RaMbLeS
Welcome to RaMbLeS, a collection of weekly musings on life and Scripture. It all began in 2005 on Google’s blogspot as the aBeLOG (a name now recycled), a semi-autobiographical devotional that attempted to keep well-wishers abreast of my activities as I relocated to Scotland for a few years. Since my return, I’ve continued my RaMbLeS, and here’s its most recent incarnation on Homiletix, as random reflections usually based on current news articles and travel experiences and whatever else takes my fancy!
Design?
Some time in early 2013, a detective story, The Cuckoo’s Calling, was released, to excellent reviews. In light of the fact that it was a debut novel by a former British military man, Robert Galbraith, this was good news.
Except for a couple things: It wasn’t a debut novel. It wasn’t a man who wrote it. And “his” name wasn’t Robert Galbraith.
Her name? J. K. Rowling of Harry Potter fame. (Though, yes, she’s British.)
The Sunday Times art editor, Richard
Time!
A few months ago, the music video “Gangnam Style” crossed two billion views on YouTube—the most watched video clip of all time!
For those like me still listening to Bach and Beethoven (or Beatles and the Beach Boys) an education is in order.
First, you need to know about the Korean Wave, the increasing popularity of (South) Korean culture since the 1990s. Though most of this growth is in Eastern and Southeastern Asia, teenagers and young adults in Latin America, the
Death!
James Brady died last month. You might remember him as President Ronald Reagan’s press secretary who got shot during the assassination attempt on Reagan on March 30, 1981. Brady was hit above the left eye and the bullet entered his skull, shattering into more than two-dozen fragments. Resulting in multiple surgeries to stop leakage of spinal fluid, for pulmonary embolism, not to mention epileptic seizers, pneumonia, fevers, paralysis ….
James S. Brady, 73, passed away
Happiness!
Grumble, grumble, grumble.
You know what I’m talking about. That class is horrible, that prof rotten, and those classmates … That job is lousy, that boss is impossible, those co-workers …. Aw, I don’t want to see that bad movie.
And we grumble.
But we are forced to sit through the class, take on that job, watch that movie, and we do, preparing ourselves to hate every second of it … and it turns out to be pretty fun.
Surprise!
And that seems to be the key to enjoyment.
Waste!
A few years ago 4,000 British adults ranging in age from 18 to 85 were asked to rank the 100 most important inventions in the world.
The wheel was #1. Understandable. I’d say OK to #3, the lightbulb, and even to #7, penicillin.
#8 was the iPhone! Honestly! Not even Mr. Jobs, himself quite partial to hyperbole, went that far. The eighth most important invention of all time? Outranking the internal combustion engine (#10), laptops (#35), paper (#38), teabags (#54), make-up
Neighbor!
They are often bothersome. Neighbors. Loud noises. Wild partying. Crazy pets. And all manner of other inconsiderate activities directed against you and the rest of those on their block.
Maybe you’ve felt like moving. Or you’ve been praying they will move. Your blood pressure suffers. Your adrenaline is wasted. And you think you’ll die sooner because of their antics.
Well, it seems there’s a connection between your neighbor and your heart. At least that’s what a
Shoulder!
Walter Isaacson wrote an article for TIME recently. Mr. Isaacson, who worked for the magazine once, as its managing editor, and as CEO fro CNN, is now president of Aspen Institute, a non-partisan thinktank in Washington, DC. He is the acclaimed author of Steve Jobs (2011), as well as biographies of Einstein, Ben Franklin, and Henry Kissinger.
Mr. Isaacson’s recent article is about your shoulder. Yup, your shoulder. And how someone is looking over it. Over your shoulder.
Abe Kuruvilla is the Carl E. Bates Professor of Christian Preaching at The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary (Louisville, KY), and a dermatologist in private practice. His passion is to explore, explain, and exemplify preaching. 