The Parable of the Hungry Girl

This parable is dedicated to John MacArthur, who at a recent conference said, “You can get Jesus mostly right and still go to hell,” and to Rick Holland, who at the same conference said, “Right doctrine is the litmus test for your life.”

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Once there was a little girl at play in the garden when suddenly she realized she was hungry. Immediately, she went looking for her father who was at work in the fields.

“Father,” she said, “I’m hungry. Will you give me something to eat?”

“First you must tell me why you are hungry and how I am able to feed you.”

“I’m hungry because I need to eat, and you’re able to feed me because you’re my father.”

“That’s only partly true. Go to your room and come back when you know the whole truth.”

So the little girl went away a little hurt, confused and still hungry. Later that night while her father ate dinner at a table filled with deliciously prepared food, she came to him again.

“Father,” she said, “I’m hungry. Will you please give me something to eat?”

“First you must tell me why you are hungry and how I am able to feed you.”

“I am hungry because my stomach is empty, and you are able to feed me because you grow food in our fields.”

“What you have said is more true than before, but there is still much you do not understand. Go to bed and come to me when you know the whole truth.”

Every day the little girl grew hungrier and weaker than the day before, and every day she begged her father for mercy. Yet she still did not fully understanding why she needed it, or how he was able to give it. So every day he turned her away.

Several weeks passed and eventually the little girl died of starvation. At her death bed the father lamented, “If only you knew that your hunger wasn’t a temporary problem, but that you were born without the ability to sustain yourself. If only you knew that your food came by the seeds of the earth, the rain from the sky, the rays of the sun, and the work of my hands. Then, you could have admitted your brokenness and weakness in full humility, and truly realized your utter dependence on my work and sacrifice.

Then, you would have been worthy of my mercy.”

Technorati Tags: Parables, Soteriology, Theology

3 Questions About Jesus: Jason Coker

Today I’m beginning a new series called “3 Questions About Jesus.” The idea is to ask different people how they would explain Jesus Christ to someone who had heard about him, but really knew nothing about Christianity. Their questions are:

• Who is Jesus the Christ?
• What has he done?
• Why does it matter?

I’m of the opinion that most presentations of the gospel tend to answer only one or two of these questions, or answer all of them in a way that reduces the scope of the gospel drastically. The challenge of this series will be to try answering these questions in a way that does justice to the depth and breadth of the gospel without trying to give people a pocket-sized systematic theology (because nobody would sit and listen to that).

Every Monday for the next few months I’ll host a different person who will attempt to answer those questions in 300 words or less. I’ve encouraged people to be as creative as they like. And, of course, we’d love your interaction and feedback.

I’ll go first with, “The Parable of the Apple Tree.”

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Jesus is like the story of an apple tree.

Once there was a farmer who gave his three sons an apple orchard, saying, “This is my gift to you. The orchard will care for you all your days if you will care for it.” But the sons despised their father’s gift and neglected it. Soon the trees died and the sons grew hungry. They called their father for help, who came and said, ”I will feed you.” Then, he knelt on the cracked earth and planted a seed.

Every day the sons begged their father for food, and every day they watched him water the seed and pull the weeds, saying, “I will feed you.”

Every day they watched him prune and tend the tender branches, and every day they begged for food. “I will feed you,” their father said.

Finally the tree grew strong and apples hung heavy from its branches. “This is my gift to you,” the father said. But the sons were bitter that they had been neglected for a tree. In a rage they cut it down and tore its limbs apart until their evil was exhausted.

As they sat ashamed at the foot of the desecrated tree their father brought apples plucked from its branches, saying, “This is my gift to you. Take and eat.”

The first son did not trust him. He refused the food and cursed his father, rejecting the gift. The second son bit into an apple but despised its flavor and cursed his father, rejecting the gift.

But the third son found the apples sweet and gratefully ate his fill. The father dug out the seeds and placed them in his son’s hands, saying, “This is my gift to you,” and beckoning toward the other sons, who were still hungry and ashamed, he added, “Now feed my sons.”

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Jason Coker is the host of Pastoralia.org. You can read more about him at the About page.

