“I Am Not a Crook!”



I knew it had to be done, but frankly, skulduggery is not my thing! I’ve been pretty much law-abiding since I got booted out of Pacific Union College way back in 1974. (Don’t ask.) And for sure I didn’t want Lisa to find out what me and the others were up to. I generally don’t keep secrets – until now.

There was no way to set an alarm, but I hotwired my phone to do a soft vibrate right at 2:00 a.m. Frankly, I didn’t need the wake-up nudge; the criminality of what we had in mind had me tossing anxiously starting at about 12:45. I eased downstairs in my skivvies, my stomach lurching, and dressed myself out in the garage, congratulating myself for having stashed a pair of jeans and a jacket in the Prius the previous afternoon.

Speaking of Prius, it helped to be able to glide out of the driveway noiselessly, and when I got to the 210 freeway, holy cow, it was dead empty. With the virus all about, it’s a yawning cemetery anyway, but there wasn’t one breath of life. I guess one lonely trucker going the other direction.

“David, this is just so dumb. If you get busted, they’ll yank your tenure.” But I couldn’t help it; we’d been hatching our plot for the whole month of April.

I exited at Mill Street, my pulse thumping now, and had the presence of mind to park half a block away from the outer boundaries of the campus. My footsteps felt like mini-thunderclaps even though I was involuntarily on tiptoes. I approached the college perimeter and spotted my partners. They offered me goofy, guilty smiles as I joined them, like we really were a gang of amateurs going up against the Corleone Family.

“You seen security?” I murmured, and Jose shook his head. “Nah, there’s just one patrol car and he ain’t around. Don’t you worry ‘bout nothing.”

“You got what you need?”

Without speaking, he pulled his jacket open and I saw the suspicious bulge in his inside pocket. “I’m not sure we’ll need that,” I told him. “But who knows? Keep it out of sight for now, you hear me?”

The familiar landscape was in inky darkness, almost hostile, and it brought back memories of more innocent times when we all floated along these academic vistas in carefree ease. But we stayed in the shadows, not speaking, and cautiously made our way over to where two large double doors stood unguarded. Heavily secured, I was sure, but had Security changed all the locks?

I fumbled in my pocket for the keys, and for a panicked moment almost thought I’d left them back home in that little basket by the sink. But no, they were there.

“Hurry,” Stephanie pleaded. “Man, I’m freaking out. What if someone comes by?”

“Don’t say that.” Her cousin jabbed her in the ribs.

“But now I got to pee big-time.”
To my relief, the key worked and the door swung open; its creak sounding like a machine gun. We froze, but moments later the dark stillness held and we eased into the pitch-black hallway.

Just to the left was the familiar sight of PS 107. I knew my keys by heart and tugged the door open. “Okay, guys,” I murmured. “Make sure those drapes are closed, closed, closed. And don’t make noise!”

The kids sat down expectantly, facing the white board. Jose dug in his coat pocket for that TI-30 calculator of his, I got out a dry-erase marker, and we spent the next hour doing sine and cosine graphs.



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Leaving on a Jet Plane (And I’m the Only Passenger!)


So after my recent visit to Karli’s, I go online to print out my boarding pass and pick my seat. The whole plane is open! I can click on 1A if I want to. There’s an anxious moment, like at the theater when zero seats are claimed and you wonder: “Who picked this stinky movie anyway?” But I claim a window seat, kiss my grandkids Kira and Katrina goodbye, and motor back to Birmingham Airport.

The lady at Alamo sees me coming and springs to her feet, smothering me in an embrace. “Thank you for renting with us!” I swear she’s almost crying. Then she adds: “Want to keep the car another week, mister? Please?”

“Um, I’ve really got to get home,” I stammer.

“But . . . you’re our only customer the last three days.” She glances at the board with all the keys dangling from it. “How about a Lincoln Navigator?”

I shake my head.

“Just four bucks a day. Plus Fred will drive for you.” She whistles to a guy in the back who was doing a crossword. “Fred! You can drive for this guy, right? You got nothing.”

“I honestly do have to get back to my job,” I manage. “Five classes to teach.”

