Tomorrow, two high-octane smart guys are going to debate whether or not God exists. It will be quite an event. John Lenox, author, serious math genius, Oxford professor and Biblical Christian will go toe-to-toe with Richard Dawkins, author, serious physicist, Oxford professor, and spokesman for the “new atheism.” Should be a great debate. Fun to listen to. Fun to watch. Fun to talk about later.

I’ll be rooting for Lenox, of course. But in the end, the debate will not make one bit of difference. God doesn’t need a math genius to prove He exists. Nor can a physics dude prove He doesn’t.

To paraphrase Daniels three pals, if God wants to prove Himself, He will. If He doesn’t He won’t. Either way, I will not bow down to your stupid statue, Nebi. And to paraphrase Ester, if I parish, I parish. To quote my big sister, God’s God, He can do what He wants. And to quote my former business partner, don’t use God, He doesn’t like it.

I was just outside, and I noticed that it was getting a little cooler—at 94 degrees! Last week we set a record—five days in a row over 100. So, 94, by comparison, is a little cooler. But anyone who thinks the words “cooler” and “94 degrees” in the same thought needs some sort of adjustment in perception.

This must be what it’s like to be a boiled frog.

I am really attracted to the simple life. Eat local foods. Grow herbs. Cook at home. Recycle clothes. Walk instead of drive. Use passive solar if you can. Get rid of what you don’t use. Don‘t buy what you’re not going to use. Be contented with what you have. Living to stay healthy, rather than planning to get sick and counting on physicians to make you well. Stuff like that.

I like that there is so much common ground here for so many people. My conservative, canonical Christian friends find this sort of thing appealing. Also my tree hugging pals like it. My octogenarian father-in-law (maybe the smartest person I’ve ever known) embraces it. So does my out-of-control friend Kat. As does my cutting edge, environmentalist friend Owen. And our arty friends Keith and Annette.

The problem is that people who get into the simple life tend to see advertising as either silly, useless, or evil. So, once again, I would never belong to a club that would have me as a member. Tough being me.

Friday night at the Bible conference. There’s a couple that live there at the conference grounds, Mr. and Mrs. Yourgi. Mr. Yourgi was a college school mate with Jim Elliott and Nate Saint at Wheaton. They all sang in a quartet together.

Anyhow, we talked Mr. Y into playing some piano, while a bunch of us sang. He can really play the keys off the thing. So, we were singing four part on all the old songs. Just about a half-dozen or so of us. The piano was incredible. But our singing was a little thin—by Friday some people had gone home. Then, suddenly, we heard a whole other choir come up from behind us…the reinforcements had arrived.

It was seven kids—average age about 20—who had come over from the Buckit conference to spend the night at Greenwood Hills before heading home the next morning. Buckit is an intensive Bible study conference for young men and women—under 24. It had let out late Friday afternoon. Boy, could those kids sing! What an encouragement for us old folks to see this group of young, beautiful, thin, fresh-faced Christians lighting the place up! A real treat to these ears.

We were away for the week at a Bible conference. It was awesome. Drove nine hours in a 12-passenger van full of lovely Christian ladies (five ladies—Anne being one of them—and me…woo-hoo!). The trip up was good. Singing. Talking. Stopping at Greencastle Coffee Roasters. The teaching was excellent. One guy talked on Joshua and Revelation. The other guy was all about evangelism, from Acts. The trip back was sort of bitter sweet. You know how that goes. Great week. Relaxing. Invigorating. Spiritually thrilling. Then, the long, slow drive down the mountain…back to the real world.

It’s been a little tough. I can’t believe how fast things move. I can’t believe that I normally move fast enough to keep up with them. It’s a blur, really. I wonder how many things I miss in the frenzy. I’m sure I’ll be velocitized before long.

This is a bit of a follow up to my post of June 13, in which I wrote about a mysterious car, with what looked like evidence of fowl play. I haven’t gotten the chance to check in with the attendant, but the car is still there. As far as I know, it hasn’t moved. Of course, the door is now closed. If I learn more, I’ll fill you in. Here’s my theory…

Guy lives in the condos, next to the garage. Rolled in late at night, after a road trip, a little tired, perhaps a little tipsy. Opens the door and rolls out, staggers to the walkway (right near his parking place) and goes over to the condos. So tired or distracted, he doesn’t notice that the dome light is on and the open-door chime is chiming. Doesn’t even bother cleaning the car out from the road trip (thus the CDs and fast food bags).

By the next morning, when I discover the car, the battery is dead, dead, dead. Lights are out. Chime is off. Door is standing open. I report it to the attendant, who makes a call. Somebody responds by coming by, registering some sort of report with the parking garage police, shuts the door.

Because the guy lives and works downtown, he has had no occasion to get into his car for the past 13 days (I know we used to go weeks without getting in the car, when we lived downtown…one time Anne actually lost her car…pretty good story for another time). He may not even know that his battery is deader than a doornail. Don’t wanna be nearby when he finds out.

All of this is just speculation, to entertain you. If I ever get the real scoop, I’ll let you know.

I know this will seem a little out there, but I thought you might want to hear about the night, back in the late 1980s, when I met an angel on Green Avenue.

