theo|digital

(A.KA. evidence I’m a nerd based on the way I use my Saturday afternoons).

So, the online tasks manager I’ve been using was a little one called Action Complete. Recently, it switched to a pay-only model, and while I liked a number of features, there are enough annoyances to send me back to the Research Room. Which, truth be told, is probably my favorite place anyway.

Some stuff I wanted:

• Online/cloud. Want the data stored safely not on my computer. Magic sync.
• Android App. That’s what I got right now.
• iPad App. I’m using a GCM iPad, and anticipate upgrading myself.
• Beautiful User Interface. Can’t be ugly. Should have intuitive drag-and-drop. Should not be using Web Form controls that look like 1996 (Ahem, RTM). I should be able to create nice visual layouts and colors when I want them.
• Has to fit this mental model I’ve been using of Actions, Waits, Projects, and Ideas, a modified form of Getting Things Done (GTD) that Action Complete got me sorta hooked on.
• I’ve given up on sycing with Exchange/Outlook. So over Outlook tasks.
• I don’t mind paying an annual fee

 View the PDF Chart (best option)

• Action Complete.  My current app. Has been functional for me. Some picky things make me want to change.
• Remember the Milk.  One of the most well-known on the web, but the interface isn’t nice. Feels old.
• ToodleDo. Most customizable I’ve seen. Better interface than RTM, but not much.
• GQueues. Effective interface design, really nice drag and drop, but no real mobile apps
• Springpad. Beautiful design; some Onenote/Evernote-like features like pegboard, web clippings, and Facebook integration.
• Nobze. Laughably overpriced, pretty nice interface, but not substantially better.
• Astrid. Focused on Facebook or sharing, but too limited in features for me. Android only.

This post has no significant enlighting thought. Fair warning.

I just did a Saturday afternoon tour through Best Buy. It was an impulse turn–maybe I’ll just swing in and see if I can touch a Motorola Xoom–but perfectly calculated to entertain that particular slice of my brain which also enjoys Engadget updates and YouTube reviews and Amazon Prime and opening 14 browser tabs at once.

I strolled defiantly past the yellow-polo security guard (dodging the snarky hello) and straight towards…  nothing.  Anything. Best Buy mush. My memory is mush and blue signs and beeps. Does this happen to anyone else? I’m certain this is how Best Buy designs their stores (or maybe security has some sort of 4G brain gun), but I always nearly instantly forget my original idea for heading into a Best Buy.

Instead, I begin a Hansel-and-Gretel-like trek through a digital forest, starting with Tablets.  The breadcrumbs go something like this:

Blackberry Playbook 7-inch. No e-mail? Really? Lame. Samsung  Galaxy Tab. Motorola Xoom–slick.  Heavy. Low on battery. Wireless charging mat. Why don’t I have this? $49 Where would I put it? Can I picture myself with a tablet this in my living room?  I need speakers. 2.1  5.1  Listen Live 7.1. Bose. Subwoofer. But I live in an apartment. Good wireless headphones? Don’t see them near here….  But I see computer monitors.  $129 for a 20-inch. HDMI. Need this for my home-office.  Or this 27-inch Mac. Holy amazing. Love how Apple negotiated 20 square feet of space in Best Buys that look like an Apple store. That woman looks like someone who doesn’t know the difference between Apple and the Toshiba across the isle. 3-D television demo… hold up, that Dyson fan has no blades. How is that possible?  Blu-Ray player. I wonder what the cheapest they have would be? Whoa: wireless music systems. Bet they are lame. Samsung bezel-edge TV is incredible. Huh, no-charge 3D glasses. What was I looking for? No WAY: they have a live demo of Google TV. This one doesn’t work. This one does. Try searching. Try Apps.  Try Netflix. It makes you sign in. Who signs into their netflix account in Best Buy? If they only had wireless HDMI… what’s the name of that new standard? I need a tablet that connects to my TV. Wonder if Android 3.0 will do that soon. I should get a new coffee maker. Or an Xbox 360 if they’re cheap now. Wonder if they could upgrade my Toyota’s Bluetooth. Or a PS3 because I still don’t have a blu-ray player. Whoa: security guy again.

And it’s been like 45 minutes and I find myself needing 15 more things than I remembered I needed when I walked in.

