Most of what I believe about the ongoing science v. religion debate can be discerned in this post from a couple of years ago.

Dr. Karl Giberson and I are pretty much on the same page, although he does a much finer job than I ever could of deconstructing the “new timey religion” of Richard Dawkins and Bama grad/Harvard biology professor E.O. Wilson.

Money quotes:

But let’s assume for the moment that this is possible — that science can be canonized, moralized, transcendentalized and politicized into a replacement religion, with followers, codes of conduct, celebrated texts and sacred blogs, houses of worship, “saints” of some sort and inquisitors of another sort. And let’s suppose that it’s possible for this new religion to move out of the ivory towers of academia, where it lives now, to take its place alongside the other “world” religions, attracting hundreds of millions of adherents drawn from the main streets of the world and all walks of life. What would this new religion be like once it became institutionalized? After all, if religion fills a genuine human need, something has to fill the hole created by its passing — something that appeals to billions of people.

In order for many of us to truly feel at home in the universe so grandly described by science, that science needs to coexist as peacefully as possible with the creation stories of our religious traditions. I share with Myers, Dawkins and Weinberg the conviction that we are the product of cosmic and biological evolution, that Einstein and Darwin got it right. But I want to believe that, through the eyes of my faith, this is how God created the world and that God cares about that world. Does this belief, shared by so many of our species, make me dangerous?

Like I said, anyway you cut it, you gotta have faith.

George Michael was right–sort of.

I promised that I would follow the story that I reported the other day about Lionsgate Picture’s apparent use of Ginny Owens’ “Be Thou My Vision” on the trailer for the upcoming release of Saw V.

This message was just posted on her website:

Friends: Sometime during the afternoon of Friday, July 25th, my voice on “Be Thou My Vision” was replaced by another singer.

The track still sounds nearly identical, and most websites continue to “credit” me for it, but the background music for the Saw V trailer is no longer my original version of “Be Thou My Vision.”

Thanks.

–Ginny Owens

So, to be clear, the person you hear singing on the Saw V trailer is not Ginny Owens, but someone who sounds very nearly like her.

Pretty slick, huh? As to the use of this hymn with a motion picture which depicts the dark and sadistic side of humanity in all its Technicolor gore, I’ll leave you to draw your own conclusions.

Is nothing sacred anymore? For some in this post-Christian, post-modern world of ours, apparently not.

And to the oily movie moguls at Lionsgate Studios and the other industry movers and shakers who viewed my post on their iPhones and Blackberrys Monday afternoon, I leave you with this thought:

I’m watching you.

But I think I’ll take a pass on your movie.

In a few minutes, I’ll lace up my Nike Vomero running shoes (black and gold swoosh for Harding–Hail, alma mater!) and once again hit the pavement for an early morning 5-miler. It’s a habit with roots from the early 1970s, more specifically, the 1972 Olympic Games in Munich, Germany.

I’ve been reminiscing some about that time these past few days as I’ve been writing my next Huntsville Times community column which will appear on August 10th, the opening weekend of the 2008 Beijing Summer Games.

Here’s a sneak preview:

During the 1972 Munich Games, American runners like Jim Ryun, Steve Prefontaine, Dave Wottle and Frank Shorter captured my elementary schoolboy imagination and launched my own much less stellar running career…

…I fashioned a makeshift running singlet by cutting off the sleeves of a white t-shirt and stenciling a crude “U.S.A.” across the front in red and blue magic marker. Soon I was racing an imaginary Kip Keino around my house, and I eventually wore a bare path in my father’s lawn, not as sacred and pristine as the track at the University of Oregon’s legendary Hayward Field, but just as oval…

Intrigued? Check back on August 10th for the rest of the story.

From the opening ceremonies until the Olympic flame was extinguished and the charge given to the world’s athletes to reassemble in Montreal in 1976, the Munich Olympic Games were marked forever in controversy and tragedy.

I’ll be serving up some of my own memories of that time and trying to track down some vintage YouTube footage as well.

It would go even better if we could make it a group project. Where were you in ’72?

