THE CHURCHWARDEN

The Churchwarden Woolly Bugger

2012-02-10T04:07:00.000-08:00

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Yesterday I had to mail out some old magazines to a friend of mine and it so happened that the post office I chose is located halfway between my humble abode and the Scantic River in Hampden (MA). The providential implications of such a situation were too obvious to ignore. "Never leave home without a fly rod," is my motto and it has served me well for decades. When I got to the water I was already prepared.

I always prospect a certain pool which usually yields at least one trout, even in cold weather. I started off with a red San Juan Worm, but cast after cast produced absolutely nothing. This, of course, meant switching to a Bugger—touted by many anglers, myself included, as the best default fly ever tied throughout the whole history of fly fishing. I picked a Churchwarden Woolly Bugger (CWB) from my box, tied it on and tossed the thing 15 yards straight downstream.

The CWB is a Woolly Bugger I designed with a color scheme to represent a churchwarden pipe. The black tail is the stem. The brown body portrays the bowl. Fire in the briar is shown by an orange chenille head and the rising smoke is illustrated through grey or light blue hackle. The result is a very effective attractor pattern. Feel free to tie the Churchwarden yourself, and may God give you tight lines often.

I had barely begun my retrieve when a speckled little fish suddenly hit hard and put up a fight much bigger than its size should have allowed. Heaven was pelted with hearty praise right about then, trust me.

Winter grace for a fly fisherman, my friends, can be as simple as a seven-inch native brookie.

Called to the Ministry? Maybe.

2012-02-02T09:21:00.000-08:00

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There are men in the ministry who clearly should not stand behind a pulpit except to publicly resign from their churches because they were never called by God to preach in the first place. So, for years I’ve resisted every inward urge to seek ordination lest I find myself pursuing a personal agenda instead of God’s purpose. It’s safer to suck out a septic tank through a straw than to impose oneself on some unsuspecting congregation as a hireling shepherd, and I’m seriously not interested in doing either. Nevertheless, if I could do whatever I wanted when I grow up I'd pastor a small country church somewhere near a perfect trout stream that meandered through the most densely populated grouse cover ever known in the history of partridge hunting. My study would be filled with old Reformed books, double barreled shotguns and bamboo fly rods. In the mornings I'd pray, read theology, prepare sermons, smoke a pipe and tie a few flies, then visit farmers pastorally in the afternoons and thereafter catch the evening rise or bag a brace of birds on the way home—all for the glory of God. Such has been my dream for decades, but until recently I’ve not experienced a genuine sense of calling. That prohibition, however, may be not be able to stand up much longer as a reasonable excuse.

The voices in my head keep telling me to pursue the pastorate. At any given moment I can recall provocative conversations with Jeanette Brown, Steve Swenson, Tony Phelps, Stephen LaValley and Amy Fuller to this effect. These are folks I dearly love, whose opinions I definitely trust. Jeanette is a pastor’s bride, Steve is a ruling elder, Tony is a teaching elder in the PCA, Stephen is the overseer of my church and Amy, of course, is married to me. None of them would willingly encourage a course of action contrary to God’s will. Therefore I’ve finally decided to listen to what those voices are saying.

More importantly, perhaps, Grace Presbyterian Church (PCA)—the local church I have joyfully served as an elder for almost seven years—wholeheartedly supports the pursuit also.

I’m far from ready and pray daily for God to torpedo me out of the water if I am delusional.

Nevertheless the primary objective now is to get prepared—not only academically, but practically—by the time I retire at age 62. In other words, although I greatly enjoy hunting and fishing, I won’t worship either as the god of retirement. Without a doubt I’ll still wade the rivers and walk the woods whenever possible, but I intend to fully serve the Lord as a faithful under-shepherd of His people until He turns my body into worm food—which, as you can well imagine, is the ultimate irony for a fly fisherman.

And a plan better than the dream referenced above is already in play: By God’s sovereign grace I’ll be installed one day as the assistant pastor of GPC, located in the Springfield suburb of Longmeadow, Massachusetts. I can honestly think of nothing more humbling or desirable.

Just Shut Up!!!

2012-01-11T21:26:00.001-08:00

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I wonder what would happen if just one contemporary evangelical preacher sincerely complimented another for his writing or preaching. I strongly suspect the world may end suddenly and Jesus might be rather flustered because He did not get to come back before it occurred. If the virtual universe represents the real deal with any degree of accuracy, then evangelicalism—especially the rabidly Reformed contingent—is a cannibal tribe hell-bent on devouring its own members until the last man standing finally eats himself.

Judging by the blogosphere the Mighty Righties must hate each other quite religiously. How else can the relentless onslaught of personal attacks on the internet be adequately explained? Everybody thinks they are called by God to be a heresy hunter and nobody is willing wait long enough to fire at a proper target. So they shoot indiscriminately, wounding some, killing others, but always consuming the bloodied casualties—dead or alive—for breakfast, lunch and dinner.

Thus, upon the extremely unlikely event that somebody should take The Churchwarden's advice seriously, I will risk offering sound counsel which I believe could be an effective three point solution to the aforementioned problem:

1. Accurately determine whether or not you are actually aiming at a heretic. Does your potential trophy graze within the theological parameters of the historic ecumenical creeds? If so, stand down; there is absolutely no justification for pulling the trigger.

2. Try being biblical—a uniquely radical idea, I know—but one well worth attempting nevertheless: "If your brother sins against you, go and tell him his fault, between you and him alone. If he listens to you, you have gained your brother. But if he does not listen, take one or two others along with you, that every charge may be established by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If he refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church. And if he refuses to listen even to the church, let him be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector. Truly, I say to you, whatever you bind on earth shall be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. Again I say to you, if two of you agree on earth about anything they ask, it will be done for them by my Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them. (Matthew 18:15-20)” Instead of going public immediately, first go to your brother in the Lord privately. Truly amazing things transpire when evangelicals, who purportedly trust the Bible to be God's book, actually obey the divinely inspired words written therein.

3. Look in the mirror. If a self righteous jackass stares back at you, go bray to God in genuine repentance and thereafter humble yourself enough to shut up—particularly whenever nothing negative needs to be said in the first place.

If any of this sounds a little too personal, all I dare say is that certain lessons are often learned the hard way.

And now it's my turn to be quiet.

My New Year's Resolutions for 2012

2011-12-31T03:50:00.000-08:00

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According to the Mayan calendar life as we know it is supposed to end on December 21, 2012. I'm highly doubtful this will happen precisely when predicted unless, of course, the Second Coming occurs on that date. Nevertheless time could be short and, being the practical man I most certainly am, that means my resolutions for the New Year must be readily attainable. Therefore, for 2012, I resolve:

1. To breathe. Breathing has always come rather naturally to me, thus I'm giving serious thought to continuing the practice for another 355 days—365 if the Mayans turn out to be wrong.

2. To smoke a pipe regularly. C.S. Lewis once said, "A pipe gives a wise man time to think and a fool something to stick in his mouth." According to my status on any given day, I'll be covered either way.

3. To shoot often. There is nothing quite as therapeutic as pulling the trigger on a .45 semi-automatic pistol—repeatedly and imaginatively.

