I've recently made some changes in my electronic communications, primarily motivated by a desire to update the way that I synchronize my calendar, contacts, and e-mail across multiple electronic devices. The upshot is that I'm basically adding another e-mail address to my ever-expanding electronic identity.

Marci rolled her eyes when she noticed the changes that I was making (it was a three-day process to get everything set up the way I wanted). She was baffled by the addition of a fifth active e-mail account, when she barely manages to make full use of her one e-mail account. And to be honest, I can completely understand her bewilderment. If Microsoft would have played nice and let me do everything that I wanted to do through its services, I would have gladly processed everything through my Microsoft (Hotmail) account. But because of a few quirks in their system -- or because of my own ineptitude in figuring out their system -- I opted to update my system through Google, who offers a more comprehensive and more flexible package.

It wasn't anything personal. It wasn't a pledge of allegiance to any new corporate empire. It was just a practical decision -- like picking up a passport for a country in which I already function as a de facto citizen and resident. Fortunately in today's electronic environment, I don't have to renounce my citizenship in any of the other on-line "countries." I just get to pick up another passport, like some kind of diplomat or secret CIA agent.

So what does this mean for all my friends and family who want to keep in touch with me, electronically? Absolutely nothing.

The marvel of modern technology is that no one has to update his or her address book unless they want to. Ultimately, it really doesn't matter which of my multiple e-mail addresses is used. I think of it like an elaborate stacking of funnels, and I've got it set up so they all funnel into the same location in the end anyway. A person could send an e-mail to my Hotmail address (which is the account that I've had the longest, going all the way back to 1995 at BGSU), or to my Gmail address (which is relatively new), or to my Amsterdam50 address, or my GCM address, or to the e-mail associated with my personal website -- and they will all reach me simultaneously through my Gmail account. Pretty slick, huh? At least I hope it's pretty slick.

I love the color and clarity of biblical language. It's no wonder to me that the Bible has been an inspiration for so many great works of literature. And besides what's already been woven into the literary community, there are a lot of powerful biblical stories and phrases that are still more or less "unknown" and untapped. I discovered another one this morning, while reading the 24th chapter of Joshua:

Send the hornet. In recapping the conquest of Canaan, Joshua (the great leader and military commander) speaks as an oracle of the LORD, reminding the assembled masses of Israel of the fact that their military victories had been supernaturally set up ahead of time: "I sent the hornet ahead of you, which drove them out before you -- also the two Amorite kings. You did not do it with your own sword and bow" (Joshua 24:12). It's an interesting turn of phrase, isn't it? Something about it sticks with me, that idea of clearing out a room by releasing a hornet through a crack in the door before making one's entrance. It's a very efficient word picture. I genuinely wonder why it hasn't made it into more popular, colloquial usage. That idea of "sending the hornet" could be used in any situation in which the way has been prepared for another's success. It could speak of any situation involving God's Providence and preparation.

I find myself enriched by these little nuggets of language in the pages of the Bible -- as a writer, as a believer, and as a pastor. Just another reason to appreciate the greatest work of literature of all time...

Have you ever heard of Roy Cleveland Sullivan? I was turned on to the story by my friend, Kor, and I find myself genuinely surprised that his story hasn't yet been more widely publicized. Even reading the Wikipedia page about him reads like the script to some quirky-but-meaningful, "art-house," independent film.

Sullivan was struck by lightning seven separate times, over the course of 35 years. The lightning strikes were independently verified and documented by medical professionals. At least four of the seven times he was struck by lightning, his hair caught on fire -- leading him to develop a habit of carrying a can of water with him, wherever he went, just in case his head needed to be extinguished again... When he was struck by lightning for the second time, he was knocked unconscious while driving a truck -- and he only awoke to find that his vehicle had come to rest just short of the edge to a cliff... When he was struck by lightning for the seventh time, the incident was immediately followed by the appearance of a bear who tried to steal the trout from his fishing line (though the attempted "robbery" was not successful, as Sullivan kept his wits about him enough to beat the bear off with a stick).

As he grew older, Sullivan became convinced (understandably so) that storm clouds would actually follow him and seek him out for assault. Others seemd to pick up on this, too, as the lightning strikes eventually got to the point where Sullivan's friends and associates would part company with him, whenever they saw the slightest signs of a storm approaching. Unconfirmed reports indicated that there was once a lightning strike very close to Sullivan's father, when they were working together, and on a separate occasion Sullivan's wife was strike by lightning while hanging up the laundry together with her husband. Consequently, Sullivan started to avoid contact with other people, later in life, because he was concerned for their welfare. Eventually, Sullivan committed suicide at the age of 71 -- with the only documented reasons for this being "unrequited love."

Doesn't that just sound like an indy flick waiting to be produced? So much powerful potential for symbolism about fate, fear, and failure. Even though I've never been struck by lightning -- nor have I ever even personally known of someone else who was struck by lightning -- something in his story somehow resonates within me. Don't we all resonate with these themes? Anyone want to give me a grant of one-year's living expenses, so I can develop a script? :-)

I set out on my bicycle, riding south along the eastern bank of the Amstel River. The air is bright and blue, still cool in the shadows but growing more and more warm, with a rich green smell to it. The city falls away behind me, as I push past cafes and schools, tall modern office buildings and squat corrugated warehouses. Soon, I'm shooting under metro lines, train tracks, and highway overpasses -- and finally I break out into the wide expanses of vibrant green meadows and impossibly blue skies. Especially after another long, dark, Dutch winter, a mild spring day such as this feels like a miracle.