“How about . . . two-fifty? Two bucks fifty a day for a Lincoln, and we pay for all the gas. You sure you can’t stay another week?” she adds in a tremulous voice.

I finally extricate myself from her embrace and flee to the terminal. I go in . . . and holy cow. THE PLACE IS EMPTY. Ghost town. Like they’ve rented it out for an apocalyptic movie shoot and the crew hasn’t arrived yet.

“Yikes,” I murmur to myself. “There really is a Rapture. And looks like I got left behind.”

It’s a scary thing to be in an absolutely abandoned terminal. I peek at my cell phone and have texts from all three of my brothers. So if the Rapture has indeed taken place, the Smith family’s account with God is badly in arrears. I glance up at a TV monitor and see Laura Ingraham interviewing Jerry Falwell, Jr. and Mike Pence on Fox News, so at least they were left behind too.

Now things get dicey. I get to the security queue and twelve TSA agents leap to their feet. “We got one!” the lead guy yells. “Guys! Back to work!” They come at me with evident enthusiasm, pent-up energy to spare.

“No, um, it’s just . . . I’m nobody,” I remonstrate. But this crew is eager for something to do. One gets out a screwdriver and some cotton swabs  and began to disassemble my carry-on; two others are fishing in a medical cabinet and I wince as one of them begins to tug on a pair of latex gloves, the kind doctors wear when a guy over the age of sixty goes in for his physical.

Seven unpleasant minutes later I squish my way over to gate 12A. There are literally zero passengers waiting there, and I cool my heels for about twenty minutes.

The lady finally picks up the microphone. “We’re ready for preboarding our morning flight to Phoenix and then Ontario,” she announces, looking vacantly past me at absolutely nothing. “Anyone with young children, or if you need some extra time getting down the jetway . . .”

Wait wait wait. Three minutes later: “We’re ready now to board our first-class passengers,” she broadcasts to the empty air all around me.

Wait wait wait. At last she fixes me with an impatient gaze. “Okay, Mr. Smith, now you can board.”

I scoot past her and onto the plane, and again, what a surreal feeling to walk onto this absolutely barren bird. The two pilots squint at me, and I can almost read their thoughts. Really? All the way to California just for this lumpy guy?

Still, it’s a nice feeling to scamper down the aisle unimpeded. I grab my window seat, stretch myself out to hog the whole row and get my Kindle ready. A few minutes later the attendant launches into her canned safety script. “Should the cabin experience a sudden drop in pressure, oxygen masks will appear. If you’re traveling with small children . . .” She catches herself, blushes, and chucks the life vest into an overhead bin.

We scoot down the runway at a lively clip, and wow, when there’s only one passenger on board, a 737 really darts into the air. We leave terra firma at a disquieting 70-degree angle and as I fumble for my airsick bag (hey, I’ve got  230 of them to pick from), I make a note to add this anecdote as a quiz for my trig class.

Less than three minutes later, we’re already cruising at 34,000 feet, but perhaps half an hour in, the plane makes a noticeable dip, almost a dive like at a Blue Angels air show. Huh? The attendants are gossiping in the back of the plane, and I half-rise out of my seat. “What’s going on?” I shrill.

The older one shrugs. “The captain’s got a girlfriend in Dallas.”

“What? We’re stopping off to see her? Isn’t that against FAA rules?”

All he does, though, is descend to about three hundred feet, fly right over her condo, and dip his wings. I see a perky blonde about by the backyard swimming pool waving a blue towel with a Cowboys logo and holding aloft a beer mug.

Let me tell you, it’s exhilarating to be going 575 miles an hour when you’re a bare 300’ off the ground! Way up in the stratosphere you don’t really sense the velocity, and this is like a roller coaster ride. I gape at the traffic and near misses as the pilot scoots in between skyscrapers like in a Harrison Ford thriller.

“Don’t the guys in the control tower get mad when you do something like this?” I asked the attendant.

She blows a bubble with her gum. “Nah.” Pop! “There ain’t but one guy on duty at DFW, and I know for a fact he does Sudoko puzzles most of his shift.” She made a gesture out the window. “Look for yourself. We’re the only plane up here.”