4. To recapture the discipline of memorizing Scripture. No greater motivation can found beyond the biblical sentiment of Psalm 119:11, "I have stored up your word in my heart, that I might not sin against you."

5. To fish regularly. As John Buchan observed, "The charm of fishing is that it is the pursuit of what is elusive but attainable, a perpetual series of occasions for hope."

6. To be self controlled towards other drivers. Had I been able to buy a vehicle equipped with rocket launchers in 2011 there would be substantially fewer idiots on the road, trust me.

7. To obey the second greatest commandment far less hypocritically. Actions speak louder than words and sometimes my behavior shouts too loudly, "Love thyself, Fuller, screw thy neighbors."

8. To drink only top shelf Scottish whisky. I enjoyed a relatively immature bottle of Talisker throughout 2011, but for 2012 I want to sip something which has aged long and gracefully.

9. To buy several Bonhoeffer volumes. Dietrich Bonhoeffer is my favorite Lutheran theologian next to Luther himself and I'm attempting to acquire his complete works, book by book wherever I discover a decent deal.

10. To put 7000 miles the Victory motorcycle. I typically average 5 grand between March and November—which is a lot of riding, but not nearly enough.

10. To concentrate almost exclusively on reading the Gospels in 2012. I sense an ever deepening need to become increasing Christocentric in how I interpret the universe and my role in it. The historical Jesus has revealed himself in Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. I shall meet Him in those writings once again and humbly sit at his feet for awhile.

11. To shepherd better. I am a husband, father, grandfather and an elder who has a great deal of improvement to make with respect to spiritually nourishing these relationships.

12. To purchase new waders. The pair I wear now are literarily held together with duct tape.

13. To sincerely anticipate the return of Christ. I want my heart to truly echo the cry of the Church down through the ages, "Come Lord Jesus!"

The astute reader will note the utter absence of religion in my resolutions. That's because "religionless Christianity" is not just a slogan I stole from Bonhoeffer. It's a lifestyle which I believe is eminently biblical and amounts to: Know Jesus Christ, love both God and man, repent of sin, avoid ramming your head up your own wazoo whenever possible, thankfully enjoy the good gifts of divine providence and look forward to heaven passionately.

And so:
Praise the Lord,
and Happy New Year, homies!

Reading the Gospels in 2012

2011-12-13T15:59:00.000-08:00

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According to Hebrews 1:3 Jesus Christ is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of his nature. In other words, whoever wants to know what God is like must diligently study Jesus since there is no dichotomy between the divine nature of the Father and that of the Son. More to the point, the Lord will never be interpreted properly apart from a clear apprehension of Christ because in these last days He has spoken to us by his Son, whom He appointed the heir of all things, through whom also he created the world (Hebrews 1:2).

What is weird is how often Calvinistic preachers concentrate on the Old Testament or the New Testament epistles and neglect the Gospels. Check this out for yourself if you do not believe me. Frankly I, too, am guilty as charged. My own sermons are largely derived from prophets and Paul rather than Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. Yet, I along with everybody else in the Reformed camp claim to be Christocentric.

The problem, of course, is that it is awfully hard to be truly Christ-centered in one's affections and preaching while ignoring these source documents of our Savior's historicity. The Gospels are really the focal point of God’s Word. They show us the genuine historical Jesus and, in so doing, illustrate the fulfillment of all the Old Covenant messianic prophesies as well as lay the foundation for every New Covenant application of Christology.

Without the Synoptics and John's unique contribution the Old Testament is cultic literature, the New Testament letters are religious rubbish, Jesus is just one more messiah figure among many, God is unknowable and mankind abides in darkness eternally.

I intend to focus almost exclusively upon the four Gospels in 2012, with an emphasis upon Luke—volumes 1 and 2. There are several personal reasons for this plan, all of which can be summarized in a single accusatory sentence: I am a self righteous Pharisee who needs to be blinded by the Son once more so I can see the face of God once again.

Affordable Towing in Agawam, Massachusetts

2011-12-09T14:01:00.000-08:00

You have got to be extraordinarily worthy to deserve free advertising on The Churchwarden, but Affordable Towing in Agawam, Massachusetts made the grade today.

I had just picked up my mother this afternoon from the rehabilitation center, wherein she spent several aggravating weeks of a rapidly aging life. Needless to say, getting home fast was her number one priority. En route to Mom's humble apartment in the West Springfield senior housing development her little Neon suffered a flat tire which, indeed, preempted that plan rather dramatically.

I tried changing the tire myself, but the thing was stuck on the axil so tightly that no amount of abuse with a lug nut wrench would loosen it up. Then God, in His good providence, brought along the fine folks at Affordable Towing to the rescue. I saw their truck, flagged it down and received quick, courteous help at no cost whatsoever. I even tried offering a tip, but was flat out refused.

I told the owner I would thank him by mentioning his generosity on this blog. I'm quite glad to so. Such customer service is rare and I am grateful for it.

AFFORDABLE TOWING
http://www.affordabletowing413.com/

Tyler Lane Pipes

2011-12-07T04:14:00.000-08:00

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Tyler Beard (proprietor of Tyler Lane Pipes) is a pain in the ol' hinder parts. Mr. Beard is a pipe carving pastor who had the annoying audacity to challenge my self righteous opinion, so eloquently and hyperbolically expressed in the previous CW post, that briars are a rip-off. He accused me of being pragmatic: Pragmatism with no value for beauty doesn't strike me as a very Christian worldview. Who needs color when we have black and white? Why did God waste His time with the extravagant beauty of the heavens? This was Beard's opening argument in a friendly debate we enjoyed about the position I had taken on the pricing of pipes. As our "back-and-forth" progressed his point became clearer, namely that mankind bears the image of God. Consequently people produce art and their creative products can be assigned a monetary worth far greater than the sum of labor, components and utilitarian functionality. Buyers will freely pony up whatever they personally feel is a fair deal for the artistic value of a given purchase. Thus, no ripping-off actually occurs and the perspective I presented as objective fact is, therefore, subjective steer scat.

I am a thinker and so I thought. Bottom line: Despite the undeniable brilliance of the philosophical presuppositions expressed in that aforementioned rant, I was altogether wrong theologically.

Plus I am a hypocrite. I never practice abject pragmatism. After all, I dearly love art and gladly pay for the stuff, which is precisely why I usually buy finished briars with interesting shapes rather than unfinished pipe kits (and prefer bamboo fly rods over graphite). Artistic beauty typically trumps a strictly practical purpose whenever I buy most anything.

Although I will not delete the Pipes Are A Rip-off article because it is now a part of The Churchwarden history, I publicly retract the unwarranted sentiments stated therein.

To properly thank Tyler Beard for re-calibrating my thinking, I will cheerfully advertise his fine work in The Churchwarden.

http://tylerlanepipes.com/

And, for the record, I whole-heartily endorse Reverend Beard's well stated pipe making philosophy:

My primary pursuit in pipe making is beauty.