Technorati Tags: 3 Questions About Jesus, Jesus Christ, Parable of the Apple Tree, Parables, Stories, The Gospel

Jesus and The Art of Pruning Tomatoes

(If you read here often then you know our family has a little vegetable garden in the back yard. What you might not know is that lately it seems this is the only place God speaks to me.)

Sometimes growth isn’t the solution, it’s the problem.

Given plenty of water and sunlight a tomato plant will literally grow itself into sickness. Stems fork indiscriminately, shooting at oblique angles that crowd other branches and leaves.

This crowding limits access to sunlight and can lead to disease, but the more surprising problem is too much fruit. The wildly branching “sucker” stems soon sprout blossoms that multiply the fruit of the plant. This may not sound like a problem – and early in the season it’s fun to see so much fruit on the bush – but that early promise never really pays off. Too many tomatoes rob the entire plant of the limited nutrients, rendering all the tomatoes too small to be useful.

By regularly pruning these “suckers” the tomato plant can be limited to a few (or even just one) growth stems that yield larger, healthier fruit.

For me, the difficult part of pruning is making the decision to cut off something I have been lovingly growing for quite some time. When you have much invested, it’s more than a little unnerving to cut off an entire stem, especially one that is blossoming. Often the decision is not between stems that are producing fruit and stems that aren’t – those are easy decisions. Sometimes it’s a judgment call: which are closer to the main stem? Which show the promise of stronger fruit? Which are getting in the way of the plant growing in a strong and stable way?

It may sound silly, but these can be agonizing decisions. It takes real courage to place your knife at the base of a strong stem and sever it from the stalk. This is particularly difficult when you fancy yourself an “organic” gardener and have fallen prey to the misunderstanding that “organic” means abstaining from structure or intervention. It’s easy to think that multiplication of fruit is better than the heartiness of fruit. But that is what it means to be a good gardener, to take responsibility for the health of the whole plant.

It turns out, it’s not enough to be organic; one must cultivate as well.

Technorati Tags: Church growth, discipleship, Gardening, Pruning

The Death Rattle of Christendom

She sank more and more into uneasy delirium. At times she shuddered, turned her eyes from side to side, recognised everyone for a minute, but at once sank into delirium again. Her breathing was hoarse and difficult, there was a sort of rattle in her throat.

~ Fyodor Dostoevsky. Crime and Punishment

Dear Fyodor,

It’s getting rough for the old girl. Despite the rattle of death in her chest, there’s still a hint of the former beauty and dignity behind those eyes and, as anyone would tell you, she’s as feisty as ever. Still, the truth is she’s dying and there’s nothing to be done about it. As we sit around her bed praying and waiting, her moments of lucidity come with rapidly decreasing frequency.

Everyone here is dealing with the ugliness of her death in their own way. My sister refuses to let her go. She stands just beyond the door, arguing in harsh whispers with the doctors and nurses. She won’t believe the facts of the case, and it’s easier to argue over the interpretation of charts and data than to look straight at the old girl herself. I don’t blame her. Looking is hard.

My older brother looks but doesn’t see. “She’s just a little out of shape,” he says optimistically. “If we can get her up and out she’ll be back to her old self, ruling the roost!” And so he hangs a dress on her and rolls on rouge and glides her round the ward in a wheelchair festooned at the handles with curly ribbon and helium balloons so she might speak with the people. I tell you it’s horrible. Such a thing would be bearable (commendable even!) if compassion was his aim, but it’s not compassion he seeks from her fellows in the ward. No, it’s her rulership he hopes to re-animate and so he props her up like some animatronic relic – a broken-down ecclesiastical Chuck-E-Cheese promising fun-and-games for all the good little children.

Sadly, she scares the children. They weren’t around when she was bright and beautiful. They never attended her grand parties. They don’t know who she was (and let’s face it, as good as she might have been she was also a hard taskmaster, perhaps taking her job of keeping us safe too seriously and – I think – secretly hoping we would never grow up). So the children shrink and shriek and their lack of piety (or pity) has fermented my brother’s optimism into a swill of bitter insistence, rendering him defensive and defiant and refusing the temporary inebriation of grief.