Honestly, despite that I keep up on tech news almost daily, I’m not really too much an early adopter. Why? I’m so indecisive on purchasing things. I run into all the choices and my brain launches into this heat-producing loop on the pros and cons of each (often with accompanying OneNote chart), and then it’s over. I’ve gone numb and don’t have the energy to buy.

Saves me every time.

I thanked God on the way out of Best Buy for: food and shelter and debilitating indecisiveness.

So here’s the problem:  I’ve moved to Orlando, Florida.  I was a campus minister for eight years, I have a seminary degree, and now am a manager in a Christian missions agency that serves missional leaders throughout the US.  But I don’t have a local body of believers to call my own—to serve or lead or embody redemption with.  And the biggest barrier to me finding one?  Probably myself.  (Part 1, Part 2)

Part 3—Chris’ Ideal Church

I still hate the idea of trying to define this: there’s a looming consumerism in the tone. But given my situation, I’ve finally decided to write down… What is My Ideal Church?  This is not a carefully constructed theological list: just the thoughts as they hit me.

Missional. By this I mean the sense the church is the hope for the world… not by simply spreading a message, but by being it.  I mean a church that thinks of itself as the Body of Christ of whom everyone has a part, and who live as active emissaries of the peace of Christ in their own context.

Not attractional. Doesn’t think that the way to reach its context is first by bringing people within its walls. In fact, a building really doesn’t matter too much to me at all. I’d love a church that is meeting in a theater or a community space, and doesn’t constantly hope to soon upgrade to its own mortgage. Services should and could reflect the expressions of the community (i.e. good art is cool), but to the extent that the show is oriented toward “new customer retention”… sigh.  Not interested.

Doesn’t have multiple services. This is a more specific way of saying “not too large,” and while a church with momentum feels good, a church that can’t fit all into one room at once feels too big.  How in the heck are we supposed to show hospitality to the stranger if we have no idea who the stranger is??  I sometimes think a church of 100-300 people is probably about right.  Bigger, and it’s time to make a new church.  All that, and this:  there’s nothing like adding your first additional service that suddenly changes the gathered, participatory church to movie attenders.  (ps – strong statements should be taken with a grain of salt and probably more humility:  see Part 1)

Defines the gospel holistically. Thinks of the gospel as Matthew 4.17: “repent, for the kingdom of God is near.”  Sees discipleship as dropping your nets to follow Jesus.  Is okay with not framing everything in terms of the Protestant Reformation works vs. free gift (e.g. does not constantly say “theres nothing you can do to earn God’s favor.” I agree with this.  I just don’t think it always applies). Sees types of sin that’ are bigger than just personal sin. Thinks the gospel is initiated by and modeled after Jesus’ life, death, AND resurrection.

Embraces plural leadership. Completely weird to most of the American church is the idea that a senior, charismatic leader can be a bad thing. I believe strongly in the “plurality of leadership” which requires multiple equals to agree together to lead. It not only saves the church from potential one-headed blindness, but blesses the church with multiple leadership gifts and the MODEL of multiple leadership gifts:  DNA that can be reproduced at every level.

Meals together in homes. The theology of the table has gotta be one of the most neglected but potent possibilities for the church today.  For years, our home fellowship group of 25 got together on a Tuesday night and cooked dinner together:  chopping in the kitchen, setting the table, praying and eating, and especially cleaning together.  The team character dynamics were hard to overestimate: laughter and service and sacrifice and goal accomplishment.  The biblical symbolism leads straight to Eucharst/communion.  Not the mention the amazing stand-out hospitality guests felt when they were invited to share the love.  For me, this is the image of discipleship and evangelism in a postmodern world.

Encourages art for arts sake. Embraces creative expression of its members, but not simply “in order to reach unbelievers” but because the biblical community models always seem to do this.  Regular use of artistic talents reflections both creation and mission.

Serves the poor. Because of the central role of the this metric whenever God speaks of whether his people are faithful or not.  I hope for an American church that recognizes its significant wealth relative to the world’s Christians, and tries to like one “who is given much.”

Liturgical-Historical Sense. Realizes that the “band and the talk,” can be a relatively anemic approach to gathered worship.  Is willing to think about the historic patterns of the churche’s worship and include silence, creeds, loud and clear reading of scripture (where we listen, not read along in our NIV study bibles), and see communion/Eucharist as a crucial “we-ness” that be part of our regular rhythm.

Yep.  So there’s at least part of an ideal sketch. Next thought? How even writing this out partially undoes it.