A perfectly functioning pipe is of course critical, but that is relatively easy to achieve. Drill three holes in the right places in the best block of briar you can buy. Drill one hole through a piece of stem material and file it open to the appropriate dimensions. I do not mean to suggest I don’t care about those holes. I make each of my pipes with fastidious attention to detail. I am of the belief that smooth air flow is critically important to the best possible smoke, and correspondingly pay considerable attention to the details of air flow, fit and finish. My point is that well-drilled holes are not what stir the soul. What moves us when we see the pipe is getting lost in a sea of iridescent birds eye magnified by a marvelously executed shape; it is the just-right texture of a craggy blast in the palm of our hand; it is curves and lines and flow accentuated by a liquid-smooth finish. What stirs the soul is beauty. My role as a pipe maker is to pursue beauty. It is a good task.

Any pipe that is less than ideal is not stamped a Tyler Lane pipe. It is my goal that every Tyler Lane pipe thrills each buyer so much with its beauty and function that the buyer feels that he got the best possible value in an artisan pipe.

In God's economy, folks, iron sharpens iron. Praise the Lord for brothers in Christ who are not afraid to assault the status-quo of my wayward thoughts—especially when I am stupid enough to put them in print!

Here is a clickable link to Pastor Beard's fine briars
Tyler Lane Pipes

Pipes Are A Rip-off

2011-11-25T03:15:00.000-08:00

The nice thing about writing The Churchwarden is that I answer to absolutely no one—except God, of course, the wife obviously and several voices in my head, but otherwise nobody. Thus, when I say pipes are a rip-off I really don't care whether or not anybody agrees with me, although whoever doesn't plainly has their head so far up the ol' wazoo that a proctologist couldn't pull it out with a tractor.

Consider, for a moment, the following diagrams:

Fundamentally a pipe is nothing more than a hunk of briar with two holes drilled into it and a stem attached.

This is a pipe:

Ditto here:

The primary distinctions between these two briars are fit, finish, who carved each and prices. The first is a kit pipe which may cost $50.00 at most, the second is tagged at $750.00. Both are basically dried out plateaux sections of the the heath tree root—in other words, pieces of wood. The $700 difference essentially amounts to grain, artistry and a name.

For the record, I personally own a briar made by maker #2 which smokes truly beautifully. However, on one occasion a long time ago I lit up an unfinished kit pipe for fun. Not surprisingly the fugly thing smoked just as well, if not better. With my eyes closed it definitely would have been preferential.

I love our free market society and have no problem with a person making money. Certainly a pipe maker deserves compensation for his labors and artistry. Let him sell those briars for whatever people are stupid enough to pay.

But according to my self righteous (albeit, infallible) opinion, pipes are still a rip-off.

Here is a true story to prove the point: A decade back, when famous pipe maker Elliot Nachwalter still handcrafted briars in his Vermont shop, he sold so-called lesser brands along side his own work. One day I bought a retired Stanwell show pipe for $150.00 from him, a polished Nordic 64 sporting an absolutely gorgeous straight grain pattern on the bowl. Elliot said if he had produced my purchase himself I would have paid no less than $400.00. Two hundred-fifty bucks merely for the Nachwalter moniker? Rip-off!

The solution to getting screwed by the pipe industry is not necessarily settling for factory-mades instead of stuff done by hand. Manufactured briars are overpriced, too; don't believe me, look for yourself. Instead I suggest three alternatives well worth investigating:

1. Make your own. Get a kit and go to work. The result should be eminently smokeable, maybe even esthetically pleasing, and you'll thoroughly enjoy the experience.

2. Buy estate pipes. Really excellent deals can be found by those smokers who don't mind searching for them.

3. Drive a hard bargain. Never pay the asking price for anything. I once talked a tobacco shop owner down from $275.00 to $115.00 on a new Safferling

Brothers of the briar, here is the take-home lesson from this amusing little article: Buyer beware, stick it to the man and all that good stuff. Be cheap, don't be idiots. Beat the system, homies. You can do it!

Quoting Myself

2011-11-12T09:57:00.000-08:00

I noticed that some of my recent Facebook posts were a little strange. Wondering if they represented any sort of a pattern, I took a quick survey of my FB blather for the year and here is a small sampling of what I found. I thought my Churchwarden readers may find these comments amusing, if not disconcerting. I'll leave whatever conclusions that could be drawn about the state of my sanity up to you:

My theory on the Arkansas bird and fish kill is that UFO's flown by exclusive psalmody Presbyterians accidently caused it.

Send me money right now. I deserve it. In return I'll send you a pair of anointed prayer shorts.

It occurs to me that my first few posts of the new year deal with trout, UFO's and prayer shorts. Methinks I have issues, all of which probably have names nobody can pronounce and cost a lot of money to treat. Perhaps if I smoke my pipe and sip a shot of single malt, I'll get better all by myself. If not, who cares?

Below is an article on Pine Bush, NY. Pine Bush is the UFO capital of the East Coast. Many years ago I preached at a sovereign grace Baptist church in that town, precisely when the UFO sightings were at their peak. Calvinists and aliens in the same local at the same time: coincidence or convergence?

Tonight I gave my cat, Turtle, a bath. Turtle screamed like a Democrat at the thought of immigration reform. My daughter's cat, Tigger, who fights with Turtle on a daily basis came to her aid by trying to kill me. I lived, Tigger got soundly whacked in the head and Turtle survived her soaking. Life is good—unless, at the moment, you're a house cat in the Fuller household.

Beer, corn flakes and a vitamin pill for breakfast—the breakfast of somebody who probably needs professional help of some kind!

I need professional psychiatric care, that much is obvious. Why else would I be up this late at night watching Elvis impersonators on YouTube if I didn't have serious psychological issues?

I've decided to invent TurdTown to offer internet zombies just one more crappy way to waste their worthless existence. Anybody want to sign up?

Tell me, how can an unemployed man be bored and depressed when he's got guns and whisky?

Ok, I've checked FB, Yahoo email and my FB pipe club, and not one of you has indicated that you're sending me any money. How am I supposed to buy the complete works of Joel Olsteen, a new Moto Guzzi motorcycle, a Bill Oyster fly rod, an MDiv from Online Streamline Seminary, ministerial credentials from the Universal Life Church, and start my own cult unless my homies pony up some cash? Start writing those checks. Now!

One of my FB friends pointed out that Martin Luther was born 528 years ago on today's date. This tidbit of information has inspired me: Next year I plan to dress up as Luther for Halloween and scare the hell out of my Catholic neighbors.

Tonight I ate Chinese food and got instantly ordained online by the Universal Life Church. I may finish up the evening by smoking a cigar I conned out of a lawyer last night.

Falling squarely in that odd category of Too Much Information, I recently noticed—as in 3 days ago—that on my bed were: a chainsaw, 1000 rounds of 9 mm ammo, 2 cats and volume 1 of Barth's Church Dogmatics. I'm not making this up—which ought to bother me somewhat I suppose, but it doesn't.

Today I learned on FB that I am actually a cephalopod, who was stolen from a famous aquarium when just a baby and raised by Mennonite anarchists who spent huge sums of money garnered from bank heists to get me genetically altered so I would grow lungs and breath air.

