logos redux

I find this appalling. If you can sit through it then watch the second one. The whole thing is about a) how we just want to make sure everything is easy and fun and cool enough for you, b) how totally authentic and relevant and real we are (not like all those other churches that do all that churchy junk and thus must be fake), and c) how we are obviously so much better than the other 150 churches in town that haven’t managed to get you sold on going to church. The implication here is that, ‘We understand why you don’t go to church. We wouldn’t either if all we had to choose from were the other 150 churches in Auburn, but now we’re here and we’ll make it worth your while,’ (at this point I envision a slimy used car salesman putting his arm around my back).

This is the height of ecclesiastical arrogance, disdain for one’s elders and forebears, contempt for the kind of quiet, confident faith lauded in the New Testament, subversion of authority and tradition, and embrace of the idea that the church is primarily an institution that sells some sort of sacred product. I can’t help but think about the Medieval Catholic Church with regards to treating grace as if it were something to be dispensed for a price. But at least the medievals knew enough to know that if that were the case they were the ones with a corner on the market. They had the monopoly and could charge whatever they wanted for it. These folks actually seem to be competing with the mainstream culture on a market level as if Jesus has about the same economic value as a viewing of the latest James Bond movie. And I won’t even go into the parallels with regards to performance-style worship.

My roommate, his girlfriend, another friend and I went down to the Schlafly Tap Room tonight as is our custom on Burn’s Night for a bit of Scottish music, kilt viewing, and enjoyment of the just released seasonal Scottish Ale. A good time was had by all. I have some videos that I’ll try to post tomorrow.

Address To A Haggis

Fair fa’ your honest, sonsie face, Great chieftain o’ the puddin-race! Aboon them a’ ye tak your place, Painch, tripe, or thairm: Weel are ye wordy o’ a grace As lang’s my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill, Your hurdies like a distant hill, Your pin wad help to mend a mill In time o’ need, While thro’ your pores the dews distil Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight, An’ cut you up
wi’ ready sleight, Trenching your gushing entrails
bright, Like ony ditch; And then, O what a
glorious sight, Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn, they stretch an’ strive: Deil
tak the hindmost! on they drive, Till a’ their weel-swall’d kytes belyve, Are bent lyke drums; Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive, “Bethankit!” ‘hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout Or olio that wad staw a sow, Or fricassee wad mak her spew Wi’ perfect sconner, Looks down wi’ sneering, scornfu’ view On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash, As feckless as a wither’d rash, His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,His nieve a nit; Thro’ bloody flood or field
to dash, O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed, The trembling
earth resounds his tread. Clap in his walie nieve
a blade, He’ll mak it whissle; An’ legs an’ arms,
an’ heads will sned, Like taps o’ thrissle.

Ye Pow’rs wha mak mankind your care, And dish them out their bill o’ fare, Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware That jaups in luggies; But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer, Gie her a haggis!

-Robert Burns

The Translation

Fair is your honest happy face Great chieftain of the pudding race Above them all you take your place Stomach, tripe or guts Well are you worthy
of a grace As long as my arm

The groaning platter there you fill Your buttocks
like a distant hill Your skewer would help to repair
a mill In time of need While through your pores
the juices emerge Like amber beads

His knife having seen hard labour wipes And cuts
you up with great skill Digging into your gushing
insides bright Like any ditch And then oh what a glorious sight Warm steaming, rich

Then spoon for spoon They stretch and strive Devil take the last man, on they drive Until all their well swollen bellies Are bent like drums Then, the old gent most likely to rift (burp) Be thanked, mumbles

Is there that over his French Ragout Or olio that would sicken a pig Or fricassee would make her vomit With perfect disgust Looks down with a sneering scornful opinion On such a dinner

Poor devil, see him over his trash As week as a
withered rush (reed) His spindle-shank a good
whiplash His clenched fist.the size of a nut.
Through a bloody flood and battle field to dash
Oh how unfit

But take note of the strong haggis fed Scot The trembling earth resounds his tread Clasped in his large fist a blade He’ll make it whistle And legs and arms and heads he will cut off Like the tops of thistles

You powers who make mankind your care And dish them out their meals Old Scotland wants no watery food That splashes in dishes But if you wish her grateful prayer Give her a haggis!