So here’s the problem:  I’ve moved to Orlando, Florida.  I was a campus minister for eight years, I have a seminary degree, and now am a manager in a Christian missions agency that serves missional leaders throughout the US.  But I don’t have a local body of believers to call my own—to serve or lead or embody redemption with.  And the biggest barrier to me finding one?  Probably myself. (Part 1)

Part 2—My Past Churches

I suppose part of the church search should be knowing what you’re looking for.  This part already bothers me a little bit.  Do I have strong, over-educated opinions about what the church should be?  You bet.  But do I know that no church is anywhere close to perfect?  Yes.  In theory.

So the picture of what I’m looking for may not match to Reality.  But what would it be, if I did?  (Let’s set aside my nervousness about me being the sole-definer of what I’m looking for… I’ll deal with that in a separate thought somewhere).  What is Chris’s ideal church?

There’s probably a pre-question:  knowing where you’ve come from is important.  I’ve had a strong variety of church experiences.  Growing up conservative reformed gave me the Westminster Confession lens on life, where theology reigned king. I’ve got baggage here from what I now think was an over-narrow definition of orthodoxy, but I still respect deep study and careful thought.

The church that most affected me was my student church that grew me up and I eventually helped lead. Part of a small network of

chuches started in the 70s and 80s, my church was characterized by, among other things: house churches of ten to thirty people, emphasis on the Great Commission, an informal and participatory worship style, high relational intimacy, plurality of eldership, the priesthood of all believers, scripture memorization, and discipleship marked by principles of mentorship, multiplication, and leadership development. Our network was partly the unlikely mating of Plymouth Brethren and Campus Crusade for Christ. So there’s that.

My most recent church was Life on the Vine, in which I was only just barely beginning to be able to serve, yet felt like home very quickly.  This missional/liturgical/community oriented fellowship extended much of what I believed and lead in I-Life, but added a significant historical-liturgical dimension in practice and kingdom-gospel theology that embodied much of what I had spent the previous five years coming to advocate for.  Think loud reading of scripture, icons, and Eucharist as the climax of every gathering together.

Believe it or not, those are my total church home experiences.  Since I’ve raised financial support as a missionary for many years, I’ve met tons of other churches:  from Assemblies of God to Bible Baptists to Anglicans to large seeker-oriented boxes.  But I’ve had relatively few I’ve ever belonged to.

So now, what do I want to belong to?

I think, however much it bothers me, I’ve gotta make a list. As soon as I can write some more.

Ugh. There’s can’t be many more phrases that make me sicker than “we’re church shopping right now.” It’s like all the things that cause me sorrow about the broken American evangelical church (just “Jesus and me” except when we’re an “audience,” ”attendance” to hear “great teaching” followed by “great worship”) are neatly stacked into one phrase that layers the Body of Christ and the Mall into a food court spinach wrap that’s “right for our family.”

Before I become boringly and repetitive on the Church Cynic scale, let’s be clear that I’m certain there is a growing mass that laments the same things I do, yet struggles in reality to effect change. This is not simply lack of organization or the right logo, but partially that incarnational, missional sketch of church is uneasy with the kind of crowd-gathering media approach that champions the large video screens (now in HD) you’d need to share the vision with more than a few at once. Jumbotrons mean consumerism, technopoly and a power dynamic that we natural post-moderns cringe under.

But the larger reason for being humble on the consumerism/individualism rant is that this is simply the story of the church in every age: she a guaranteed reflection of her surrounding culture with both its sins and graces.  Yeah, the role of redemption in the life of the church is undoing both cultural and personal sin, but while a lot changes, a whole lot stays the same. To employ the classic metaphor: the church in culture is like a fish in water. Once you’ve finally noticed its there, it’s still hard to see and even tougher to clean your own tank. At their best, missional critics identify how difficult large-scale cultural change really is, for the church or the culture she lives in.  Simply put:  it’s easier to complain than to change things.

Which brings me back to church shopping.

Humility in theory sounds great, but there’s nothing like a bit of practicality to nail it home. Since my recent move to Orlando, FL, I’ve become the very thing I want to strike out with a big Sharpie:  a church shopper.