To my Gen X and Y readers: Yeah, yeah, I know some of you weren’t even born yet. But you can still talk about your earliest Olympic memories if you like.

“Be Thou My Vision,” that wonderful old Irish (we think) hymn, is one of my favorites. And if I have to explain to you why, then you haven’t been paying very close attention these past 3 years.

I’ve always considered sacred music, well, you know, sacred. So imagine my surprise to hear the strains of Ginny Owens’ hauntingly beautiful rendition of that hymn intermeshed with the trailer for the latest installment of the Saw series, Saw V.

We were waiting for the new X Files movie to start Friday night, and the misdirection totally threw me. I was thinking, hey this looks and sounds interesting. That is, until you get closer up and the dude in the glass helmet-trap starts screaming his head off (so to speak).

I looked at Eyegal and said, “What the…? Can you believe that?” Although I’ve become pretty thick-skinned when it comes to the bastardization of beautiful things in the darker corners of today’s culture (overreacting only gives those who traffic in such trash more power and attention), this one really bothered me.

And then I thought: Wait a minute, wouldn’t Ginny Owens or her record company have had to give the producers of Saw V (Lionsgate) permission to use the music for that trailer?

Well, one would think that anyway. So I did a little research and found out that her record company is Rocketown Records, Michael W. Smith’s company, and that they had indeed been approached by Lionsgate for permission to use the music. And do you know what they said?

No.

The information is here on Ginny Owens’ website.

Apparently, there was some part of “no” that Lionsgate didn’t understand, somebody “didn’t get the memo” or else they just brazenly went ahead and used the music anyway.

I’ll be following this to see how it turns out over the next few days/weeks. The cynic in me feels that Lionsgate knows exactly what they’re doing, that they will attribute it to some “mix up in communication,” and after Rocketown lawyers have issued the obligatory threats, they will promptly withdraw the trailer.

But not before the tussle makes it into the new cycle, causes the predictable outrage and produces the extra publicity that the producers of Saw V were hoping for in the first place.

But I could be wrong. Maybe it’s just (ahem) an “honest” mistake.

So, be on the lookout for this one to make the rounds and remember: you heard it here first.

As for the song, yesterday Eyegal and I snuck off for our every-few-weeks liturgy fix, and one of the first songs we sang was “Be Thou My Vision.” We looked at each other and smiled.

It just goes to show you: You can’t keep a good song down.

In life–and in death–he raised the bar.

Requiescat in pace, Randy.

Here it is.

You tell ‘em Edgar. They won’t listen to me.

Nice timing, BTW.

I know what you’re thinking: So you believe in these kinds of things?

Let’s just say I want to believe.

As long as you notice, and have to count the steps, you are not yet dancing but only learning to dance. A good shoe is a shoe you don’t notice. Good reading becomes possible when you need not consciously think about eyes, or light, or print, or spelling. The perfect church service would be the one we were almost unaware of; our attention would have been on God.

–C.S. Lewis

This is the Roanoke Church of Christ, the congregation where I grew up in the 1960s and 70s. As is our custom, we visited and worshiped there during our recent trip to Virginia. I can remember many a Sunday evening before the second service of the day, hanging (sometimes literally) with my buddies on that front porch:

As you can see, the paint is peeling and the church is pretty old.

How old? Check it out:

Now that’s old.

And so are most of the saints worshiping there today (their paint is peeling too). They number only 50-60 on a typical Sunday now, mostly the same folks who were there 40 years ago when the congregation averaged 175-200, their children having either left the building, left town, or left church altogether.

We noticed something refreshing and a bit old-fashioned, though, during our worship there last Sunday: The utter unpretentiousness of it all.

Simple songs (both old and new), heartfelt prayers which contained no infomercials, announcements or long-winded commentaries, scripture readings galore (imagine that!), a culturally-relevant message which encouraged (rather than scolded) everyone to season the earth with the salt of Christ, and, of course, the Lord’s Supper.

And since they weren’t broadcasting over the internet and didn’t have to worry about “dead air,” there were even extended periods of–get this!–quiet.