There used to be an audio studio called Mark Five / Sandcastle, in a sort of industrial part of town off of White Horse Road. I was there producing some music for Quincy’s Steakhouse late one night. I had been dropped off at the studio. And since I finished around 9:30, and since I lived not too far away, I decided to walk home. I was a tough guy. I had walked through a lot of urban neighborhoods late at night in Pittsburgh. What could Greenville, SC do to me?

Problem was, I made a miscalculation. Instead of turning right at White Horse and going down to Grove Road (which would have gotten me home in about half an hour), I turned left on White Horse and went up to Anderson Road (which could have gotten me home to Heaven—that’s another story).

Well, I started walking along Anderson Road. There started to be fewer and fewer houses…burned out industrial buildings…fewer street lights…fewer cars…it was getting darker…and darker…and darker.

Finally, around 11:00, I found myself somewhere on Green Avenue. I saw some people on a stoop, in front of some sort of lighted store front up ahead. “Good,” I thought. “People.” Then I got this bad feeling, like maybe it wasn’t so good after all. It suddenly occurred to me that I had a shoulder bag full of one-of-a-kind audio masters, probably worth thousands of dollars.

A couple hundred yards from the stoop, I stopped and looked down at my feet for about ten seconds, to gather my thoughts. When I looked up, there was this tall African American guy about twenty feet away, walking right toward me. He was about 6′5″ tall. He was wearing a Kangol hat. And he was walking right for me…pretty fast.

I’ll never forget what he said, “Yo, yo, yo, my man. You must be lost, ’cause I know you don’t want to be here.”

Then, seeing I was clean-cut and white (I guess), he asked, “Are you from Bob Jones or something?”

I didn’t know at that point what answer would get me out of there alive. I wasn’t from Bob Jones. So I just decided to give him a non-responsive answer, “I’m just trying to get home,” I said.

“Where’s home?”

“Augusta Road.”

“Well, what you wanna do is cross the street. Look down at your feet. Don’t look at anyone. Don’t talk to anyone. Just keep walking. Go two blocks. Turn right. Go two blocks. And that’s Augusta Road.”

I followed his directions completely. To a tee. I believe the guy was an angel. And I believe he turned me invisible and walked me right around whatever was going on on that stoop. You may not believe it. But you weren’t there.

Found a very convenient space on level two this morning. Then, as I was getting out of the car, I noticed a car across the way with the door open.

I walked over and noticed that there was nobody in or near the car. Clothes were strewn across the back seat and passenger seat. Fast food bags and CDs in the passenger seat and on the floor. No dome light or door-open chime. Apparently the door had been open long enough to kill the battery (all night?).

I reported this to the attendant, who immediately picked up the phone to call it in. I can’t wait to learn the rest of the story. What do you suppose the deal is on this?

It’s funny about old friends. I got an email from my college roommate, Tom, a while back. Hadn’t seen him since 1983. But he’s the kind of guy who ought to be in PR (turns out he is). We caught up about folks we know. He gave me some news about his family. Talked about the rivalry between his Cleveland Browns and my Pittsburgh Steelers. Found out that he’s a big expert on national parks. Some people are just easy to catch up with.

Today I had lunch with our old pal JR. Used to do business with her every single day. Haven’t seen her in months (maybe a year). Same thing as Tom. We just picked up conversations and kept going.

Other people, you only have in common the thing you’re doing together at the moment. When you run into one of those people later, even days later, it’s hard to have anything to say. I’ve worked with some folks like that. They say that’s a common thing with political campaigns. The only thing you have in common is the candidate. Win or lose, after the election, the bond is gone.

There must be a branding application here somewhere. Oh, yeah…it’s Malcom Gladwell’s connector thing. Look it up. Knock yourself out. I gotta go.

Wonder if old Tom can get me a deal at El Tovar.

It’s been a few days since I last blogged. It was our anniversary—we had the foresight to get married around the Memorial Day holiday—so we took a long weekend in one of our favorite top-secret, undisclosed locations. While sitting next to the bocci court, overlooking the Tennessee River, we met a dad and teenage daughter in town from Memphis for a soccer tournament (he pays, she plays).

He mentioned two interesting, seemingly unrelated things about Memphis. First, they have a great deal of race-related conflict. Second, they have idiosyncratic (love that word) street naming habits: you’re driving down the street and suddenly it changes names. Same street. Different name. The conversation reminded me of something I once heard (or read) about Louisville, KY.

According to the story (and I can’t remember where I heard or read this, so if I’m wrong, somebody from Louisville can correct me and I’ll fix it), Louisville has one big, major street running through the middle of town. On one side of the street are all the “white” neighborhoods. On the other side are all the “non-white” neighborhoods. Funny thing is, though, that all the cross streets change names as they cross the big main street.

Turns out names really matter to people. They don’t mind living on the same street with folks from a minority they don’t like…as long as it’s not the same street name. As a fairly balanced guy (and I’m not using that as a clinical term), I just wanna say, “Get a life!” But as a student of marketing, I find this whole name thing fascinating. I guess there will always be work for lexicographers (isn’t that the art and science of naming things?).