Tomorrow afternoon I am going to sight in a single shot Savage .22 rifle I unexpectedly found under my bed two days ago. Apparently it's been there for a few years, a fact which raises all sorts interesting questions—none of which I want to answer.

Today I have a job interview at 3:00 p.m. I could not tell you what the job is or who it's for because the woman who called won't tell me until the interview. Maybe this will be the job God provides, maybe not. Meanwhile, I found two more .22 rifles in a closet last night. That makes three altogether so far. I don't think there are anymore to find, but time will tell!

Falling squarely into the category of things you really don't want to know about me is this little gem: The other day I knocked a bunch of shotgun shells off my bedroom dresser. When I gathered them up I found a cigar I had lost some time ago. That stogie aged well from what I can tell, and I'm going to smoke it tomorrow while mowing the church lawn. Do you find any of this a bit disturbing?

I applied for 6 more jobs this morning, feed the chickens, took out the trash and spent time in prayer. I was not abducted by aliens, nor hugged by an octopus. I did, however, notice that Octomom looks like a younger version of Cher—which is not saying much for either of them.

I'm off to an impromptu session meeting in two minutes—at Friendly's of all places. No cigars tonight. I feel emasculated; I feel like a Northampton Episcopalian.

I wonder if I can work as a crash test dummy.

Sometimes I look back on my life in astonishment and ask myself, "Did all this stuff really happen?" Other times I look back on my life and ask myself, "What the hell was I thinking?" Either way, I'm glad God is ultimately the One running the show and not me.

WWJGD?

2011-09-09T18:38:00.000-07:00

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WWJGD?

If you're sad, if you're blue,
grab a rod
and ask yourself,
"What would John Gierach Do?"

WWJRRD?

2011-09-08T20:18:00.000-07:00

WWJRRD?

When in doubt,
if you're blue,
Light a pipe and
ask yourself:
What would
JRR do?

Commissional, not Missional

2011-09-06T15:55:00.000-07:00

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Maybe I'm a moron, but I really don't understand the relentless blather about being "missional" nowadays. That saying is ubiquitous—showing up everywhere in contemporary God-talk—and means, apparently, whatever anyone wishes. Its definition always seems to be contextual rather than etymological. So then, the missional church preaches the Gospel to the poor and my missional cat pisses on a pillow. To use another overused motif: Both are purpose-driven, yet their purposes are entirely different and bear no relationship whatsoever to one another.

Therefore I am coining a new Christian adjective, derived from the Great Commission in Matthew 28, namely: Commissional. Jesus said, “All authority in heaven and on earth has been given to me. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all that I have commanded you. And behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age.”

Thus:
1. The commissional church makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
2. The commissional pastor makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
3. The commissional elder makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
4. The commissional deacon makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
5. The commissional missionary makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
6. The commissional lay person makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.
7. The commissional theologian makes disciples and teaches them to obey Jesus.

Commissional possesses the virtue of an expression which remains static and scriptural. No matter what the context may be, the word invariably conveys the singular idea of making disciples and teaching them to obey their Savior. The downside, of course, is that the term is not elastic enough to hold a burgeoning load of religious BS. Consequently it will never gain acceptance in the language of postmodern Christianity.

Advice to Single Woman

2011-08-06T15:07:00.000-07:00

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I know some Churchwarden readers—in other words, people who desperately need to get a real life—are single woman and, since my blog is an equal opportunity source of wisdom, I've decided to embrace diversity by enlightening you as well. Consequently today's post has been plagarized from Jessica Fuller, my second cousin, who undoubtedly ripped it off from elsewhere because—trust me—no Fuller is the history of Fullerdom has ever been this clever or wise all on their own. Nevertheless, here is a chunk of rock solid advice (slightly edited for clarity) worth paying attention to, so listen up my dear homie-ettas and save yourselves a lot of heartaches:

For my single lady friends who are in a hurry to get married, here's a quick piece of Biblical advice: Ruth patiently waited for her mate Boaz. While waiting on your Boaz, don't settle for any of his relatives—Brokeaz, Poaz, Lyinaz, Cheatinaz, Dumbaz, Drunkaz, Cheapaz, Lockedupaz, Goodfornothinaz, Lazyaz or Marriedaz, and especially his third cousin, Beatinyoaz. Please, wait on your Boaz, and make sure he loves and respects Yoaz !

A Confession To Bishop Harry Hackle From Father Felim McAllister

2011-07-25T16:34:00.000-07:00

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25 July 2011

Dear Bishop Hackle:

According to a well proven truism, confession is good for the soul. Therefore, my dear bishop, because you're so personally acquainted with the dark side—that symbiotic relationship between heresy and unfaithfulness—I come to you, fully persuaded of gaining a sympathetic hearing.

Proclaiming what is most blatantly obvious, I am a hard core fly fisherman. The whole world, or my little church at least, regards me as an unrepentant idolator of cane (Arundinaria amabilis), fur and feathers—perhaps not without just cause. Admittedly the spectacle of yours truly chucking crawlers to chunky trout with a spinning rod would be shocking beyond belief. Thus, my severely humbled conscience demands an agonizing confession of a recent dalliance with that devilish methodology. Alas, I—God's advocate of angling orthodoxy—finally succumbed to the blasphemy of bubba fishing. Indeed I've become a heretic, apostatizing from the faith once delivered to all saintly fly fishermen. Oh, the guilt!

One of my retired parishioners, Fanny McCracken, decided to take up a new hobby and asked if I'd kindly share a spot where she might catch her first trout. The Swift River immediately came to mind, especially the famously over-stocked stretch of water between Belchertown and Palmer. My idea was to canoe upstream to the Route 9 bridge and then drift down to the Bondsville dam, picking up risers wherever we saw them. A pretty decent plan, I figured, until Fanny sheepishly indicated she was seriously unprepared to wade into a man's world, preferring to toss garden fare with Zebco gear like some giggly school girl.

Through no fault of my own, I found myself immediately confronted with an ethical problem of gargantuan proportions: Would I impose personal convictions upon the situation by requiring the exclusive use of a bamboo stick? Could I compromise by simply suggesting we cast our respective rods of choice? Or should I capitulate, caving in to the contemptible practice of baptising lowly Oligochaeta until their inevitable demise? Naturally capitulation won the day. Ancient memories of instant success with wiggling worms suckered me quite effectively.

On the appointed day Mrs. McCracken, her rather eccentric husband and I met at our rendezvous point, freighted the canoe with more crap imaginable, lit a stogie apiece—Fanny loves Fuente Hemingways—and shoved off. As we paddled upstream the powerful hankering to roast a few of the river's finny fauna on a wood fire grew exponentially with every synchronized stroke. We spoke of nearly nothing else.

The trout soon betrayed their whereabouts with rises too numerous to count. They were hungry and hardly selective; I feared landing the limit much faster than desired. One cast confirmed my suspicion. A huge rainbow abruptly ignored the emerging mayflies and prophetically hit the nightcrawler as if it were his last meal.