About halfway between Amsterdam and Ouderkerk-aan-de-Amstel, I find my destination. Among the various orchards and glens along the way, this one is my favorite because of the enormous oak tree that stands in the middle of a broad clearing. I ditch my bike beside the bicycle path, and I walk out to the tree. I touch its trunk with the tips of my fingers. It is stout and strong, all gnarled and knobby -- but beautiful. A magnificent, awe-inspiring Methuselah of a tree. The oak's branches spread out so far that I would find myself out of breath if I were to run from one end of the oak's shady canopy to the other. But I'm not here to run; I'm here to rest. Finding a spot in the dappled sunlight beneath the old oak tree, I lower myself to the ground and breathe deeply. The gentle spring breeze causes the oak leaves to rustle and sway, like an ocean at low tide.

Surely, there are few things in God's creation that are as beautiful and magnificent as an old oak tree.

As I lie on my back and gaze up into the oak foliage, I find myself wondering exactly how long it might take for just such a tree to grow. Probably dozens, if not hundreds of years. I remember sitting here in early-October, last year, and seeing all the acorns that had fallen down from the old oak canopy. There were thousands of them. Each acorn was a work of art, in and of itself -- so perfectly round and smooth, with all the power and potential of a mighty oak tree latent within. But in all my years of frequenting this meadow, beneath this oak tree, it's odd to notice that I have never seen even the tiniest oak sapling. Out of all those thousands of acorns, not just from last fall but from previous seasons as well, not one of them has established itself as an oak (at least not as far as I'm aware). And even if one were to sprout and take root, it would be many, many years -- perhaps not until the time of my grandchildren or great-grandchildren -- that the experience of that hypothetical oak tree could approach anything like the experience of the Methuselah Oak that stretches into the sky today. Perhaps that's part of what makes it so beautiful. Beautiful, but also a bit lonely or wistful.

In this moment of reflection, my nose is tickled by the wind-borne seeds of a dandelion, and my attention is drawn from the towering oak overhead to the vast expanse of grasses and weeds down on the ground level. Dandelions are everywhere. Yellow dandelions, gray dandelions, open dandelions, closed dandelions, tall dandelions, short dandelions -- they stretch out as far as the eye can see... and then some.

Looking across the field, I realize that the dandelions are beautiful and magnificent in their own way. Sure, they're weeds -- and kind of pesky weeds at that -- but I don't know if I've ever beheld a more cheerful kind of pest. Bright and yellow, with a shaggy mane roaring into the sky. They look happy and healthy. Anything-but-lonely. Insects buzz from flower to flower. Tiny, fluffy seeds are plucked from one dandelion at the end of its life cycle while the earliest sprouts of a new dandelion are popping up right beside it.

They're small. They're humble. They don't last very long. But these dandelions are indomitable.

I stretch out, pick a dandelion, and hold it up to my face. It smells slightly bitter but fresh and verdant. I rub the tiny yellow petals across my cheeks and over my nose. Holding the dandelion at arms length, I use my thumb to make the blossom pop off and float to the ground. It's remarkable to consider how delicate an individual dandelion really is. Yet even if I tried to wipe out the dandelion population for a single square of 10 meters by 10 meters, I don't think I could do it. Trample them. Scorch them. Freeze them. Poison them. Pluck them. They just keep coming back again. Dandelions grow anywhere and everywhere. Generation after generation, they keep growing and spreading and multiplying... and growing... and spreading... and multiplying...

I tilt my head back and admire the oak tree again -- realizing that I always aspire to the oaks in life: writing a great novel... developing a great career... establishing a great church... or at least obediently following the Great Commission and "making disciples of all nations." As my eyes linger upwards, in the branches of the old oak tree, I turn my head back towards the field in front of me again. So often, I forget to appreciate the dandelions that are all around me: writing a simple e-mail of encouragement to a friend... putting in a good, solid day's work... having a meaningful conversation with someone about what God is doing in his life... raising children from day to day. These things, too, are beautiful and noteworthy. Both oaks and dandelions have their place in the meadow -- and in my life.

I was recently approached with a request to submit an article in Arseh Sevom's new on-line magazine. Although I am not well-versed in political affairs or civil rights issues -- and especially not in the area of Iranian society -- I was honored to be asked for a submission. And when I was told that the topic was to be "Networks and Networking," my thoughts eventually drifted towards an examination of the tension that many Christians experience between the "Gather-and Celebrate" dynamic of ministry (an internal form of networking) and the "Scatter-and-Serve" dynamic of ministry (an external form of networking). This magazine is, of course, not a Christian publication (if anything, the audience would be primarily secular and/or cuturally-Muslim) -- so it was an interesting challenge to write about these Christian networking issues for a relatively uninitiated audience; but I feel like both I and the editors at Arseh Sevom were generally pleased with how things worked out.

The result is an article, just published today, entitled "Killing the Church by Networking." If you get the chance to read it, I'd love to hear your feedback.