Her chance remark gives me an idea. I undo my belt and ease toward the cockpit. The captain’s in an effusive mood by now, buoyed by his girlfriend’s towel wave. “What can I do you for, oh valued customer?”

“Well, look,” I stammer. “I live in Highland, just above Redlands. Can you guys maybe just drop me off there? It’s a forty-minute drive to Ontario.”

All of a sudden, this suburb-buzzing flyboy is all business again. “Can’t do that. Schedule has us going into Phoenix, then Ontario.” He peers at a screen. “I guess we could skip Phoenix now that you mention. Nobody on the passenger list.”


“But . . . where would we put down?”

I think hard. “How about just . . . right on Baseline Avenue? It’s three lanes each direction,” I add hopefully.

“Much traffic?”

“You kidding? Nada.”

The guy actually ponders it. Forty minutes later he calls me back to the cockpit and gives me the bad news. “We got no passengers in Ontario, so I’d almost be willing to go for it.” He points to a gauge. “But hey. We really do need to top off our tanks before heading back to Bama.”

I sag, and the copilot gives me a sympathetic look. “I imagine your wife’s already on the way to the airport to pick you up.”

I glance out the window, and sure enough. Nosing westward on the I-10 freeway I can see Lisa’s little blue Chevy Spark. It’s the only car on the entire Interstate.

The pilot gives her a cheery honk and my wife looks up, startled, then waves at the three of us.


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Your Brother Dan Is the Greatest Speaker Ever! (And Gimme a Break)

pastor dan            Sibling rivalry is bad enough when you have three competitive brothers and each one wants to win on the tennis court. But jealousy leaps to the head of the line of seven deadly sins when every guy in the family decides to become a preacher!

Which I’m not. But during my years as a writer at the Adventist Media Center, okay, I did occasionally get invited to speak at nearby churches. And It Is Written’s coordinator landed occasional summer gigs for me at “camp meetings” around the country. (I heard later that Royce Williams offered THEM an honorarium to take me.) But when the AMC needed a local speaker for our annual “Week of Prayer” the High Command passed me right by and chose my older brother Dan.

Now that’s fine. He’s a talented speaker, he’s my brother, I’m proud of him, he does great, I really mean all this. And commencing with his Monday morning devotional, yeah, it was really good. He had cute illustrations, lots of humor, and was giving us some slam-bang passionate stuff which he dubbed “The Larger View.”

So all that week I had friends coming up to me and gushing: “Man, David, your brother Dan . . . he’s the greatest speaker we’ve ever heard!!”

I was happy to hear it. His talks were a blessing, and I was getting some inspiration too. But as the week wore on, and the fawning continued – greatest speaker EVER!!, so handsome, so brilliant, make room on Mount Rushmore – it began to wear rather thin. Because my own apparently paltry efforts in the pulpit were being callously shoved aside. Friends who I thought liked me seemed to go out of their way to tell me how awesome my big brother was.

I watched with escalating vexation as my AMC peers with note pads slavishly wrote down every pearl that fell from Dan’s lips. I’m sorry, but a whole line of people asking Dan to autograph their Bibles . . . that’s ridiculous. Ladies on the front row were giving him the same adoring gaze Nancy Reagan used to give her husband during the State of the Union speech. “Oh, Pastor Dan!” Some almost needed smelling salts. In the elevator riding back to my office, I’d hear people exchanging his pithy quotes. “My life is changed,” one would declare. “I know. Mine too.” It was enough to make me want to vomit in a wastebasket.

Frankly, by Friday morning my soul was so invaded by a black cloud of jealousy I couldn’t see straight. Dan could have quoted John 3:16 and I would have found fault with it. He could have channeled Martin Luther and C. S. Lewis and I wouldn’t have been able to process it. Because after hearing about MY BROTHER DAN, oh the wonderful Pastor Dan, Dan the Great, fifty or sixty times, I was vibrating with toxic envy from head to toe.