Fanny nailed two brookies, lost a behemoth brown and gabbled endlessly about the big one that got away. Another cast or two brought a psychotic landlock wholly determined to commit homicide. Salmon are rarely stocked in Bay State tail waters. This testosterone-charged male probably washed over the Quabbin Reservoir spillway during ice-out in April—a pleasant surprise certainly.

McCracken's hubby and I traded cigars; I gave him a La Fontana, he handed me a Romeo Y Julieta. We talked tobacco for awhile, switching to theology thereafter. God is full of interesting surprises; I unexpectedly discovered a kindred spirit, Calvinistically speaking. Suddenly his reel started to sing, whereupon a large smallmouth bass jumped right into our boat! We both laughed hysterically while praising the Lord for His strange providence.

As I began to impale another crawler I realized the three of us were enjoying bona-fide fun. But I also thought about the trout we had caught, none of them with a fly rod . . . and felt decidely rotten. There was no sportsmanship in the whole affair, none whatsoever. Those speckled beauties fell prey to a slimey seductress from hell: "Hey buddy, come nibble on these juicy segments." And each of them did. How shameful!

I'm rambling, of course. Nevertheless, since you're such a committed capitulator yourself I am merely asking you to empathetically absolve my dastardly deed.

Forgive me, father, for I have sinned. I will never take fish with bait again.

Sincerely,

Reverend Felim McAllister

Paleo-orthodox and Reformed

2011-07-07T03:33:00.000-07:00

Andrews Hall (http://www.andreweshall.org/) is a fairly new Reformed Episcopal seminary. Below you will see the seminary's doctrinal position, which I have reproduced here because the content sets forth quite nicely the paleo-orthodox perspective of both The Churchwarden blog and its founder, editor and resident eccentric wacko—namely Perry S. Fuller, whom I am led to believe may actually be me. I am Presbyterian and Reformed, which means I adhere tightly to the historic Calvinistic confessions. Yet the stucture of those credal formulations is grounded solidly upon the bedrock theology outlined below. Despite opinions to the contrary, there is nothing inconsistent with being Reformed and paleo-orthodox at the same time. In fact, I do not see how it is possible to be the first without first being the second.

Our Doctrinal Standards

Perhaps the best shorthand statement of our doctrinal position as a seminary is the famous formula set forth by Lancelot Andrewes’ in defining the boundaries of faith and practice for the Church of England:

One canon reduced to writing by God himself, two testaments, three creeds, four general councils, five centuries, and the series of Fathers in that period – the centuries that is, before Constantine, and two after, determine the boundary of our faith.

“One Canon”

We affirm that the Canon of Holy Scripture is central to our Rule of Faith, standing as the ultimate norm of belief and practice. We affirm the Bible to be the infallible and revealed Word of God. Hence we test all things by God’s Word written.

“Two Testaments”

We affirm the 39 canonical books of the Old Testament and the 27 books of the New Testament to be the limits of biblical inspiration. The received books of the Deuterocanon or “Apocrypha”, while being an important subdivision of the greater biblical corpus, are in no way afforded the same status as the inspired books of the Old and New Testaments. The Church may read them “for example of life and instruction of manners,” yet they are not used or applied to establish binding doctrine (cf. Article VI of the Articles of Religion of the Church of England).

We also affirm Two Sacraments as ordained by Christ Himself – Baptism and the Supper of the Lord – ministered with unfailing use of Christ’s words of Institution, and of the elements ordained by Him (cf. Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral of 1886/1888).

“Three Creeds”

We affirm (1) the Apostles’ Creed, as our Baptismal symbol; (2) the Nicene Creed, as the sufficient statement of the Christian Faith; and (3) the creed known in the West as the “Creed of Saint Athanasius”, as affirming the mysteries of the Triune God and the Personal union of two Natures in our Divine Lord and Savior Jesus Christ.

“Four Councils”

We affirm the dogmatic definitions of the first four ecumenical councils of the undivided Church – (1) Nicaea, A.D. 325, (2) Constantinople, A.D. 381, (3) Ephesus, A.D. 431, and (4) Chalcedon, A.D. 451 – as representing the true mind of the Church Catholic in the face of heresy and controversy, and the consensus of the faithful as led by the Spirit of God into all truth. The later ecumenical councils (i.e., the fifth, sixth, and seventh) are affirmed as orthodox to the degree that they are consistent with, while adding nothing to, the substance of dogma defined by the first four.

“Five Centuries”

We affirm the witness of the Spirit of God during the formative period of the Church, otherwise known as the Patristic era, contained primarily in the writings and testimonies of the great Fathers of the first five centuries (roughly from the Apostles to Gregory the Great). This witness continues to inform our faith and practice, especially in the areas of polity, worship, and evangelical mission.

One further note…

Andrewes Hall finds its identity in the Reformed character of the historic Protestant Church of England and the greater Anglican tradition. Thus we cherish and honor the heritage of the Book of Common Prayer and the Articles of Religion contained therein. Nevertheless, we also remain open to fellowship, dialogue and interaction with Christians of all branches of Christ’s Church in the spirit and heritage of the Chicago-Lambeth Quadrilateral of 1886/1888.

Habkkuk 3:17-19 Sermon Notes

2011-06-04T18:47:00.000-07:00

Tomorrow morning—Sunday, June 5, 2011— I am preaching Habbakuk 3:17-19 to my congregation; the pastor is enroute to the PCA's General Assembly. Below is the general trjectory of the sermon in a rough outline/note form—which I'll have gone over approximately a billion times to get it's gist bored into my brain. Before leaving for church, I'll put only the major headings down on paper to keep myself going in a straight line since I usually preach almost note-less. I just figured I would let readers of The Churchwarden know that occasionally I actually do something more important than tossing flies with a bamboo fly rod while smoking English blends in ridicuously expensive briars. I know you were wondering . . .

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FROM CRYING TO SINGING

Habakkuk 3:17-19

17 Though the fig tree should not blossom, 
nor fruit be on the vines, 
the produce of the olive fail 
and the fields yield no food,
 the flock be cut off from the fold
 and there be no herd in the stalls,
 18 yet I will rejoice in the Lord;
 I will take joy in the God of my salvation.
 19 God, the Lord, is my strength; 
he makes my feet like the deer's; 
he makes me tread on my high places.
To the choirmaster:
with stringed instruments.

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l. Introduction:

A. When we consider the OT prophets we typically regard them as conduits of divine revelation, as mouthpieces for God, and rightly so because according to 1 Peter 1:21, “ . . . no prophecy was ever produced by the will of man, but men spoke from God as they were carried along by the Holy Spirit.”

B. Furthermore we may assume—but quite wrongly so—that because the prophets were holy men of God they never questioned their role as a prophet or the God for whom they prophesied, that they merely walked through their personal and ecclesiastical lives in lock-step with the Lord every step of the way. However, such was not the case.

C. Jonah certainly questioned God. God told Jonah to preach a message of destruction to Nineveh, which Jonah eventually did—yet altogether unwillingly. And when Nineveh repented God relented, with the result that Ninevah was granted mercy. But God himself received nothing but anger from Jonah: “That is why I made haste to flee to Tarshish; for I knew that you are a gracious God and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love, and relenting from disaster. Therefore now, O Lord, please take my life from me, for it is better for me to die than to live.” The book of Jonah really ends rather sadly, with the prophet sulking in self pity and inwardly questioning God’s wisdom in showing mercy to the capital city of Israel’s sworn enemies. And there seems to have been no softening of heart on the part of Jonah.

