Da-na-na-na-na-na-na-na BatGod!

Holy bronzeworks BatGod! Satan is on the loose again, trying to steal the Jesus statue! To the Batcopter! Urrrk! Pow! Blam! Kablooey! Biff!

Wow.

Once upon a time, there was a young boy named James. James grew up in a nice, Christian home in Ohio, enjoyed bringing cookies to his grandmother and playing with his dog, Kipper. One day his daddy brought home a magic guitar. James was immediately enchanted. Little did he know that the guitar's powers would doom him to become the worst chapel musician in history.

I mean, seriously? Seriously? I'm reasonably certain that church camp only happens during the summer and is only attended by horny thirteen-year-olds, so thanks for sending me back to my wonder years. [Excellence? Forward-thinking? Honesty? Well, I can't judge that last one. 33%.]

James. I'm sure you're a nice guy. I'm sure you have good intentions. I'm sure you'd probably be a lot of fun to have a beer with. I'm also sure that you're better than this. . . .

"You guys can clap if you want to." Yeah. . . .

Beam me up, Scotty.

In the case that you only heard the part of the sermon about appendage-less squirrels this morning, you missed out; Mr. Regester really had some great thoughts to offer.

Recap. Lesson one. God's will for your life is like a candle. If you light a candle in a dark room, you will only be able to see a few steps in front of you, and everything else will remain dim or shrouded in shadow. The same holds for God's will. If you ask God what she wants you to do in a specific situation, she'll only give you advice for the next step or two. Lesson two. From lesson one it follows that Christians should make an effort to live their lives in the present moment, not worrying about what adventures, surprises, and shenanigans are waiting around the next bend.

Good thoughts. First, I have long been of the opinion that the habit many Christians fall into of praying to God and asking for her advice about who to marry, which college to attend, whether to open a bank account or not, paper or plastic, and other related questions is absurd and entirely unnecessary. Such matters are either far too dependent on circumstance and practicality or far too trivial to warrant troubling the transcendental. Unless, of course, you're totally into having a super anal-retentive, meddling micro-manager for a deity. [The other explanation, and the more probable one, is that people simply enjoy the lack of effort and thought that is required when someone else is telling them what to do. You've got some holy breast-milk on your chin . . . . a little to the left . . . . you got it.]

Christianity is, above all else, a moral system. And morality, at least in its most commonly accepted forms, is two parts altruism, two parts common sense, and one part not murdering people. The practice of living in and focusing one's attentions on the moment is advantageous for any [reasonable] moral system because it takes the focus away from the self and places it on others. Ooh, selflessness! I wonder where we've heard that before? The Buddha? Jesus? Ayn Rand? Gandhi? All but one are correct.

The third lesson from this morning? All chapel speakers, if they want their points to be remembered by the student body, should sprinkle their speeches with stories involving squished and/or sopping squirrels. Squid-burgers. Superfluous statements. [How's that for alliteration?]

Oh, and lesson four. Until further notice, skip chapel when James plays.

"Keep near me and you will be safe."

Daedalus