I got through the Friday talk without spitting nails, and just my luck, the closing hymn was “How Great Thou Art.” (No, I just made that up.) But all the way back to my office the sickening litany continued. “Oh, Dave, your brother Dan . . .” “Incredible!” “Never in the annals of the Christian era. . .” “Word is he might soon be GC President . . .” Blah blah blah blah pukey blah.

Fortunately I had the elevator to myself, and after hitting two and the door sliding closed I went to the familiar therapy of getting down on my knees and banging my fists against the metal floor seventy or eighty times. Which didn’t help.

I was almost to my office door when my close friend Lance Liebelt spotted me. He brightened and came right over. “Hey, David. I got a compliment for YOU.”

Well, I almost kissed him. “Lay it on me. Quick! I could use a boost right about now.” I was almost trembling.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “Well, I just want to tell you . . . YOUR BROTHER DAN is the best speaker I’ve ever heard! And my dad and grandpa and great-grandpa were all conference evangelists.”

All I could do was stare at him. “And how does that work out to be a compliment for me?” I wanted to scream. But I managed a wan smile, went into my office, opened the window, measured the distance to the ground below, and decided it wasn’t sufficiently high as a jump.

The irony, of course, is this. And I can barely even write this thirty years later. But deep down, Dan and I have always wanted the exact same thing, which is found in Line Two of the Lord’s Prayer. “Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done.”

My three brothers Dan, Richard ,and Donald all do a great job proclaiming the kingdom principles of my Savior Jesus. They really do. And I’ve gotten to the point where I’m happy about that. The more they preach, the more people come into the kingdom of grace. That’s a good thing.

These several calming decades later, I now attend an amazing church where “Pastor Randy” opens up the portals of heaven for thousands of grateful worshipers, including Lisa and me. He’s awfully good. And I praise the Lord there are humble, talented people who have this amazing spiritual gift.

So I’ve clawed my way to a slender island of maturity. Having said that, I’ll whisper one slightly vengeful secret. A few years after the infamous Oh Great Pastor Dan week, he decided to write a book. Well, hey, that’s my territory he’s invading! By then I’d been published a couple times and had even signed my name on the flyleaf of a few souvenir copies. (Mostly purchased by Mom, but I didn’t tell you that.)

So I swallowed hard and told Dan, “Man, that’s great! Proud of you! Good job.” The book came out, he gave me a comp copy, I carefully read through it, and what do you know, I found quite a few typos in it.

And boy, did I enjoy every single one of them.



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I will sometimes forgive a film’s R rating if the director forgoes all the CGI effects and simply tells a good story. Twice in a row now, Clint Eastwood has done that. (His recent drug-cartel adventure, The Mule, is another quietly effective movie.) Richard Jewell shares the aching story of an earnest doofus accused of the Centennial Olympic bombings during the ’96 Atlanta Games.

Richard is the classic live-with-Mom antihero, chunky fast-food aficionado who turns off concertgoers with his hubris and strident orders. He’s a wannabe cop security guard lurching from one part-time gig to another when, hey, the Summer Games come into town. You know the story: he’s instrumental in spotting the suspicious bag, and then quickly becomes the main suspect. There’s a sordid cinema moment when an FBI investigator leaks Jewell’s name to a news reporter who trades promiscuous favors for whispered police intel.

There’s standout acting by Kathy Bates (Jewell’s mom) and his lawyer, nicely played by Sam Rockwell, who was wonderful in the world’s greatest film, The Green Mile. This is a quiet story where we already know the ending, but it’s sweet satisfaction when Jewell is finally cleared. Also nice when the news lady has her own come-to-Jesus moment, carefully pacing the distance from the bomb site to the nearest pay phone and then muttering to herself in awe: “He didn’t do it!”

In terms of the film’s R rating, yes, there is a sprinkling of harsh language in this saga populated by cops and hard-boiled news people. But the profanity is muted and overcome by the uplifting arc of Eastwood’s storytelling.