(Can I tell you the truth? I fear her death is more than he can take. He always seemed the stronger one growing up, but I’m not sure he can keep his sanity without her strict order around the house – without her barbed-wire fences to separate the wild vines from the cultivated ones. I don’t think he realizes it was always her intention that we harvest the whole field, and I think all these years later she might even be happy to see us tear down those fences if keeping them meant letting the whole field go to waste.)

For me, it’s her delirious rants that are the most heart-wrenching. She’ll stubbornly hoist herself up to rebuke people who aren’t even in the room – resurrected memories of conflicts and passions long dead and gone to everyone but her own cruelly vivid memories that now, in her mortal distress, seem to have taken on a quality that simply overwhelms her present reality. Perhaps it’s for the best – perhaps it’s mercy – but for better or worse I find I’m not just grieving her death, I’m grieving the robbery of her chance to see the transcendence of death by the legacy she leaves in us. I think she would rejoice in that. I think she would look us in the eye and say, “It’s good to grieve me, but celebrate too. If I live on like this then death wins by making me into a mockery of life. But if I die then the life I lived will be victorious by passing on to you. Now take the best and go.”

She deserves that moment; it’s her birthright. But we won’t let her have it. We insist on preserving her because somehow we think our life is in her, when actually her life (all life!) is a gift that grows in the giving, until one day it grows so fat it swallows every one of us whole, death and all. Who would have thought, Fyodor, that the nihilism you so strenuously decried would lead not to the depraved insistence on rationalized death, but to the dogmatic insistence on irrational life?

You must be wondering how she can possibly endure for so long. It’s the machines that keep her alive. Pray for a death rattle in the chest of those monstrosities so she might finally be free from our obsessions, and enjoy a long night of rest in a well-deserved sleep.

Technorati Tags: Christendom, Christianity, Church, Dostoevsky, Letters

The Parable of the Royal Invitations

(This parable was originally my contribution to the discussion of re-imagining Vineyard values over at Jason Clark’s blog, Deep Church. My task was to re-imagine the value, “Come as you are, but don’t stay as you are.” I’m re-posting it here just to add it to my own archives.)

Once there was a royal family who loved their people and ran their city as best they knew how.

They were generous, so they threw regular parties at their royal mansion in the center of town with all the best food, wine, art, and music. It was quite a spectacle. Because most people were fairly poor compared to the royals, everyone wanted to come to rub shoulders with the powerful elite and be influenced by them and, perhaps, gain a little power for themselves. Pretty soon, these parties were so popular that only certain people, from certain families, and dressed in certain fine clothes could gain entrance.

In time, however, the royal family fell on difficult days and lost some of their wealth. The local economy changed, and many of the “common” families made their own fortunes. Many still respected the royals for their heritage, but being royal wasn’t as prestigious as it once was, and truth be told, many resented them for their power. And so, fewer and fewer people wanted to come to their parties. There were other parties being thrown by newly-wealthy families and people seemed less interested in queuing up or wearing pretentious clothes.

Sensing they were losing their power, and desperate to revive their status, the King struck upon an idea: They sold all their fancy furniture and bought affordable Ikea tables and chairs just like the common folks and dressed in jeans and un-tucked Hawaiian shirts. Then they sent out party invitations to the whole city. The invitation read:

“Come as you are, but don’t stay as you are.”

The idea was that everyone would feel perfectly “at home” in the royal residence, and in so doing could, in a way, become like a royal family member too and be changed for the better by the influence of the royal family.

It worked beautifully.

Some still wanted to be like the royals, so wearing the same clothes and sitting on the same affordable furniture made it seem, for a time, like everyone actually was royal. Many people flooded back into the royal mansion and everything returned to normal.

Or so it seemed. In reality, the economic and political landscape was still steadily changing – and with it, the royals gradually lost all their political power until one day the family was overthrown and evicted from their mansion at the center of the city. To some, these seemed like the hardest times they had ever experienced.

At first the old King was determined to gain back their status because he thought that was the only way to continue taking good care of the city. “How can we do what’s best for them if we’re no longer in charge?” he asked. So he decided to keep throwing their once-famous parties right there in their ramshackle hut on the outskirts of town. He rallied all the sons and daughters and aunts and uncles to paint the plywood walls and sweep the dirt floors and they sent out invitations to the whole city, which still read: “Come as you are, but don’t stay as you are.” And they waited.