No “hey, check us out” hype, no stylized, over-produced operatic drama, no mention of the corporate brand every 30 seconds, and, praise be to God, no PowerPoint slides.

I suppose there’s a reasonable chance that in 10-15 years they will all be gone and another group of Christians will have purchased the building, renovated it, moved the altar out of sight and added a big screen up front, and generally made it all comfy and cozy for young, 21st century families to raise their own children “in the Lord.”

More power to them, I guess.

As for me, I’ll likely shed a tear or two of nostalgia when that happens. But there will be no shame, no tsk-tsk at the church who failed to “get with the times,” adopt a corporate GROWTH strategy and finally “died” of old age.

For they will have served their purpose and attended to the most important thing: Enduring to the end, remaining forever faithful to Christ and to each other in this long, messy, slog of a march toward home.

The old shoes never fit so fine.

The last time I climbed Sharp Top Mountain, one of the two Peaks of Otter in Bedford County, Virginia, was in 1997. That year, I was in training for a marathon and had just run my first 20-miler. The very next day, my “recovery” day, I hiked the strenuous, 1.5 mile trail to the top of Sharp Top as if it were a mere stroll in the park.

A lot has changed in 11 years. This year, I only ran 4 miles and then hiked the very vertical trail to the top of Sharp Top the next day. And while I did feel a little more strain than last time, I’m pleased to report that I made it to the summit with oxygen to spare, passing several huffing and puffing younger men along the way.

At 3875 feet, Sharp Top was once thought to be the tallest peak in Virginia back in the early days. But more recent surveys have found many taller mountains in the Old Dominion (Mt. Rogers, at 5729 feet, is the highest). Still, a piece of stone from Sharp Top wound up in the Washington Monument, designating it as Virginia’s “loftiest peak:”

It was a hazy, 90 degree day, not ideal hiking conditions, but when time is short, you take what you can get. When Numbers 1-3, Cousin Nathan and I started out, we had no idea of the dangers that would be lurking around every corner. Speaking of which, here’s Number One being mauled by one of the locals:

Soon he was joined by his brothers and Cousin Nathan and together they broke all sorts of rules about communing with the wildlife (Hey, hard-core naturalists, don’t blame us; Bambi started it). As you can see, she’s pretty friendly:

Maybe a little too friendly:

Once we summited, Numbers One and Two quickly spotted the most isolated, hard-to-get-to (and dangerous) perch available and spread out to catch a few rays:

Number Three and Cousin Nathan opted for a different rock:

Before descending, the crew paused for a group shot. Round Top, which is actually a few feet taller than Sharp Top believe it or not, is in the background:

On Otter’s summit we made our stand. It may not have been the tallest peak around, but it was tall enough.

Number One will be stepping to the polls and voting in his very first Presidential election this fall.

Welcome to democracy, Number One. This one is dedicated to you.

Remember: Lighten up, people.

The Huntsville City Recreation Service’s Concerts in the Park summer series continued Monday night on an unseasonably cool and dry July evening. Citizens turned out in droves at Big Spring Park near the Huntsville Art Museum to the listen to the chillin’ sounds of two local bands, Anchor’s Eye and Band of Moose:

Man, you know you’re getting old when the kids that you used to coach in t-ball and soccer are performing live on stage and recording a session in Nashville next week to boot. Where did the time go?

It was a time to bring your camp chair and beverage of choice, enjoy the music and meet and greet old friends:

And new friends:

The politicians were out in full force, including long-time Huntsville Mayor Loretta Spencer who is running for re-election and is seen here talking to a constituent:

She even gave me this cool fan, although I didn’t really need it that night:

No, that’s not the Mother Ship from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. That’s the Von Braun Civic Center Coliseum:

Numbers One and Two and several of their friends made the scene as well:

Everyone had a great time and enjoyed the music and fellowship. Even the dog had a ball:

We may not always be, but we were that night:

My Huntsville Times community column this month is dedicated to Chris and Suzanne, Jane, Father Ray, Marquez, Maricela and many others (e.g., Nic and Diane, Uncle Dick, M.C., Mike and Jeanette and their three fine sons and, of course, Elsie) who made our recent Washington D.C. trip one to remember but whose names I didn’t mention because they limit me to only 680 words.