Two nice takeaways are these. Very quickly in the story, you sit in your theater seat groaning over the general ineptness of this guy. The main character is needlessly prickly; he mouths off and immediately is cast in an unsympathetic light: the private security mall cop so enthralled and power-hungry by his plastic badge he pulls people over on the freeway and berates them. Living with Mommy and consuming four thousand calories a day, mostly in the form of milkshakes . . . and that’s strikes two and three. And so many of us just carry around this inner pomposity where we disdain those who don’t have it quite as together as we do. But by the end of this story, I find myself chastised because Richard Jewell, despite his flaws, saved a whole bunch of lives. He endured something a lot more harrowing than I ever have, and yeah, he deserves for his noble story to be told. By Clint Eastwood, no less.

The second lesson is this. Even when injustice threatens to win out, with the wrong guy going to jail, God still knows. Heaven doesn’t miss a single clue. And it’s so nice, as the final credits roll, to read that a criminal named Eric Rudolph was the guilty party. Life imprisonment without parole, while Richard Jewell finally got the real Georgia Deputy Sheriff badge he had craved for so long.

You gotta love it.


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As a moderate Democrat, I read this book with mixed emotions. I will say up-front that the writing is really quite good, and the reporting impeccable. Other reviewers have noted that the authors’ conservative credentials have given them nearly unlimited access to a ton of sources, and that redounds to the benefit of the reader. It’s a herculean achievement and these two authors deserve a lot of credit for their work. It’s a good thing for all of us to understand and respect the process of nominating a Supreme Court justice, and I appreciate the education.

It’s also clear that these writers are fine people and citizens. They’re both devout Christian believers – as I am – and dedicated professionals and family women. All to the good.

Thirdly, it’s abundantly plain from their detailed reporting that Justice Kavanaugh has many sterling qualities. He’s kind, a hard-working man, a good father and husband, a believer. From the accounts of this book, he rises to the high court with a resolve to be fair, to not prejudge cases according to some Trump doctrine, and he says he respects the ideal of “stare decisis.” So that’s good. He shares a 93% similar voting record with Merrick Garland (don’t get me started), so that’s good too.

However, I will echo what some other reviewers are pointing out. There are definitely moments when the right-wing bias of the writers bleeds through the narrative. Republican senators are “just doing their job,” while Democrats are “hysterical,” “apocalyptic,” “shockingly vicious.” They breathlessly relate how Senator Kamela Harris unleashes a torrent of f-bombs while ignoring the reality that Republican senators are equally prone to use profanity. No one has been more rabid during the recent impeachment proceedings than Lindsey Graham, but in this book he’s portrayed as a model of sobriety and thoughtful reflection. As they report on CBF’s testimony, they allow that it’s likely some encounter actually did happen but that failing memory or other factors fuzzed the account. But by their final chapter, they predictably revert to the Republican talking points and label the same scenario as “scurrilous and unverified stories.”

The other blind spot, in my view, is how the authors decry how Kavanaugh was assailed by a mountain of unfounded rumors . . . and then proceed to fill several pages with exactly the same sort of loose attacks on Ford, based on nothing but hearsay and flamboyant guilt-by-association regarding Holton-Arms, the high school she attended.

Several senators shine through nicely in this story. Jeff Flake of Arizona, who essentially sacrificed his seat over his moral outrage over Donald Trump’s unfitness for office. Amy Klobuchar, who did a good job interviewing Kavanaugh and had to endure his one recorded lapse in judgment when he weirdly accused HER of having a drinking problem. And Susan Collins, who was genuinely conflicted about Kavanaugh and the preserving of Roe v. Wade and did a thorough job of due diligence before giving him her reluctant yes vote.

One more affirmation: the last 8% or so of this book is really, really good. It’s thoughtful, insightful, and analytical about what the Court needs. Just the last chapter alone makes this story an important contribution.

Here’s my third anxious observation, and I’ll point out that I finished reading this the same day I went to see “Bombshell,” the heartbreaking saga of how powerful men at Fox News sexually abused vulnerable women. One of these two writers works in that apparently sordid and corrupt place, so I’m confident she’s already taken this lesson to heart: SOMETIMES POWERFUL MEN ACTUALLY DO ASSAULT WOMEN  . . . and then determine to lie their way clear to the finish line. Deny deny deny come on let’s vote already. Cases in point: Donald Trump and Bill Clinton.