D. Habakkuk is also a prophet who questioned God, but the reason was different as well as the result. Habakkuk begins with lamentation and ends with exultation. He commences with a question and concludes with an exclamation. Habakkuk starts with cry of complaint and finishes with a song of praise, and that beautiful movement—from crying to singing—raises two critical questions which have life-changing relevance not only to prophets, but also to all believers past, present and future:
1. What is Habakkuk’s problem with God?
2. How does Habakkuk resolve his problem with God?

ll. What is Habakkuk’s problem with God?
(Verse 17.)

A. Habakkuk’s problem, bluntly put, is sometimes God makes no sense whatsoever.

B. Fig trees ought to blossom in season. The vineyards and olive orchards should yield fruit in their proper time. The fields typically produce a harvest and the livestock annually give birth to ewes and calfs. It is the essential nature of all living things to reproduce themselves. This is normative, this is the way things are supposed to be.

C. Likewise Habakkuk expects God to act according to His very nature. God is holy, God is just. He hates sin, especially sin amongst His own people and Judah is spiritually bankrupt: Baal worship, sacrificing children to Molech, violence, the perversion of social justice, and a blatant disregard for God’s law are status-quo.

D.What puzzles the prophet about God is conspicuous: Why is the Lord taking so ridiculously long to punish His people for their sins? Surely a holy God must take notice of an unholy nation. He needs to deal with Judah today, not tomorrow. In bewilderment, Habakkuk cries out:

1:2 O Lord, how long shall I cry for help,
and you will not hear?
Or cry to you “Violence!”
and you will not save?
3 Why do you make me see iniquity,
and why do you idly look at wrong?
Destruction and violence are before me;
strife and contention arise.
4 So the law is paralyzed,
and justice never goes forth.
For the wicked surround the righteous;
so justice goes forth perverted.

E. God makes absolutely no sense to Habakkuk: The Lord looks idly, it seems, at all kinds of evil while His law is paralyzed by the wicked. How uncharacteristic, how utterly contrary to His own righteous nature does God appear to be acting. But Habakkuk’s perception is quite wrong.

F. God, indeed, is about to judge Judah—by a method completely unexpected, precisely when He sees fit. And, if the Lord has made no sense to Habakkuk thus far, He will make even less sense to the prophet now. The Lord responds to Habakkuk’s cry by declaring:

1:5 “Look among the nations, and see;

wonder and be astounded.
For I am doing a work in your days
that you would not believe if told.
6 For behold, I am raising up the Chaldeans,
that bitter and hasty nation,
who march through the breadth of the earth,
to seize dwellings not their own.

G. In other words, God intends to use the Chaldeans—that is, the Babylonians—a polytheistic people who considerably out-sin the Judeans—to catastrophically chastise Judah for her transgressions. So Habakkuk cries out to the Lord a second time:

1:12 Are you not from everlasting,
O Lord my God, my Holy One?
We shall not die.
O Lord, you have ordained them as a judgment,
and you, O Rock, have established them for reproof.
13 You who are of purer eyes than to see evil
and cannot look at wrong,
why do you idly look at traitors
and remain silent when the wicked swallows up
the man more righteous than he?

H. First, God delays punishing Judah. Next God chooses to reprove Judah with an evil nation far more deserving of divine judgement than it is. Again, the prophet’s problem with God is that God really is not making any sense at present. So, what are Habakkuk’s options?

lll. How does Habakkuk resolve his problem with the Lord? (Verse 18.)

A. The simple answer is that he decides to rejoice in the Lord. Twice, in verse 18, Habakkuk declares he will take joy in God. His options are limited:
1. Habakkuk can either interpret God by His providence, or
2. interpret providence by God’s character.

B. The first option—interpreting God by His providence—causes us to criticize the Lord because our ways are not necessarily His ways and we think we know what is best. We self righteously say to ourselves, If I were God I’d do things differently. Why isn’t God himself doing likewise?

C. The second option—interpreting providence by God’s character—causes us to not lean upon our own understanding, but rather to praise God because of whom He has revealed Himself to be. We, thus, humbly say to ourselves, I may not understand history at the moment, but God works all things according to the counsel of His own will and He is holy, just, righteous, and full of grace and mercy. Therefore, no matter what happens, I will rejoice in the Lord.

D. Habakkuk deliberately opts for option #2. He so decisively rejoices in the Lord that he actually sings to the God he recently questioned. Chapter 3 is Habakkuk’s prayer of praise, but it is more than a prayer—it is a song. Note the notation at the conclusion of verse 19, To the choirmaster: with stringed instruments. The crying prophet has become the singing prophet!

lV. Application

A. God sometimes makes no sense whatsoever, particularly when He is interpreted by providence—option #1. Habakkuk solves his problem with God by rejoicing in the Lord and thereby interpreting providence according to God’s character—option #2. The question still remains: How do we personally go from option #1 to option #2, from crying to singing?

B. The key for Habakkuk, the key for you and me is located in one little phrase found in chapter 2, verse 4: . . . the righteous shall live by his faith. The righteous in this verse are contrasted with the proud—those whose souls are puffed up. The proud—here specifically, the Babylonians—trust only in themselves. Consequently they are not upright and, thus, will be ultimately judged by Creator as traitors. The righteous, however, live by faith directed towards God alone. Therefore they are counted as upright in His sight—like Abraham—and, like Abraham, they demonstrate their faith in God by radical obedience to Him.

C. Habakkuk rejoices in God Almighty—he transitioned from crying to singing—because he chooses to believe and obey God rather than trust and serve himself. An old hymn catches the essence of how Habakkuk resolved his problem with God, a line of which goes: Trust and obey, for there is no other way to be happy in Jesus, than to trust and obey.

D. Habakkuk 2:4—the righteous shall live by his faith—is reiterated three times in the New Testament:
1. In Romans 1:16-17 the Apostle Paul says, For I am not ashamed of the gospel, for it is the power of God for salvation to everyone who believes, to the Jew first and also to the Greek. For in it the righteousness of God is revealed from faith for faith, as it is written, “The righteous shall live by faith.”
2. In Galatians 3:11 Paul also says, Now it is evident that no one is justified before God by the law, for “The righteous shall live by faith.”
3. In Hebrews 10: 36-39 the Apostle tells us, For you have need of endurance, so that when you have done the will of God you may receive what is promised. For, “Yet a little while, and the coming one will come and will not delay; but my righteous one shall live by faith, and if he shrinks back, my soul has no pleasure in him.” But we are not of those who shrink back and are destroyed, but of those who have faith and preserve their souls.

E. So then, living by faith means:
1.First, trusting Christ alone—as He is offered in the Gospel—for salvation from your sins.
2. Second, not trusting your own good works to leverage a salvation deal from God.
3. Thirdly, persevering with faith in Christ and obedience to Him right to the very edge of eternity.