But nobody came.

For most folks, going to a party on the poor outskirts of town was plainly absurd. And what was all this about “Don’t stay as you are”? People thought it arrogant that the family still believed they had something to offer. Truth be told, they thought the royals were merely trying to win back their place of power and prestige.

Then one night the old King was struck by a realization. So he gathered the old party invitations, scrawled something inside them, and addressed one to each member of his family. The next day at breakfast he carefully handed out the invitations and said, “Our family has been called to care for this city – wealthy or poor, powerful or weak – and there has never been a better time to do so.” At that, everyone opened their envelope and saw that the old invitation, now given to each of them, had been changed:

“Go as you are, but don’t stay as you are.”

And with that each member of the royal family understood that the time for asking people to come had passed, and that it was they who would now be changed.

Technorati Tags: Deep Church, Jason Clark, missional, Parables, Vineyard Community of Churches

The Tale of Two Gardeners, An Easter Parable

I tell you the truth, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. ~ John 12:24

Jesus said to them, “I tell you the truth, unless you eat the flesh of the Son of Man and drink his blood, you have no life in you. ~ John 6:53

Once there were two men who longed for real tomatoes with good flavor – unlike the bland, waxy variety found in the chain supermarkets. So they both decided to start their own home gardens.

The first gardener bought the best seeds in the best seed catalog and picked out a nice patch of dirt behind his house with good sunlight. Since tomatoes are the gateway drug of home gardening, he couldn’t help but purchase a few pepper plants and eggplants too. He dug in the hard soil (there was a lot of clay in their area) and planted and watered his seeds, careful to space them apart properly, and reflecting on how – in a sense – the seed had to die before new life could spring from it.

Every day he was diligent to water and weed his garden and, sure enough, in about a week little sprouts poked through the surface. But neither the tomatoes nor the others plants grew as big as those in the catalog pictures, and although his tomatoes tasted far better than the waxy supermarket variety, they looked a bit scrawny and didn’t produce very much.

The second gardener bought the best seeds in the best seed catalog and picked out a nice patch of dirt behind his house with good sunlight. Since tomatoes are the gateway drug of home gardening, he couldn’t help but purchase a few pepper plants and eggplants too.

Because there was a lot of clay in their area he rented a roto-tiller and spent a day plowing up the hard dirt for his garden bed. The tiller violently ripped into the hard soil about a foot deep, churning everything over and deeply cultivating the topsoil and clay into a soft new mixture. Then he went to the local compost facility where grass clippings, pulled weeds, and other yard waste from all over the city was allowed to rot and decay into smelly black piles of rich organic matter. He filled his truck bed to the brim with this living-dead dirt and shoveled it onto his freshly-tilled planter beds. To this he added earthworm castings (worm poop!). He then folded all this deep into the soil turning it over and over again one shovel-full at a time.

Then he added organic fertilizer, made from decomposed bone, kelp, and fish meal. He sprinkled the ashy white powder all over the planter beds and raked it into the dirt, shaping the beds into gently sloping mounds, which were now smelly, soft, and a deep dark brown color. Into this graveyard of decomposed animal and vegetable waste he planted and watered his seeds, and reflected on how they would have to break open and “die” in order for life to spring from them. And he thought, too, of how the young plants would be – in a sense – eating the flesh and drinking the blood of all the animals and plants that were sacrificed and given on their behalf, and he marveled at how much death was required to produce rich, full life.

That summer his tomatoes outgrew their cages, and the pepper plants were so full they crowded each other in the beds. He picked so many big, beautiful tomatoes and peppers that he had to share them with his friends and neighbors since it was more than he could possible eat all by himself. And his tomatoes were very tasty.

Technorati Tags: Easter, Gardening, Jesus Christ, John, Parables

The Parable of the New Parents

(This morning Jenell told me her favorite illustration for understanding the often frustrating dynamic of developing a missional church. I thought it brilliant – so I’ve cast it here in parable form.)

Once there was a young husband and wife named Jason and Jenell who welcomed into their new family a brand new baby girl. They named her Savannah and promptly fell deeply in love.