Granted, it’s taken me months to admit it. There have been phases of denial—probably more of those than anything else, actually. But I find myself in that unenviable position of absolutely loving the mission of the local Body of Christ, yet not even being part of it. My spare hours have been absorbed by Netflix and couch shopping (better than sitting?), and when I do make the effort to investigate a church, it’s typically been what everybody else does: a chip-on-my-shoulder visit to a 10:45am service where I absorb custom video, a worship drum solo, a charismatic story told from a stool, and a clapping send-off where I sulk out with my church full-color church brochure.

Ugh.

I’ve got more desperate thoughts on this. More to come.

Some might have noticed that I just got my new domain www.theodigital.com sorta off the ground and then subsequently stopped talking. Phew. It’s been the craziness of life: mainly my transition to my new job in Orlando Florida from Chicago. I haven’t had a “normal” day in 3+ months, in fact, I realized that I had lived out of suitcase from 20 December until yesterday, when I slept in my new apartment for the first time. It’s been hotels and guest rooms for three months. Yowza.

So even though my new place is trashed with partly-opened cardboard boxes, it feels good to land a little bit.

Meanwhile, my e-mail inbox is full of “tips” from friends and readers on theo-digital type topics. All stuff I’d love to think and write about… and mostly stuff that will probably still wait for a bit. Some things still need to happen. For instance, living normally will still required that I buy some things. Like milk. And a bed.

I’ve been telling people for the last few years that e-mail inboxes have become the to-do list manager of the active person, and it’s true. Funny how media fill prior functions/needs. For me, e-mail is both “To-Do” and—since Google’s ability to archive everything—also “Life History.” That first one is why I can be slow to return e-mails. If I’m in a mode where I can’t “do anything else right now”—even short messages become shoved aside and sometimes forgotten.

On the other hand, you can text me and you’re likely to get an instant response. Media-shifting (from phone to text to e-mail to face-to-face) doesn’t just repackage the same message, it seems to modify it completely.

Okay, off to Ikea.

So many sections of Orlando seem chincy to me. Weeds and faded pavement and aging one-stories with pink trim. Then there are the little fake oasis spots with three palm trees and a fountain that mark the entrance to every strip mall and Apartment Home complex. The roads are Frogger-special 8-lane behemoths, screaming cars racing by to the next stacked-up stoplight. They slice the suburban landscape, isolating Publix parking lots and Baptist churches and LA Fitness.

I’ve been on the apartment hunt. So many smiley people explaining floorplans called “Copacabana” and pointing out granite countertops and Berber carpet and three treadmills + mirror they call a “24-hour fitness center.” Everything is “gorgeous” and “convenient” and “luxury” and “such an amazing price right now.” The apartment that almost won me is in a small, un-Florida New Urbanist community that trades the stucco Outlet Malls for small winding streets, storefront shops, and a neighborhood feel. But at $400 *more* monthly, trendy Baldwin Park outpriced my budget. I’ve resigned myself to the brightly-painted traditional Florida complex complete with miniature lake and yes, a palm tree oasis at the entrance. That’s okay. I’ll adjust. I’m just not sure how I’m going to meet or love my literal neighbors with my “private ground-floor entrance” apartment and a community so certain that nobody walks that they neglected to install sidewalks.

But for my whining, the skies here are optimistically blue and the snowstorms that have made news across the East Coast feel as distant as terrorism or the BBC. The brothers and sisters I’ve met have been warm and hospitable and easily allowed me to slip into their rhythms of life. And the responsibility and opportunity of the ministry here is already in motion—hopeful and exciting. For all my cynical observations, things aren’t bad here.

As long as I can embrace the Flamingo as the representative lawn ornament of Central Florida.

I guess I’ve moved to Orlando.

My train journey is coming to an end. We made it through the heavy snow drifts of the Sierra Nevadas and the first vineyards alight the California landscape. Familiar names to unfamiliar places are slipping by: UC Davis and Mountain View. And as I pack my bag, moving haltingly in the tight space to reach my scattered things, I feel a tinge of jealousy for passengers that arrive on days that are not so wet and grey. The rain has thrown a dim film on the world. The low light mars my pictures from the train-in-motion, and I eventually give up, setting the camera beside my chair and framing pictures with my mind instead. The rain specks remain fixed on the windows.