These writers are absolutely convinced that both Thomas and Kavanaugh were falsely accused. Perhaps so. Let’s hope so. But if shellshocked and battered women are telling the truth in 92% of all such cases, it’s more than troubling to wonder if there is perhaps a man sitting right now in that black robe who made a callous decision to prevaricate, while turning justice on its head by calling Anita Hill and Christine Blasey Ford the liars.


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FILM REVIEW: A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood

tom-hanks-fred-rogers-beautiful-day-696x442                There was no church choir. No baptismal font. No pulpit. But I just heard one of the very best sermons of my life.

For two poignant hours on Black Friday I sat in a Regal theater auditorium next to Lisa and watched Tom Hanks in a sweater talking gently to kids about life’s ups and downs and why things don’t always work like we want them to. A Beautiful Day in the Neighborhood is a plot built around a hard-boiled Esquire reporter, Lloyd Vogel. Now there’s a guy who needs a sermon preached at him. During a boozy diatribe, his alcoholic dad (a brilliant cameo by Chris Cooper) pops him in the nose and his face is purple with bruises. Now he’s being coerced into an unwanted puff-piece assignment. He has to do a 400-word quickie story about the legendary PBS milquetoast TV host, Mr. Rogers.

I honestly cannot find the words to describe how it all goes except to warn you that this quiet, no-explosions-no-sex-no-F-bombs movie will change your life if you allow it. Because Fred Rogers sits down with Vogel and is the exact same character as when the director hollers “Action!” Or when he slips his right hand into a puppet named Daniel Striped Tiger and gives his juvenile audience whimsical doses of encouragement. Every script in the Rogers neighborhood is really just two words long: BE KIND. And when he’s off-set, or riding on the subway with a bunch of hardened New Yorkers – who spot their childhood hero and begin singing the theme song – or when he leans closer to Vogel and says in a voice that reveals genuine sympathy, “Oh dear, what happened to your face?” you’re awestruck with this: This guy actually does mean it.

The pivotal moment happens early on. This cynical writer fully expect the Hanks character to walk off the set, drop his syrupy-sweet persona, and – I don’t know – light a cigarette and bark at his stage hands about where the hell’s my makeup lady or bring me a bagel. For sure, when he sits down with a hack writer from a New York magazine, he’s going to drop the façade and just be himself. Grumble about ratings and how sick he is of that effing red sweater.

But no. Mr. Rogers is Mr. Rogers. It’s not an act and not a script and not a carefully contrived image. He peers into every visitor’s face and says with genuine warmth: “How ARE you? What is wrong? I would love to take your picture and then keep it and remember your name and know who your wife is and your little baby boy.”

There are a couple of cinema moments where Lloyd Vogel almost loses it. “Come on! I’m here on assignment! Drop the act, Rogers, and gimme my 400 words so I can get back to Amtrak and my rotten New York life.” But there’s a slowly developing look of wonder and awe when he realizes: “Holy cow, all this is real. This Presbyterian minister-turned-God’s ambassador to the children of the world honestly believes kindness can redeem our busted planet.”

This story is a powerful paean to the necessity of forgiveness. And I was also struck with how Fred Rogers, who is on a relentless pace to produce these PBS shows for 33 years . . . still has time to visit Lloyd and his dad in the hospital and minister to them. To pause and take pictures with every new friend. There’s an amazing scene near the close where Mr. Rogers is kneeling by his bed and simply going through his prayer list. For this particular bedtime it’s just ten words long. “Please bless Lloyd. Please bless Andrea. Please bless Baby Gavin.” As I exited the theater, that moment of generosity took me back to a signature line penned by C.S. Lewis in his essay, “The New Men.” Gracious, stalwart people here and there dot this planet and, with lowered voices and the magnetic power of their love, heal our many wounds. Lewis writes: “They usually seem to have a lot of time. You will wonder where it comes from.”

This inspirational film may not impact your life at all and your reaction might be to roll your eyes. And if that happens, I won’t question your heart or your life experiences. All I can say is this: my eyes were rimmed with tears nearly the entire two hours.