And Savannah grew.

Savannah’s beauty enchanted the young parents. Under her spell they wasted hours gazing into her shining face, discussing endless possibilities for her future, resolving to let nothing spoil her innocence. They swore that unlike their parents, they would do everything right.

And Savannah grew.

In the clear light of Savannah’s emergence, the ills of the world’s children seemed suddenly apparent – as did their remedies: Jason vowed to make wooden toys from scratch in a workshop; Jenell determined to hand-sew all her clothes; Together they would blend her baby food from home-grown organics, wisely deny her the sexist influences of Barbie dolls, shield her from the market-driven madness of Saturday-morning cartoons, and personally spearhead her classical education (based on the Great Books of Western Civilization).

And Savannah grew.

One year fell into another and Jason discovered he had no talent for woodworking (and no workshop). Jenell learned that handmade clothes were more expensive (and less comfortable). One year for her birthday someone gave Savannah a Barbie doll and much to her parent’s consternation, she loved it. The Great Books gathered dust.

And still Savannah grew.

Jenell did learn to make home-made baby food (a tradition for all the babies who came after), and together the young parents learned the magic of stories, conjuring worlds of wonder for the delight of their daughter’s imagination. They played in the snow, tickled to tears, ran through the woods, conquered monsters and then made them friends, prayed for the sick, watched great films, threw temper tantrums, cooked savory food, washed dirty dogs, made bold art, drove through the desert, slept in hotels, ordered room service, stayed in their pajamas, flew across the ocean, sipped hot tea, told sarcastic jokes, and gave each other gifts. Mostly, they gave each other gifts.

And Savannah grew up.

Technorati Tags: Emerging Church, Jason, Jenell, Missional Church, Parables, Parenting, Savannah

The Parable of the Little Girl and Her New Bike

Once there was a little girl named Alannah who never thought much about riding a bike until one day her teacher, thinking she was such a wonderful student, awarded her a vintage Schwinn cruiser complete with scoop-neck handle-bars and a sparkly banana seat. Alannah was overjoyed to receive such a valuable gift, but a little sad too, because she didn’t know how to use it.

Back home Alannah’s mom and dad and big-sister Judah assured her she could learn to ride in no time at all. Dad opened the garage and rolled out everyone’s bikes while mom gathered the helmets. All four of them walked their bikes to the school grounds where they’d have plenty of room to practice.

Once there, mom and dad taught Alannah the basics of bike-riding in the grassy area where it was safe and, sure enough, within a few minutes she was balancing on her own – but she was still a little shaky. That’s when dad said, “It’s time to play follow the leader. Mom goes first.”

They all climbed on their bikes and lined up. First mom, then big-sister Judah, then Alannah, and finally dad at the very end who roared, “Okay mom, lead the way!”

Mom rode ahead nice and slow so Alannah could follow, making big sweeping turns in the form of figure-eights and loop-d-loops. Judah stuck on her tail confidently while Alannah wobbled a bit and dad trailed behind calling out, “Great job Alannah! Turn the handle bars nice and slow…” Soon she was diving into the turns and carving big figure-eights like a pro.

Suddenly mom said, “Judah’s next!” and pulled sharply out of the lead sneaking to the back of the line. Judah eagerly took charge, heading straight for the obstacles on the basketball court. She steered daringly around hoops and between picnic tables, showing off her mad cycling skills. Alannah faltered for a moment behind the more aggressive leader, then quickly adapted. She learned to turn tight circumferences and thread tiny gaps. She stopped thinking so much and started having fun.

After a few minutes, dad called out, “Okay, Alannah’s turn!” Judah instantly swung around the back of the line and Alannah was now charge. Everyone watched her closely, wondering how she would lead. She headed through the picnic tables and aimed the whole crew back toward the wide opened spaces of the blacktop. She carved big figure-eights over and over again obsessively – and everyone followed – before peeling off toward the sidewalk and risking everyone’s lives under the narrow covered walkways.

Dad came next. He immediately pretended his bike was a Sopwith Camel and proceeded to chase the Red Baron up and down the playground making machine-gun noises while mom and the girls rolled their eyes and followed behind.

