People look at you kind of strange when you tell them that you shelled out good money to attend something called a “Christian Scholars’ Conference” and that you actually enjoyed it. Reactions can range from “What’s a guy like you doing in a place like that?” to “Well, la-de-da!” But believe me, after a long season of Tim James political TV ads and rootin’ tootin’ “Ag Commish” wannabe viral videos, I was ready for a little more “la-de-da” in my life.

You know Eyegal and me–liberal arts geeks to the core. An itch like that doesn’t always get scratched sufficiently in a high tech town like Huntsville, Alabama. To get to those places that rocket science and computer chips can’t touch, we make an annual pilgrimage to The Christian Scholars’ Conference (CSC) at Lipscomb University in Nashville.

The CSC is a place where scholars (and poseurs like Eyegal and me) from Church of Christ-affiliated colleges and universities, as well as many other schools and denominations, meet and greet and explore new ways to integrate their faith with their various academic disciplines. Nashville is traditionally referred to as “The Athens of the South,” and Lipscomb’s commitment to academic freedom and to hosting a world-class event like CSC is rapidly raising her stock and placing her in the same league as her neighbors and longstanding paragons of academic excellence, Vanderbilt and Belmont.

This year’s theme was “Beauty in the Academy: Faith, Scholarship & The Arts.” What’s so special about a bunch of professors, writers, artists, musicians, poets and playwrights convening for some sort of “Campbellite Woodstock,” you ask? After all, didn’t we switch to a Fortune 500 model faith and chase weird-looking and funny-talking people like that out of the Church of Christ a long time ago and replace them with lawyers, engineers, doctors and “bizness men?”

Glad you asked. Well, when was the last time you heard a world-renowned poet and critic like Dana Gioia, devout Roman Catholic and former Chair of the Endowment for the Arts, issue a stirring and urgent plea for Christian writers to rise up and produce another Flannery O’Connor or Walker Percy who will inject a much-needed pulse of the transcendent into modern art and culture to satisfy man’s unconscious spiritual longings, followed by a public reading of his own work? Hmmm?

I thought so. Or how about sitting in on an intimate creative session with musicians like Sarah Masen and songwriters/performers Linford Detweiler and Karin Bergquist of the alternative/folk duo Over the Rhine?

Never heard of them? Neither had I. But now my iPhone is full of their soulful, sacramental songs, including Over the Rhine’s haunting, eschatological jazz piece, “The Trumpet Child,” a true fusion of faith and art that left the flood-weary crowd at the Friday evening “Tokens Show” leaning into the instrumental riff at the end and looking toward the sky for some soul-saving satisfaction and deliverance. [...]

Gentle Fusioneers–

If you’re trying to read the comments on my blog you may have noticed you can’t. In fact, you can’t leave one either for that matter.

You can thank Dmitri for that. He’s one of the imaginary Russians that I race toward the end of my long runs (and always beat, BTW–USA!, USA!, USA!). But in real life he’s a spammer. A good one, too.

This time he left a piece of…well, you know what he left, that apparently corrupted my database. Rest assured, your five years worth of comments are still there, careening through the interwebs, floating in the virtual ether, and as soon as I can figure out to to retrieve them, they will appear again.

Sorry for the inconvenience. I told you those Russians were up to no good.

UPDATE: Okay, all comments have been restored. Sorry folks. Now GO AWAY DMITRI!!

I would never tell my good friend Dr. Mark Elrod of Harding University (Hail!) to go to hell. He’s too nice a guy for that, plus he has this “condition”–an enlarged heart. Not the type that would cause you to keel over in the middle of a pick-up basketball game, but the kind that bleeds heavily when people are suffering. It’s a malady we could all use a little more of these days.

As for Pat Robertson and Rush Limbaugh, those purveyors of post-quake logorrhera, and the political dude from South Carolina who when speaking about people on public assistance used the analogy of denying animals food so they couldn’t “breed” but now “regrets” saying that even though it brought him much attention and fired up his “evangelical” base–I would wish them all straight to hell in a handbasket.