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BOOK REVIEW: “I Will Always Write Back”




This amazing book relates the miracle of two high school kids whose pen pal relationship transforms both lives. Martin is a brilliant boy living in abject poverty in Zimbabwe; Caitlin is an admittedly pampered junior high girl in Pennsylvania suburbia. For the first half of the book, the contrast is stark. Martin works against insuperable odds to better himself while his lily-white counterpart in America goes to the mall, goofs off, and wastes her extravagant allowance.

But the thrill of this story is witnessing how Caitlin’s family develops a sympathetic heart for her bereft overseas friend, sending him $20 bills, then care packages, and finally a desperate attempt to get him into a prestigious U.S. university with a full scholarship.

Special kudos must go to Liz Welch, who took the collected stack of saved letters from these two young people, endlessly interviewed them, and then created this amazing saga of “Love Thy Neighbor.” And a big thanks to Scholastic for spotting this literary gem and putting it in their bargain catalog where millions of children might be inspired to go and do thou likewise.


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Red Hat Blue Hat


Christian #1: “Send her back!”

Christian #2: “You’re all bigots!”

I got a prickly surprise the other day. It leaked out here on Facebook that an admired friend of mine is a diehard and enthusiastic member of The Other Party. And I didn’t know. I really didn’t know.

Let me say, first of all, that she’s a sweet and precious Christian. Our email exchanges are cheering, heartfelt, and bathed in the gospel. Her passion for Jesus is palpable. She lends her talents to the cause of growing the Body of Christ.

And hey, she’s in The Other Party. In the 2016 election, it’s painfully obvious her vote cancelled out my own.

Thinking about this brought to my mind a classic line from C. S. Lewis’ wonderful book, Mere Christianity: THERE WILL BE SURPRISES.

In terms of my Facebook friend, she might not yet suspect that I’m the Enemy. But if she has, I can picture her muttering imprecations to herself, fingers trembling over her keyboard: “David? You? Say it isn’t so!” And I have a decent confidence she’d return what I hope are the above spiritual compliments. I know for a fact she appreciates the Christian stories I pen and the good they hopefully accomplish.

Okay, is this an amusing or terrifying sci-fi scenario? A large congregation senses some sort of divine “pulse” right during the morning prayer. When they get up from their knees, every believer is wearing either a blue or a red rally hat. We’re all outed! People are craning their necks and gaping. “You! No way! I believed in you! You spoke at prayer meeting!” I still recall how my daughter was comically aghast to learn one of her favorite aunts was really and truly one of “them.” She shook her head, confused. “Didn’t Uncle Danny INTERVIEW her?” How could such a fatal character flaw go undetected for so long? “There will be surprises.”

Here’s my takeaway for this week of unexpected realignments. There are wonderful, solid disciples of Jesus Christ in the Democratic and Republican parties. Millions of them. As you kneel for prayer this weekend, there might well be people on both sides of you, also on their bended knees, who passionately donated to and campaigned on behalf of and voted for That Other Person.

I’ll go one step further. Most everyone in that faraway D.C. club of 535 people – senators and representatives – are amazing, passionate, well-informed, articulate citizens. They all won tough political races against savvy, well-organized foes, something you and I have not accomplished. In the Venn diagram that is our current Congress, yes, they do split off into discrete D / R subsets . . . but they’re all still American patriots. Not one person walking those frescoed halls hates their country or wishes for its demise. And it’s grossly unfair when we imply that they do.

So the question comes. How do men and women grow up in the church, attain to voting age, read the literature and watch the presidential debates, and then split into two such vehemently warring and polarized camps? I can’t fully answer that question for others, but I can look back at my own 46 years of studying issues and formulating a core philosophy. My variables aren’t yours; nudges came at me that bypassed your neighborhood. I came of age during Watergate; your formative moments might be poles apart from that wrenching time. And as I think about my recently unmasked friend, me on one coast and she on the other, I have to bow respectfully in accepting that a different set of factors gave her a passion for a distinct set of national and cultural priorities.

