Crossing the line with invisible ink



When I was eighteen, my dad asked me to become a youth leader. Our church attracted maybe eight to ten teens on a good night, just enough to cram into the family station wagon.

I took the gang bowling and hiking. We played games and indulged in the occasional bible study. Then, I decided to kick it up a notch.

“Let’s go to the mall,” I said, “And, see what happens.”

I’m embarrassed to tell you the rest.

I bought enough invisible ink for everyone. We spent the evening squirting it on shoppers as they exited the mall.

Not brilliant.

When my dad found out he asked one question. The way he asked it wasn’t pretty.

“Why did you do that?”

“I don’t know”, I answered.

Not true. I knew exactly why I did it. I wanted to do something bigger and better than I did last youth meeting. I wanted the kids to like me.

When I first started this blog, I longed to encourage and maybe even provoke readers to travel down avenues of thought that they may not explored otherwise.

Yesterday’s blog seemed like invisible ink revisited.

I wanted to write something bigger and better than my last post. I wanted my tiny band of followers to really like me, to think I was unbelievably clever.

When it came to describing musicians, I may have gotten carried away.

Let me set the record straight.

  • Musicians generally do not exhibit homicidal tendencies even under extreme stress.
  • They are not actually in danger of experiencing a musically induced head trauma resulting in a zombie-like state.
  • In the presence of drummers it is not necessary to make the sign of the cross.
  • People really do get intimidated by musicians, by the seemingly effortless way they move through the mysterious landscape of music.

What really matters after all?

Before I got sidetracked, what was I trying to say?

Last week, a fellow believer reminded me of something I had forgotten. Something profound.

It is a sacred honor,

a exquisite privilege,  to be called a Christian.