Pete my official Amtrak Sleeping Car Attendant has been friendly but awkward the entire trip. He pokes his head in occasionally with an offer for bottled water or fresh towels, but he has a little script he says, smiling into the distance. Interrupting him for a question hits a 404 Not Found error—he abruptly stops talking without making eye contact, shakes his head a little and slides your door shut briskly. He’s like an early software model—able to do a few things well, but ready to crash on getting unexpected input (like, “Pete, can you tell me more about the connecting bus service in San Francisco?” = Melt down). Oh well. I’ve decided to have compassion, but I’m a little unsure how much to tip him. I read online that 5 dollars a night is a pretty good tip. I spent two nights, so I decide I’ll go ahead and give him the $10.

Susan, the Dining Car Attendant, walks by my open door and says “bye!” She is carrying a purse and her jacket, and I wonder if she has people in San Francisco she can stay with.

All in all, I’m sad to leave the California Zephyr. Two days is enough time to start to feel at home, and now I know why people take the train. It is the antidote to an information-glut life, running at high-speed. The first goal is to sit and stare out the window; watching the trees and rivers and mesas as they float by. It’s a calming way to travel, nothing to filter or sort or answer or know. And nobody made you take your shoes off to do it.

Goodbye California Zephyr. Let’s do it again some day.

I awoke to white sands and early dawn; our train rushing through a speckled desert, barren and cold. An 18-wheeler was pacing us on the parallel Interstate, his running lights sharp and eager and colored against the grey silhouette of distant mountains.

My Palm Pre refused to respond to the power button, and I realized I had forgotten to plug it in overnight. Unless I wanted to leave my roomette, the time was going to remain a mystery until she got enough juice to wake-up herself. Maybe it was a godsend. I sat on my bunk and stared at the increasing light for thirty minutes, unscheduled and unhurried.

I ate breakfast with Mike and Mike. The elderly father and adult son are traveling together from Denver, cracking jokes about each other. I’ve ordered eggs and turkey sausage and the elderly Mike turns to me and says, “We should be coming up on the Mustang Ranch soon! Do you know about the Mustang Ranch?”
I shake my head.
“It’s a brothel!” Mike winks.
“Dad!” says younger Mike. “How would you know about that?”
“I’ve been there!” announces older Mike, a grin on his face.

–
We stop in Reno right below the Harrah’s Casino. I grab my jacket to head to the platform—if I hurry I may be able to take a picture of a slot machine. I’m stopped before I start: two large men are standing in the hallway blocking my exit. The one on the left wears a Phantom skater skull-cap and a yellow hoodie. The larger guy on the right has rows of earing studs and a ragged gottee. They both move quickly; reaching into their clothes they pull out—badges. “Nevada Police” says Lefty. “We’d like to talk to you.”

Apparently part of the Reno experience is automatic entry into a Western. I learned from the conductor that Birdeye, Nevada is the site of the first ever train robbery. 40,000 gold coins were nabbed from the Overland Express in 1870 by John Chapman and some pals. John was a Sunday School teacher.

Turns out that Left and Right are Narcotics Agents with the Reno Police Force, and every day they search this train, looking for people who are traveling all the way (Chicago to San Fran or back) and who bought tickets on short notice. It’s not actually drugs they’re looking for, they explain apologetically. It’s cash. The drugs flow West -> East, and the cash returns East -> West. Their search of my room takes about 30 seconds, and they are apologetic, wishing me a great trip, and then speeding back down the hall towards Coach.

Welp, okay.

Each time the train pulls out of a station, the initial acceleration so gentle that I barely notice we’ve started moving unless I’m looking carefully.

The Colorado river was frozen over for much of our trip through the mountains—enough so that it was only detectable by being slightly more flat than the surrounding land.  Now that we’ve made it down stream on the other side of the continental divide, we have churning water next to us, silent and wild.  It’s cool.

Ross is the cafe car attendant. I went down there before dinner to see what it was, really. Ross was sitting there alone–nobody apparantly hangs in the cafe car near dinnertime. Turns out he lives in Joliet and he’s reading the Grapes of Wrath and he previously graduated from chef school, but currently microwaves hot dogs for a living. One of those ironies.

The sunset tonight was heartstopping. Jet-red sand cliffs sped past in sheer lines, highlighted with snow and dotted with sage. One couple sat in the viewliner car in the booth next to me and kept trailing off their conversation in favor of the windows.

The dark has fallen again, and my dinner reservation is soon: 7pm. I’m told that once we pass Salt Lake City, the chances of having any kind of signal are null, so my thoughts will probably have to continue in Word instead of WordPress.