I don’t fully understand it, but our shared friendship forces me to acknowledge that her Christian ardor isn’t diminished or compromised by the fact of how she marks her ballot.

Just to fill out my musings, here’s the Lewis paragraph:

“Some of us who seem quite nice people may, in fact, have made so little use of a good heredity and a good upbringing that we are really wore than those whom we regard as fiends. Can we be quite certain how we should have behaved if we had been saddled with the psychological outfit, and then with the bad upbringing, and then with the power, say, of Himmler? THAT IS WHY CHRISTIANS ARE TOLD NOT TO JUDGE. We see only the results which a man’s choices make out of his raw material. But God does not judge him on the raw material at all, but on what he has done with it. Most of the man’s psychological make-up is probably due to his body: when his body dies all that will fall off him, and the real central man, the thing that chose, that made the best or the worst out of this material, will stand naked. All sorts of nice things which we thought our own, but which were really due to a good digestion, will fall off some of us: all sorts of nasty things which were due to complexes or bad health will fall off of others. We shall then, for the first time, see every one of us as he really was. THERE WILL BE SURPRISES.”

None of us can comprehend the gut-wrenching 2:00 a.m. experience which might have tugged any one of us into, say, either the pro-life or pro-choice army. Or why one devout believer supports same-sex marriage while the Christian one pew over feels they cannot. I daresay if we could open up and share these testimonies and then hug each other while blurting out, “Okay, now at least I understand,” the surprises would begin to fade into the shared sunset of our national identity.

In the meantime, “Love one another. For love is of God.”



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Movie Review: “Yesterday”



You’d have to be a Beatles fan, but the new film “Yesterday” is a wonderful nostalgia-drenched ride. Its basic premise is that the entire world has blinked . . . and all of a sudden, only Jack Malik has any memory of songs by the Fab Four. So out of the blue, this inept songwriter is coming up with brilliant new tunes. There’s a stunning scene early on where Malik begins quietly singing McCartney’s hit, “Yesterday,” for three female friends of his who have never heard anything from him beyond June-croon-spoon. The look on their faces as those classic lyrics bathe them for the first time . . .

The film nicely grapples with the reality that he’s morphing himself into a global phenom by plagiarizing the creative brilliance of others. But the whole movie is really stolen by actress Lily James, who seems to be luminous in every role she picks. You’ll hardly recognize the same blond beauty from “Mamma Mia” or “Downton Abbey,” but this story of unrequited love between her and Malik is very touching.

The soundtrack is awesome, of course, and the film has tons of inside jokes, some of which I’m sure I missed. But if you’re a fan of John, Paul, George, and Ringo, don’t miss it. I enjoy ditching work and seeing a classic like this when I’m 64. See, like that.

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MercyMe Concert!

mercy me

I was re-baptized last Friday night, and no, I didn’t actually get wet. Lisa and I were fortunate enough to be at the Microsoft Theater in L.A. to hear MercyMe perform from their 25-year legacy of Christian hits. I know of no musical artists anywhere who convey in such pure and powerful form the totality of Calvary’s saving power.

This concert tour has it all: powerhouse music, the stadium light show, the passionate singing-along of a huge temporary “congregation” of 7,000 fans united in Jesus. What’s more, the band put all the lyrics up on massive screens – often in effective rapid-fire bursts that tattoo the gospel message in our minds. We sang “Because He Lives” and “Amazing Grace” as a cappella anthems, and those were amazing moments.

On the drive down I confided anxiously to Lisa: “When they sing ‘Flawless,’ I’m gonna lose it.” Sure enough. Less than 200 yards away at the adjacent Staples Center, the Lakers were beating the Clippers in a Friday night game, and that’s comparatively about as important as, well, nothing. But we were on our feet, tingling with Sabbath joy, as Bart Millard took us right to the gates of heaven with our favorite song:

Let me introduce you to amazing grace . . .

No matter the bumps

No matter the bruises

No matter the scars

Still the truth is


No matter the hurt

Or how deep the wound is

No matter the pain

Still the truth is



Okay, maybe I lied. I did get a little bit damp right about then.


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