Yesterday, I met Bob the Tomato. And Mr. Lundt. And Pa Grape. Any American Christian with kids my age, probably knows those names. They may even know the name Phil Vischer, the founder of Big Idea.
At the Religion Newswriter’s Association Conference last night, Big Idea and Lovell-Fairchild previewed The Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything. There’s an embargo on reviews, so I’m not going to review the movie or share spoilers.
You read that right. Good writing sometimes sings, but it always stings. In addition to being a bad pun, that’s a reminder that we can’t forget to take risks in our writing. In fact, if we aren’t taking risks as writers, we might as well just stop.
Heck, sometimes we even have to take risks with new technologies like Gabcast, where you can hear me talking more about writing that takes risks. (I also share another great parable from Annie Dillard.)
Just this week, I was talking to a Texas real estate Czar and we got to talking about vulnerability. Vulnerability requires a strong, supportive community, he said. And by vulnerability he seemed to mean accountability. And by community he seemed to mean something like a bible study accountability group.
I just posted chapter 7 over at Entire Book in a Blog. If you haven’t read any of it yet, start with chapters 1 and 2. You need to read both chapters. Don’t make me do the puppy dog eyes thing. Just try them.
If you haven’t read George Barna’s research summary for the year, he has some interesting conclusions. And by interesting, I mean wacky.*
Take this one: New Research Explores Teenage Views and Behavior Regarding the Supernatural.Reminds me of my old days at the Church of Christ. In mid 1980s, I suffered through a series on defeating Satan. They told us we were surrounded by Satan. Papa Smurf? SATANIC. Alf? SATANIC. Heavy Metal Christian Music? SATANIC! We spent months learning the list of infected cultural icons. Continue reading →
The Kingdom of Heaven is like a journal that a man kept for many months and set down on the trunk of his car to help his father bring in firewood.
The journal was filled with his poems, notes, thoughts, stories, letters from his children, artwork they had drawn together, pictures they had scribbled on notecards taped lovingly next to scribbled lists of words that rhyme. But he forgot to go back to the garage after carrying the wood. And instead his wife drove to the bank.
So he searched and searched, retracing her route, finding scattered pieces of paper that he recognized as ones he’d intended to tape down later. But no journal.