Then they started all over again. First mom, then Judah, then Alannah, and finally dad. The four of them covered the school in circles, spirals, and black rubber skid-marks until they finally pooped-out for good and headed back home for some well-deserved hot chocolate.

Technorati Tags: Alannah Coker, Church, Judah Coker, Leadership, Parables

Dear Preacher

Dear Preacher,

I really do hate this part of my job, but I suppose someone must do it. You’re definitely going to want to sit down for this; it seems I’m the bearer of bad news.

I’m afraid we’ve decided not to “pick up your option” this year, so to speak. That is, we’re letting you go.

Now don’t get me wrong, we think you’ve done a marvelous job (that joke you told last Sunday was brilliant! “Coffee break’s over…” Ha! That line gets me every time! You know, you have a real knack for making people laugh?). Still, sadly, your artistry just doesn’t seem to be necessary anymore.

After intensive biblical review we’ve discovered that your particular set of skills is actually best suited for proclaiming the good news of Christ’s death and resurrection to people who otherwise don’t already know about it.

Well, surely you see the problem. That just isn’t news to folks around here anymore (which I suppose explains why you’ve had to work so hard at making your speeches so wonderfully entertaining of late. In the absence of real news, entertainment is the next logical choice for keeping people’s attention). Worse still, the latest demographic information tells us that emerging generations aren’t drawn by preaching, and the best theologians are telling us that entertainment has no place on Sunday morning.

Now, I want to assure you that we’ve looked high and low to find a suitable place for you. We immediately thought the classes and small groups would be the best fit, but it turns out those are already full of teachers, and, to be perfectly frank, they say you talk too much and don’t leave room for dialogue (just between you and me, though, I think they don’t want to compete with your charisma). In fact, truth be told, we’ve decided the best thing to do with Sunday mornings is plug in a good, strong teacher with an ESV Bible to “feed the sheep,” so-to-speak, along with a stiff shot of ancient liturgy (I don’t mind telling you we’re quite excited about that one!).

Next we thought of outreach ministries, but everyone there says preaching scares folks off and sends a message of “manipulation.” After all, those good people are busy feeding the poor and they did just buy that big red banner that says, “No strings attached!” So, I suppose they do have a point about mixed-messages and all. I guess you could say that, as a vintage, preaching just doesn’t pair well with the soup they serve! (Sorry for the pun, I suppose I should leave the humor to you!) However, they did ask me to invite you to come and say a prayer before the meal. Well now, that’s something, isn’t it?

Of course parking lot ministries won’t do; you don’t lead a rock band (do you?); you don’t know how to edit video or run a multi-media team; and you’re far too overqualified to maintain the facility…and, well, that pretty much covers everything we do here at The Great Western Church.

I truly am sorry – but you know, you can’t appreciate how hard this has been on me! This is all been rather awkward. I’ve tortured myself to find an alternative place for you, but I just can’t think of a suitable job in a post-Christian culture for someone who’s gifted, trained, and compelled to be a herald for the gospel.

Ah well, chalk it up to changing “market forces” I suppose. Enclosed you’ll find your severance check. Best of luck to you and all our prayers as well.

Sincerely,

The Committee on Ecclesiology

Technorati Tags: Church, consumer church, Gospel, Preaching

A Parable of Four Fathers

Once there were four fathers, each of whom had a son who decided to move out of the house and make their own way in life.  Each of the fathers presented their son with a valuable parting gift for the journey: a shiny new red car. Upon giving their sons these cars, each of the fathers gave the same promise, followed by the same warning: “This is your car to drive so you may get to work on time, enjoy the freedom to travel, and impress pretty girls. I will make the payments on the car for you because you can’t yet afford something like this on your own. However, keep this in mind: you must cover your own insurance and gas, and be sure to maintain it as well. If you do not pay the insurance, the banks could revoke the title. And if you do not take good care of it, this car that you now love so much will eventually cause you great trouble. You are welcome come over anytime for my help, and use my garage full of tools to maintain and fix it.” Each of the sons was elated and, grabbing the keys greedily, jumped into their brilliant new cars and tore out of their driveways to explore the wild and open world.