Or maybe a parachute.

Now before someone gets on here, as sometimes happens on this blog, and yells “ALL ABOARD THE TRAIN TO CRAZYTOWN!, allow me to explain. Mark, you see, has already been to hell and back. In fact, he returned from there to Searcy, Arkansas this past Monday, changed for life but still in one piece.  He surprised all of us last week by suddenly announcing that he was going to Haiti (which I think we could all agree is as close to hell on earth as one could possibly get at the moment) as a representative of Harding to scope out possible ways that the University community to assist that tragedy-torn country and her people as quickly as possible.

Philip Holsinger, Harding alum, photojournalist and missionary who has spent considerable time in Haiti prevailed upon Mark to go, and with that “condition” of his, of course Mark said “Send me!” Andrew Baker, head of the Church and Family Institute at Harding, was a key figure in arranging the trip,  and other “higher ups” approved it. Now it’s no secret that a few of those Harding “higher ups” don’t care a great deal for Mark’s personal politics. I know this may come as surprise to those of you who may have been off mining lunar rocks, but that kind of thing happens in many circles these days.

But the powers that be nonetheless figured correctly that Mark was the perfect person to represent the University on the trip. They were willing to put past differences behind them and sign off on this anyway because it was the right thing to do. We need a little more of that kind of “bipartisan” spirit these days.

Kudos, Harding. That’s the kind of pure, unadulterated religion that might shake a little contribution money out of me this year. [...]

If you’re going to stand in line in subfreezing temperatures in order to enter the holy of holies of college basketball, then you’d better know your stuff because every other Cameron Crazie wannabe standing in line with you sure will.

Well, mostly anyway.

When it comes to football, we were a motley crew, united only in our love for Duke basketball. Clemson, LSU, Georgia, Alabama, Penn State and Rutgers were just a few of the schools represented in our little knot of frozen fandom near the front of the line.

Kid Clemson, the guy in the Tiger hoodie in front of me, was a veritable walking encyclopedia of sports statistics. He was rattling off the dimensions of C.J. Spiller’s most recent feats and lamenting the future of Clemson football without him. When he found out Number Three and I were from Alabama, he hung his head a little and said, “The day that Alabama beat us last year was the worst day of my life.”

I told him that game surprised me a little too, but if that was the worst day he would ever have in his life, then he would likely die a happy man, old and full of contentment. He was probably about nineteen, and I’m not sure he understood the truth of what I was saying, but maybe he will someday.

Talk quickly turned to tonight’s National Championship game with Texas, and nearly everyone there agreed that if Alabama plays anywhere near their potential, they would likely walk away with The Crystal Trophy. Not everyone there liked the Crimson Tide, but Number Three and I were accorded instant respect–even from the LSU guy.

“I think Alabama has the best team this year, but I really don’t like Saban very much at all,” he said.

“That ‘betrayal’ just cuts too deep, eh?” I smiled and prodded. “Even though he brought you home The Crystal?”

“Yeah, I guess,” he said, “but he still has a lot of friends down in Baton Rouge. Truth be told, they’d have him back in an instant if he showed the slightest bit of interest.”

Kid Georgia was wearing a Duke hoodie and trying to explain how he could be a Bulldog fan in football season and root for the Blue Devils in basketball. “Look, I like who I like, okay? It doesn’t have to make sense to anybody but me.”

Amen, I thought, ’nuff said. [...]

The Third (or thereabouts) Saturday in October is upon us, and if you’re a true Crimson-blooded Tide fan, that means one thing: Tennessee Hate Week.

The problem is, I’m just not feeling it. The hate, that is. No, I am full of love for all mankind–even, and perhaps most especially, my many friends, neighbors, co-workers and dear, dear family who are loyal Volunteers. You see, it’s been quite a year for our family, and frankly, football is just not that high on my priority list anymore. I’ve grappled with some enormous challenges, and the raging, blind forces of fate have compelled me to consider once again, What are The True First Things of Life?