But I mention them now because it’s my blog and I can if I want to!

Let freedom ring, baby.

Recently, during a Bible class at my church, the teacher, a man in his early 30s, said something to this effect: I wish we could return to our 1950s morality.

I immediately thought: Which 1950s morality are you talking about? The black and white, warm and fuzzy, cut and dry predictability of Ozzie and Harriet or the black and white Jim Crow laws and state-supported racism which consigned a significant portion of our Southern population to second-class citizenship, public lynchings and other various and sundry travesties of justice?

And what year were you born in? 1975? What could you possibly know about “1950s morality?”

I started to raise my hand and say something, but one good swift elbow in the ribs from Eyegal took care of that.

Be careful what you wish for, I say. I understand the angst behind the comment (to wit, this summer’s #1 pop song), but as my dear friend, The Preacher in Ecclesiastes, said:

“Do not say, ‘Why were the old days better than these?’ For it is not wise to ask such questions.”

–Ecclesiastes 7:10

Politicians, preachers and pundits often traffic in fear, whipping up (or exaggerating) a crisis in order to solidify their power, fire up the troops and open up their wallets.

You know what I’m talking about:

The country is going to hell-in-a-handbasket!

Traditional morality is going down the tubes. Man your battle stations!

The church is going astray–it’s up to us to keep it on “the old paths.”

This election is the scariest one in a long time. We must cover it in prayer to make sure that, you know, that guy doesn’t get elected…

Yeah, the scariest one since what, 1960? As if one president is going to make or break this country…please.

Frankly, I’m sick of it.

So, I decided to counter a little of that ever-pervasive gloom and doom with some fond–and optimistic–recollections and stories from my recent trip to Washington, D.C. in my next community column. Read all about it in this Sunday’s Huntsville Times.

I know what the cynics will say: That’s awfully hopeful of you.

Well, you know, just color me audacious.

Number Two is “wheels down” in Huntsville after his three week tour of Germany/Austria/Switzerland. Huzzah!

We were expecting more of a grungy, grizzled Euro-backpacker look upon his return. Instead, we got this:

I guess he got a good night’s sleep and a chance to freshen up a bit at that Ho-Jo in Philly.

He also brought back a handsome stash of stuff that included Euro ’08 t-shirts, candy galore, soccer mini-balls, shot glasses for all his friends, a lovely wooden miniature Christmas tree for Eyegal and this little jewel for me:

That’s not just any Swiss Army Knife. That’s one that came direct from Switzerland. Brady, eat your heart out.

He regaled us with stories over dinner, and then I asked him if he had one highlight that stood out among all the others.

Without hesitation, he told us about his hike to The Kehlsteinhaus (The Eagle’s Nest) and said:

“Taking a dump in Hitler’s toilet!”

Take that, Mein Führer!

The boy’s homeschooled–what can I say?

We had the perfect evening planned: Attend the opening night party at the new Barnes and Noble at Bridge Street Plaza and then head out to Huntsville International Airport (that’s right, international airport) to meet Number Two Son as he returned home from Germany.

But then he called from Philadelphia. They had flown from Frankfort, made it through customs, checked their bags again (which made their way onto their flight to Charlotte), and then ran to the gate only to find that the US-Air agent had just sold all sixteen of their seats to standby customers.

Again, mind you, their bags made it onto the plane, but they didn’t. How hard would it have been to hold the plane for a group of sixteen that were already on the premises? Well, apparently too hard for good ol’ reliable US-Air.

Number Two called late last night and we asked him where they were staying.

“The airline is putting us up at some hotel…Howard something.”

That would be Johnson, son. As you can see, US-Air spares no expense in making things right with their customers.

Hey US-Air, that’s a nice piece of customer service. For that, and the two hours that I waited on the tarmac recently at BWI while you guys haggled over the best way to fly around a storm, I offer you this salute:

Plplplplplplt!

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