However, after several months each of the sons fell into hard times of one sort or another and failed to make their insurance payments. Their insurance was canceled and the banks began to call each of the fathers to report inadequate coverage. The fathers called their sons, but each of the boys was deeply ashamed and ignored their father’s phone calls -afraid to admit their weakness, foolishness, and need.

Each of the fathers responded differently.

The first father was frustrated and angry and wanted to shout and scream and put his son in his place. But, being a strong father he ignored his impulses and did nothing. The bank informed the DMV which revoked the son’s registration and eventually the car was repossessed. The son lost his job and fell into drinking heavily, which contributed to his shame. Consequently, the son continued to avoid the father at all costs and their relationship suffered greatly – making Thanksgiving an excruciating exercise in pent-up rage and passive-aggressive dysfunction in accordance with the American tradition.

The second father was frustrated and angry, so being a strong father he tracked down his son at a burger joint and beat him to a bloody pulp in front of his son’s girlfriend, saying with every punch and kick, “How! Dare! You! Shame! Me! Like! This! You! Owe! Me! Big! Time!” He dug the car keys from his sons bloody jean pocket and drove the car home to care for it himself. The whole ugly incident was captured by a bystander on their cell-phone video camera and shown across the nation on the evening news. It became known as the “Wrath of Bob” video (Bob being the father). Soon the whole family was on the Today show talking to Matt Lauer about the “vicious cycle of abuse.” Jay Roach is now set to make the movie with Jim Carrey and Morgan Freeman signed on in the lead roles.

The third father was frustrated and angry, but, being a strong father, he had a well-thought out plan for what to do. In fact, he had known perfectly well all this was going to happen and had already determined an orchestrated response. He didn’t want his son to be deprived of a car for work, but he did want his son to learn a valuable lesson. So he continued to pay the car payment and the insurance so the car wouldn’t be repossessed. The months went by and the father knew the car would be in need of maintenance. So, one night, the father packed up his tools and sneaked over to his sons house in the pitch of darkness. Quietly and carefully he broke into the garage, lovingly crawled under the car, and cut the break line. While he was under there he loosened the tie rods and cut the belt to the power steering too. The next day the son jumped in the car to head to work, but as he began to navigate the steep downhill switchbacks on the way he found that the breaks were like mush. Terrified, the son jerked the steering wheel to make the sharp turn, but it hardly budged. Somehow he made the first curve, but by the second curve his wheels were rattling from the loosened tie rods, and by the third curve he was totally out of control. He crashed through the guardrail and plummeted down the hill slamming into the ravine at the bottom breaking both his legs, puncturing his spleen, and collapsing a lung. He would have died down there if it weren’t for the EMT crew and life-flight helicopter the father had arranged to have waiting at the scene. As they flew to the hospital together the son gasped through bloody bubbles his eternal thanks and gratitude to his great father for saving his life. The father leaned over and whispered, “I love you son…all is forgiven.”

The fourth father was frustrated and angry, but, being a strong father, he knew that his response to this situation would have serious consequences for their relationship. He didn’t want his son to be deprived of a car for work, but he did want his son to learn a valuable lesson. So he continued to pay the car payment and the insurance so the car wouldn’t be repossessed.  The months went by and the father knew the car would be in need of maintenance. So one evening he packed up his tools, sneaked into his sons garage, and changed the oil. He also changed out the brake pads and replaced a bad wheel bearing. The son never even noticed. As the months passed the father would sneak over to the garage and fix little things here and there, but the father knew that the car was ultimately in the sons possession, so there would inevitably come a time of reckoning that the son would have to deal with. He continued to call the son and leave notes warning the son of an impending disaster and pleading with his son to change his mind, but to no avail. Sure enough, one day while driving to work an over-worn tire blew out, causing the son to lose control of the car. He crashed through the guardrail and plummeted down the hill slamming into the ravine at the bottom breaking both his legs, puncturing his spleen, and collapsing a lung. He would have died if it weren’t for the OnStar the father had installed on one of his late-night break-ins. The ambulance arrived quickly – as did the father – and as they were rushed to the hospital the son gasped through bloody bubbles his eternal thanks and gratitude to his great father for saving his life. The father leaned over and whispered, “I love you son…all is forgiven.”

Which father was the strongest?

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