F. Here is the bottom line, folks: When God makes no sense whatsoever, you cannot rejoice in Him as Habakkuk does unless you know Him. You cannot know God unless you are saved from your sins by Christ alone. You cannot be saved by Christ unless you trust Him exclusively for salvation. You cannot trust Christ exclusively for salvation if you are actually trying to negotiate a salvation package from God with your own good works. And if your faith in Christ for salvation does not truly persevere and produce obedience to Him, it just is not genuine—period.

G. Habakkuk went from crying to singing because he chose to live by faith, not by sight. Here is no armchair theology, trust me: The Babylonians are coming. They willll kill or capture everything in their path. Fields and flocks, trees and vineyard shall be destroyed. Lives will be irrevocably ruined. God’s chastening of Judah by the Babylonians shall be unspeakably horrendous. But Habbakkuk is rejoicing in the Lord; he is living by faith. And the result is nothing short of amazing. In the last verse (verse 19) of his song Habakkuk sings, God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer's; he makes me tread on my high places.

Mid-Life Crisis

2011-05-05T12:34:00.000-07:00

This is an old letter from Father Felim McAllister to Bishop Harry Hackle that had been lost for a long time. I thought maybe a reader or two might find its content quite applicable to their own life.

May 5, 2002

Dear Bishop Hackle:

You, sir, are personally responsible for either saving me from the devilish evils commonly associated with mid-life crisis or ruining my life altogether; take your pick.

With birthday #47 soon approaching, it’s surely not too early to begin embracing the culturally expected, albeit socially unacceptable male meltdown—complete with all the traditional accouterments such as fast cars, faster women and quicker liquor. As titillating as those things sound, I think they would provoke God's displeasure just a little. Therefore, employing the desert wisdom acquired from years of being a Catholic cleric and presently a bibliocentric Episcopalian (By the way, I am shocked at how many ministers in our denomination, like yourself for example, fail to acknowledge the authority of Scripture) I have chosen an alternative route along which to carry out that foolish irresponsibility normally associated with diminishing testosterone levels, namely fly fishing. Indeed angling with artificials provides a rather respectable substitution for booze, babes and big engines, and could prove significantly more intriguing. Not a few guys find themselves smitten by the mere anticipation of raising a big trout on a little fly. Perish the thought of what may happen should they actually land a lunker!

Nevertheless, the so-called “quiet sport” possesses an unsuspected potential to ruin a man both economically and psychologically. While I sit here enjoying a briar—honest anglers puff pipes, bait bubbas smoke cigarettes—I’m processing the abrupt realization that Thomas & Thomas is only an hour’s drive away. In the dawn of time when Satan tempted our first parents he approached them as a serpent. Nowadays, whenever he attempts to seduce a John Gierach "wannabe" he disguises himself as a rod shop, whispering, "Did your wife really say, 'There's no way on earth you're ever going to spend $3500.00 on a stupid T&T Specialist?'" Unbeknownst to her, however, I bought a beautiful Orvis Battenkill long before we got married. Ironically, therein lies the catalyst for my foreseeable poverty. I own merely a single cane rod, not the requisite bevy of several. Fly poles vary according to action, length and line weight, each being particularly suited to a given purpose. Simply put, I need a bundle of sticks. But why buy insanely expensive bamboo? Continuity, my dear bishop, continuity. Bamboo provides a historical link to the golden age of fly fishing, when the concept of casting anything else was nearly blasphemous. The feel of cane sends the fisherman on a nostalgic journey back to his roots, which is especially pleasant if he’s not catching fish at the moment. Did I mention stuff? Anglers love accessories: reels, lines, leaders, flies—dries, wets, nymphs, terrestrials, streamers, even bass bugs—waders, vests and hats; we’re worse than women! The perennial lust for new equipment is exceeded only by the annual expense of it all. Financial disaster is definitely a distinct possibility.

Fur and feather men eventually devolve into psychos because their sport inevitably undergoes a metamorphosis from hobby to habit. The popular bumper sticker philosophy, "life is a b . . . . and then you die," ultimately gives way to the "life is like a trout stream" metaphor, thus forcing every nuance of human existence to become analogous to some aspect of fly fishing. Trust me, this really ruffles the hackles on sane people. Furthermore marital bliss might suddenly rush directly over the dam, crashing upon the rocks below. Since there aren’t enough hours in a day to envision catching monster trout, imaginary destination trips are typically booked during the late hours of the night. I often go to bed dreading a nightmare about hooking a huge Labrador brookie, whereupon I’ll bolt upright and scream, "I've got a big one!" and my startled wife will exclaim, "You're dreaming, love; trust me, you're only dreaming!" And the husband who regards his beloved’s breasts as uniquely developed pectoral fins, well you know his bead-head of a brain has definitely drifted into a very deep hole. I’m not confessing any liability to such lunacy, although I am intimately acquainted with an Episcopal preacher who needs a swift kick in the seat of his waders, whose spouse is lacing up her steeled-toed boots right now.

A misfit who views the folks around him as a bunch of suckers in the trout stream of life, an aging man setting himself up for bankruptcy when he really ought to be banking away money for retirement; is this where I am heading? If so, dear bishop, you’re entirely to blame. Upon your sage (no pun intended) advice I’ve picked up that aforementioned Battenkill and started fishing Pseudosasa Amabilis once again. Cane has become an uncontrollable compulsion. Already I’ve ordered two custom 3-weights from a maker in Connecticut. Next year I plan on finagling a 6-weight semi-parabolic for land-locked salmon plus an atypical 5-weight pentagonal for absolutely no justifiable reason whatsoever.

Have I told you how badly my preaching has suffered lately? "Repent" comes out as "Mend your cast." And ever since the Sunday I publicly chastened those apostolic fishermen for not practicing a good catch-and-release ethic, the congregation questions my sanity constantly.

Indeed, Bishop Hackle, your counsel has caused a considerable degree of ambiguity. But one thing is for certain: Mid-stream at middle age is not a bad place to be.

Thanks,

Father Felim McAllister

Free Grace Fly Fishing

2011-04-15T12:51:00.000-07:00

Note: The following poem may or may not be about fly fishing, but it is most definitely theological in a nonreligious way.

Free Grace Fly Fishing
by Perry S. Fuller

The fly fisherman
is a semi-Pelagian in his head,
actually believing success
is derived from personal skill.
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He approaches a stream stealthily,
studies the water carefully,
determines where the fish are holding
and what they are hitting,
selects a fly,
matches the hatch,
casts accurately,
achieves a perfect drift,
sets the hook exactly,
plays his catch properly
and then releases
the rainbow gently.
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But
at some point providentially
between
the catching and releasing
this same angler
appreciates
his trout appropriately,
truly realizes that it is, indeed,
a gift from God not of works
lest he should boast,
and the fly fisherman
suddenly becomes
a Calvinist in his heart.

Why Rob Bell has a Hell of a Mess on His Hands

2011-03-28T05:51:00.000-07:00

Alrighty then, homies, I actually read Love Wins and here is my forthright opinion of it. I've merely written a personal commentary on Bell's book and not a detailed theological analysis, which, of course, has already been done so much better by others than I could ever do myself.