I have looked around and realized that when you stare deeply into a person’s eyes and keep going down, further and further into their bone marrow, yea, even into the atoms and sub-particles of the soul itself, that you run smack-dab into a Great Truth–that we are all, in our most core essence, sacred and fragile vessels, starving for affirmation and tender loving care.

Yes, even Lane Kiffin. What’s more, he’s realized this too and has just said “No!” to the time-honored tradition of Hate Week by sucking up to extending a hand of fellowship to Saint Nick; two great generals, on the eve of battle, holding hands and singing “Kumbaya” ’round the bonfire.

But gentle Fusioneers, just because the fire has died in my belly and I’m now channeling my inner flower child doesn’t mean that you can’t sit back and enjoy a good Anti-Tennessee diatribe. No, make that the GREATEST Anti-Tennessee Diatribe of All Time.  So, without further adieu, let us go to the film and break it down rant by rant, ESPN-style: [...]

Arrrrgh!

Why am I resorting to pirate talk so early in the morning? Because I’ve been tagged about a gazillion times in yet another internet meme, this time on Facebook: 25 Random Things About Me.

Not that I mind that much, it’s just that it has that whole cheesy, chain-letter feel. When I was a kid, my mother would always make a big production about ripping those up and throwing them in the trashcan whenever we received one, so it’s probably just one of those weird Baby Boomer childhood psychological baggage flashback things. Don’t sweat it if you tagged me; I’ll deal with it like I always do.

So, I’ll post these for both Fusioneers and Facebook friends. And these days, there is less and less difference between the two. Let the weirdness begin:

1. I’m a native Virginian, and that’s something that I often throw into a conversation because, you have to admit, it does have a certain historical and intellectual cachet. [...]

I’m taking time out from our regular Olympic programming for a special bulletin to my Abilene readers. Please be on the lookout for this man:

He was last spotted headed west “on the road to Abilene” with his wife Janet and a van full of kids. But don’t worry, he’s not dangerous; he’s just a little wordy sometimes.

You see, Doug is headed there to fulfill a lifetime dream of teaching in the journalism department at his alma mater, Abilene Christian University. For years, he’s been working at The Huntsville Times and writing a regular column “Soul Food,” which he also turned into a book, How Jesus Ended Up in the Food Court: Seventy-seven Devotional Thoughts You Never Thought About Before.

We’ve known Doug and Janet since our Nashville days. Doug and I have taught Bible class together and we’ve spent many an hour near a soccer pitch watching our kids play over the years. Doug also encouraged me to throw my hat in the ring for community columnist, and for that I’m grateful.

We’ll miss them greatly, but thankfully his column will still be appearing weekly and the future journalists at ACU are going to be getting one heck of an education from a bona fide real-world newspaperman who’s “been there and done that.”

If you spot him, give him one of those warm, West Texas welcomes and tell him The Eyeguy said “howdy.”

We now return you to our regular programming on Ocular Fusion, your best source for Olympic news from a Restorationist, Stone-Campbell perspective.

I’ve always conjectured that soccer futbol was a thinking person’s sport. Now I have the proof.

Beckenbauer as a “surprise choice” on the German side. Heh. Only Monty Python could come up with that.

I kick, therefore I am.

h/t to that Bleus-loving blogger Laurie

A few Final Four thoughts:

• The Davidson bubble was bound to burst at some point, but wasn’t that some kind of run?
• There was something delightfully retro about watching Stephen Curry and his band of undersized, underappreciated major conference reject brothers taking it the big boys. It reminded me of the ACC and Southern Conference basketball of my 1960s-70s youth before everything got oh-so-complicated and fancy.
• I loved getting reacquainted with Dell Curry and his lovely wife Sonya this weekend. What a class act. And Christian to boot. It’s not hard to see why their sons are turning out so good.
• Davidson Coach Bob McKillop was brilliant, but I didn’t quite understand the logic of having Curry bring the ball up court on the final play. He didn’t push it up fast enough and it made him too easy to guard, IMHO. It seemed like it would have been better to have Curry wandering around and rolling off screens which had been an effective tactic all week.
• How about Memphis actually hitting free throws yesterday? If they can continue to hit like that, they’ll be tough to stop.
• Speaking of the Tigers, when they’re on, they’re really on (so much for being a “soft” #1 seed). It will be up to Calipari to keep their heads on straight, and they seem to be loose as a goose in a noose right now. A team with a chip on their shoulders and saddled with low expectations can be very dangerous.
• I had picked UCLA to win it all, but right now I think they’re ripe for the picking.
• KU has the depth to take it, but will they step up and get past their long tradition of tournament crashes? I have my doubts after watching them yesterday. But come Saturday, I will be yelling “Rock Chalk Jayhawk” for the first time in my life anyway.
• Note to Kansas player Brandon Rush: Dude, you just barely survived playing a 10 seed. Rather than puffing out your chest and holding out your jersey for all the world to see after Jason Richards missed that last shot, you should have probably dropped to your knees in a prayer of thanks–sorta like your coach.
• Does anybody else think the college 3-point stripe needs to be moved back? I think it’s way too easy to shoot a trey these days. Moving it back would bring back such delights as the 10-12 foot pull up jumper (practically an extinct species these days and one of the toughest shots to hit) and would make a special talent like Stephen Curry stand out that much more.
• As for all the hand slapping that goes on during free throws these days (whether they make it or not), please–just stop. It’s just a free throw. There are some that think all the inter-shot kudos may be contributing to the lower FT%s we’re seeing lately and I think they may have a point.
• As for the U** T******s, GTHC and ABC (ANYBODY But Carolina).

“When I get a little money, I buy books; and if any is left I buy food and clothes.”

–Erasmus

Sometimes I feel a little dead at the end of the day, but I’ve never had the opportunity to become a middle-aged cadaver.

But my friend and outdoor adventurer Ed has.

Be sure to read his delightful story on his recent time spent “playing the stiff” for a team of training Search and Rescue Dogs (SAR K9) at the 2008 Airscent Seminar near Rogersville, Alabama.

And Ed, glad to have you back in the land of the living. Jake must give pretty good spit baths. Or was it the nose bite that did the trick?

Okay, so I’ve written my March column for The Huntsville Times, and I do a word count and find out that I’m pushing the maximum limit of 680 words.

No problem. I relentlessly self-edit (a skill that all of you–some more than others–should practice each and every day), and I whittle it down. I redo the word count. I stare in horror:

666.

I’m thinking: better add a few words.

Why start off 2008 with a laundry list of resolutions that I know I won’t keep? No, no, better to make anti-resolutions, things that I know, absolutely without a doubt, I will never, ever do this year…

1) Serve on another committee. I wasn’t just any committee member. I was a bona fide read-all-the-emails, attend-all-the-meetings, believed-I-could-actually-make-a-difference kind of committee member. I was determined to overcome my natural cynicism and play well with others. Ha! What was I thinking? Eyegal kept telling me: “Careful, Mike, you’re gonna get burned.”

I hate it the way she’s right all the time. Bureaucracies, whether they be at work or church (and sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference), suck.

2) Mistake an automatic shower self-cleaning unit for a shampoo dispenser. I swear that’s what it looked like, but then again I am pretty nearsighted (maybe I should consider LASIK). But after I pressed the button, the dang thing starting beeping like a garbage truck in reverse and spritzing me with ammonia. The upside: it was the cleanest I had been in a long, long time.

3) Take it for granted that the Crimson Tide has a game in the bag. This should go without saying, but for Pete’s sake, Louisiana-Monroe? That infamous weekend (my birthday, mind you), I comfortably headed out of town to a deep-in-the-woods B&B with Eyegal where there would be no internet or TV. No problem, I thought; we’ll hang fifty or so on the Warhawks, and I can read about the rout in the paper when I get back into town Sunday night.

