but they also give to you. In short, you are using Christian charity for your own personal gain.
Now, in your journal, you come close to answering this concern, yet you skirt the issue by saying:
On the first glance, an ATM for Jesus seems to be a way of "ill-gotten"
gain, but it's not. The giving kiosks at Stevens Creek Church is a
simple way that our members serve Christ and His Church. Giving must
be a heart issue. It's not about the machine ... it's about what God can do through ordinary people like you and me.
Wrong. It IS most certainly about the machines, and has very little to do with God. When someone gives to the church from the heart, shouldn't 100% of that "gift" given in Jesus' name go TO the church? Are your parishioners aware that a percentage of the money they are giving to the church is being funneled directly into your pockets and the pockets of those charging a processing fee?
-DP
Now, not to sound like a tough guy or anything, but there's never been a movie that has ever really scared me. Sure, some have creeped me out. I think that scene in Salem's Lot (the original one) where the little vampire kid was scratching at the window gave me perhaps the biggest feelings of heebie-jeebies I've ever felt. I watched it with my twin brother(#7) and my older brother (#5). When scared, #5 talks. And talks... And talks.
"Holy crap, Dan," he'd say. "Did you see that? Freaked me out. Wasn't that awesome? He's floating. There's fog. Is there any more popcorn? Do you think mom and dad are going to ground me for making you watch this? What the hell's wrong with Dave?"
Dave --aka #7-- my twin was not good with things like water, scary movies or vegetables. All three of them scared him pale, and watching Salem's Lot with him, for example, was a genuine chore. If he knew it was a scary movie, he would scream like a Girl Scout with skinned knees the second the opening credits popped up, and things continued to descend into utter terrified childhood madness from there. However, if he knew going in that it was scary, it was somewhat tolerable.
On the other hand, if #7 didn't know that what we were watching was a scary movie, at the first sign of terror, he'd run around the house yelping like a neurotic poodle during a thunderstorm.
Now, obviously, as a result of #7's fearful nature, Halloween was a wonderful time for #5 and I (I'm son #6). And, one Halloween post-Salem's Lot viewing in particular stands out to me (though #7 may very well have blocked it from his memory).
The knock on my door came shortly after midnight. It was #5 telling me that our black-op of terror was a "go." I lept out of bed with a giddy excitement and crept toward the bedroom door of #7 where I silently started stacking rolled up sleeping bags, pillows blankets and everything else I could find against the door.
Once the first part of my mission was complete, I went downstairs and outside to help #5 wrestlethe ladder from the garage. We lugged it through the dark and carefully propped it beneath #7's bedroom window.
I started giggling with excitement as I held the ladder and watched #5 climb slowly up to the window where he started tapping and scratching on the glass.
It didn't take long before I heard the first of #7's blood-curdling screams punctuated by the wild laughter of #5 as he shimmied down the ladder, and we ran into the house, up the stairs, turned on the lights and found #7 wailing in a tangled mess on the floor beneath a mountain of sleeping bags and whatnots.
However, our laughter at #7's misfortune was quickly replaced with the bone-chilling fear that can only come from hearing the sound of a sleepless and angry father's heavy footsteps trudging up the stairs accompanied by a raging lecture on the importance of sleep with the closing caveat that should he need to make this arduous trip again, all three of us will pay with our lives.
Good times, though. Good times...
-DP
As far as moods go, today is a Dead Body Day. I don't know if I can actually put my finger on it and find the words to describe it. I've reached a certain level of apathy that makes me feel like the thoughts I have are just sort of scraping around inside my head like fingernails on a chalkboard. Every word of every idea smacks hard against the inside of my forehead and bounces violently back across my brain to plant itself firmly on the back of my head like a smack from an uptight grandmother who caught me joking about yams during an otherwise pleasant Thanksgiving dinner. I think it has a great deal to do with some sort of campaign fatigue. Everyday, I turn on the television for a little background noise, and all I hear is something that sounds as if it sprung from a preschool sandbox. It's mindless, pointless, irrelevant bickering, and as a result, I have a whole new level of respect for parents, teachers, and anyone whose profession is to deal with children. If nothing else, this election has lead me question whether or not I am at any sort of point in my life where I could take on the duties of being a parent. It's a constant barrage of attacks as they try to demonstrate why their opponent is undeserving of the sandbox, while they never say why they themselves ARE deserving.
It's brutal. And, it makes me want to unleash a herd of crap-happy cats upon that damned sandbox. There have been ten ads in the past fifteen minutes, and not a single one of them has been what I would consider positive.
There are other things weighing me down. The weather here is a lot like living in England without the good beer. It's cold, gray and wet, and it makes me feel like an unhappy, sober flounder hanging out on a chilly and dark ocean floor.
Ah well... It'll clear up soon enough. Enough of my griping. Have a wild and wonderful weekend, everyone!
-DP
Now, what's wrong with this picture?
Yes. That's a pelican. And, yes. That's a pigeon in his mouth. I know the British like their squab, but this is ridiculous. Strange things are afoot in England, methinks...
-DP
*update* I should point out that the pigeon didn't make it (thanks Paul). Apparently, in my complete and utter shock at the whole event, I forgot to mention that the pelican wrestled the pigeon around for twenty minutes before managing to swallow it whole.
Hey, I just saw on the news that manhole covers are blowing off in Baltimore as a result of a gas leak. So, Fred? Can you get a hardhat?
Just lookin' out for ya.
-DP
Paul turned me onto the Pharyngula site a while back, and I find it to always be a fascinating, thought-provoking read with the occasional funny bits thrown in here and there. I just can not stop laughing at this picture he snapped of a vanity plate. It's just so disturbing... so very, deliciously, disturbing... Happy Halloween!
For those who need a little background, here's a Wikipedia Entry on Cthulhu.
-DP
Now, this is a bit of a short entry today since I've got loads to do, but, as I'm out doing my stuff, I wanted to direct your attention to an entry by Brian at WFMU in which he directs our attention to a Retrocrush entry containing the Worst Halloween Costumes of All Time.
I've had some pretty lame costumes in my childhood. But, had I ditched the standard Depression-Era hobo outfit for a Joanie Loves Chachi costume, I'd have been pummeled ten seconds after leaving the house. For those of you who actually did have one of these costumes, well... I feel your pain. Hopefully, your parents bought you a big house and a nice car to make up for destroying your childhood.
-DP