Why Rob Bell
has a Hell of a Mess on His Hands
A Concise Commentary on
Love Wins, by Rob Bell

Perry S. Fuller

Full disclosure—I am a conservative Presbyterian who colors outside the Calvinistic lines perhaps a little. This means I define Christian orthodoxy by the Reformed/Ecumenical Creeds, but I also nourish a discerning appreciation for the neo-orthodoxy of Barth, Bonhoeffer and Brunner, the paleo-orthodoxy of Thomas C. Oden and the evangelical orthodoxy of John Wesley. Consequently upon reading Mr. Bell’s hardback I was prepared to be characteristically generous in assessing his work, despite being doctrinally predisposed to brushing it off as heretical nonsense. Nevertheless an old New England chestnut pretty well summed up my thoughts after reaching the last page of Love Wins, namely: You can’t polish a turd. Rob Bell has published a big stinker, indeed—a perception no amount of marketing spit and shine will ever change.

Sycophants have called its author a creative communicator. I can certainly see how come. He quite deftly turns ambiguity into an art form. Watch the interviews on YouTube if you don’t believe me. Whenever an interviewer makes a pointed inquiry regarding divine retribution or universalism, the response is disjointed at best. Bell consistently refuses to give straight answers to simple questions. In Love Wins, the pastor of Mars Hill creates the distinct impression he is a universalist who does not believe in a literal Hell. Whether this is factually true or not, nobody can actually say because Bell isn’t telling. Or maybe he is and we just can’t figure out what he’s babbling about. His printed words, however, certainly push most informed readers toward a rather disconcerting realization, which is exactly why he has ignited the ire of many prominent evangelicals.

Unless Rob Bell is a complete idiot, he clearly understands the exegetical groundwork supporting the accusations against him by leaders such as Al Mohler, John Piper, Justin Taylor, etcetera and so forth. According to almost every confessional standard within Christendom Love Wins plainly teaches heterodoxy. Although universalism—as well as annihilationism—have enjoyed a measure of acceptance throughout the history of the Church, both have always been minority positions and, thus, are hardly representative of the historic evangelical faith. Therefore Bell mustn’t register surprise at the severe criticism he is receiving. When Christians speak or write, they ought to communicate precisely what they mean. Bell has nobody to blame but himself if his critics are truly misunderstanding him. Paragraph after paragraph forces the reader to follow a curious trajectory, the theological terminus of which seems inevitable. Had Bell wished for folks to reach a different conclusion he should have written Love Wins less narratively and more propositionally.

Even if the man from Mars is not a heretic, I could all too easily become a wack-job myself. The creeds and confessions provide welcome guard rails to keep me driving safely along the narrow road of biblical truth. Frankly I would be extremely afraid of crashing into one helluva ditch without them. I only wish Mr. Bell shared the same fear.

Bamboo, Brookies and Woolly Buggers

2011-03-05T16:23:00.000-08:00

This is an article I wrote several years ago for a previous incarnation of The Churchwarden. The Powers-That-Be where I work have declared yet another moratorium on overtime. They do this often. Although I suffer financially for awhile, I'm reminded that the concept of asking God for my daily bread is not merely a Christian cliche. Plus I get more time for fishing!

Bamboo, Brookies and Woolly Buggers

by Perry S. Fuller

We live in a cynical world. Recently, the Powers-That-Be at CuddlyCorp declared a moratorium on overtime. Quite a number of my co-workers cited the decree as yet another example of executive greed, assuming a decrease in blue collar annual wages somehow equals an increase in white collar annual bonuses. Their cynicism disturbs me because I know better. I believe management possesses an extraordinary degree of goodwill towards its employees, that altruism—not avarice—is the motivating force behind every decision affecting the production floor. Probably the Powers-That-Be were just hand-wringingly worried about the emotional well being of an over-worked work force. Thus, in thankful compliance with the characteristic sensitivity of corporate wisdom, I punched out right on time last Thursday and went fishing.

"Never leave home without a fly rod," is my motto. Always resident in the back of the vehicle is a trout stick—sometimes glass, rarely graphite, this time bamboo. I drove straight to the Swift River, stopping en route in Belchertown for a quick hamburger and to buy a few Woolly Buggers at a local tackle shop. I was hungry and hoping the brookies would be, also.

I love bamboo. Glass and graphite are symptomatic of man's preference for the synthetic, but bamboo represents God's preference for what is authentic. Plus, I cast considerably better with cane because its natural slowness so readily embraces my own.

I love brookies. They are native to New England, and even the stocked ones convey a sense of how stuff should be rather than the way things are.

I love Woolly Buggers. Some men are dry fly purists. Others are strictly nymphomaniacs, if you catch my drift. I am a fly fishing pragmatist and Buggers are extremely effective. If I were limited to one pattern only I would choose a small olive or black version and hardly be handicapped at all.

The Swift is a bottom release tail water flowing from the Quabbin Reservoir via the Windsor Dam. Gin clear, ice cold and loaded with insect life, the environment is for perfect for trout. Consequently the Commonwealth crams the river full of rainbows. Browns and brookies are mingled therein, as well. Certainly no true fly fisherman fancies the hatchery copies. Nevertheless I live in Massachusetts, not Montana, which means I’m tremendously grateful for a decent stocking program. Indeed, the state puts some respectable specimens in the Swift.

There is a slow, narrow section not far from the dam which doubles nicely as a feeding lane and rest area. A contented fish is one who does not have to swim too hard for a good meal. When I stepped into the flow I was surrounded by several happy rainbows. They were sucking in sub-surface critters with casual ease. Big smiles could be seen on their fishy faces.

But Swift River trout are renown for being finicky. Cast after cast produced nothing, then suddenly a solid strike—Woolly Bugger magic. I held the rod high and the bamboo arched greatly under the strain, telegraphing every movement of the battle to my right hand. I was thrilled; the trout at the end of my tippet was not. A lot of head thrashing took place, a bit of violent tugging, yet none of the top water action typical of rainbows. Paradoxically, the fish put up both a strong and sluggish struggle. Imagine my surprise when I discovered my finned adversary was not a rainbow, but a really nice brookie—the very best I have caught in several seasons—a beautiful squaretail, fat and full of color. However, at sixteen inches, I landed a baby boomer. A brookie takes years to grow to such size. Middle-aged, worn out by life, but still fighting to survive; I can certainly respect that.

Further downstream another brookie, nearly a twin of the first, held behind a rock. No Woolly Bugger hocus pocus prevailed this time. Mick Jagger became a trout. He sang to me, "You can't always get what you want . . . "

Bamboo, brookies, and Woolly Buggers, plus a few stream-side lessons about life: Classic New England fly fishing at its finest. I suppose I should thank the Powers-That-Be at CuddlyCorp for granting me such a serendipitous opportunity, but those managers are merely pieces on God’s cosmic chess board. Omnipotence moves these impotent pawns according to His sovereign will. So, to Him alone I lift up a heart full of praise. At them, however, I'll just nod my head and laugh . . . knowingly.