Unfortunately, my cell phone still worked. That evening, I got a text message from Number Three Son who attended the game with his grandfather: “We lost.”

Lost what? Your sanity? Tell me something I don’t already know. A second later, I received another text message from Number One as he sat dejectedly in the student section at Bryant-Denny: “Happy Birthday from the Crimson Tide.” Then it dawned on me–and then I lost mine.

How low can you go? Lo-Mo, that’s how low.

4) Run two days in a row. My back just can’t take back-to-back asphalt-pounding sessions anymore. The three Rs: Rest, Recover and Relax are now my mantra. It’s sad, yes, but good grief, it’s 2008 not 1984, so I need to get over it and move on.

5) Not take a real vacation. Aside from short weekend getaways and trips to visit family, I haven’t taken a real holiday in nearly three years. I need at least a week off in some far away place. Any suggestions? And no, Hal, I’m not talking Dollywood.

6) Do an early morning workout consisting of 2 x 1600, 2 X 800, 4 x 400, 4 x 200 repeat intervals on the Grissom High School track. See #4 above.

7) Teach a Sunday School class. I’ve taught one for the past four years–and loved it for the most part–but I’m tired, and the well is a little dry. There’s a time to teach and a time to be taught. But looking around at the increasingly shallow offerings of my own Church of Christ tradition, who’s going to do the teaching? Thank God for other tribes of Christians, quality blogs (yes, there are some if you look hard enough) and Amazon.com.

Engage in another debate with an atheist online or anywhere else. Been there, done that. It’s pretty much useless. Everybody operates on faith anyway (although many atheists will never admit it), and nobody ever changes their mind. Live and let live, I say. Let’s both just agree to not commit anymore mass murder in the name of what or whomever, get on with our lives and try to make the world around us a little better.

9) Use the phrase “Which is better, Alabama or Auburn?” instead of “Which is better, one or two?” when I grow bored of doing refractions day after day. The remakes on those glasses were real killers.

10) Take the people (especially my family) and the small moments of pleasure that are a part of each day for granted. I would suggest you not do that either. After all, you never when ol’ Father Time will say, “Enough is enough, already!”

And those, Fusioneers, are my Top Ten Anti-Resolutions for 2008. Feel free to share a few of your own.

All you Fusioneers who are waiting around with bated breath for the reincarnation resurrection of Ocular Fusion into whatever-the-heck-it’s-gonna-become are no doubt starving for something good to read in my absence.

Well, never fear, my friend Jason is here. Jason, former youth minister and now associate minister and right hand man to the Big Kahuna, would be the first to tell you that he’s not afraid to explore the feminine side of things, and of course, these days, there’s no shame in that. So it was no surprise, really, that he freely admits to reading this.

He got one thing wrong, though–she’s no lumberjack’s wife. She is a self-described “Pioneer Woman,” living her days on a working ranch and journeying through life with her might-as-well-laugh-than-cry-about-it attitude. In that way, her site reminds me a lot of a middle age optometrist’s blog that I know very well.

Of course there are a few minor differences, such as her living on a working ranch, raising four kids, being married to Marlboro Man instead of Eyegal, writing an online novel that will probably some day be on the NYT‘s Bestseller List, and serving up both scrumptious recipes and soothing slices of prairie life via her lucid prose and stunning photographs. Oh, and did I mention that she has thousands of women reading and commenting on her blog? Other than those small details, you can hardly tell the difference.

Eyegal is hooked on the thing. I catch her sneaking peeks at it early in the morning and late at night. I can only imagine what goes on when I’m not here. In fact, I’m pretty sure she reads it more than she ever read mine. But, I can’t really say as I blame her.

So there you go ladies–some good stuff to tide you over until I return (notice how I worked a Bama reference in there). Guys, feel free to read it too. Don’t worry–I won’t tell. Just ask Jason.