Are you crazy?

Martin Luther often paced around his room at night, when the lights were out and the devil’s voice began to torment him. He would speak out loud to his enemy, scorning him for introducing thoughts of silence and comfort when a loud, gritty resilience was necessary to uphold the Reformation he had begun. At least according to the movie released a few years ago (I don’t claim to be an expert on church history), Luther was rough around the edges, dissatisfied with the status quo, and ruthlessly loyal to the God of the scriptures. Was he sane? Probably not, but sanity, by necessity, could not be a prerequisite for a mission that would pit a lowly monk against the Roman church.

John the Baptist was a man’s man, a desert dweller with a camelhair cloak and a thick leather belt. He lived off the land, and despite his disheveled look and his affinity for bugs, people revered him as a prophet. His wild voice called for repentance amid a chorus of civilized, Pharisaical voices screaming righteousness over grace and ritual over reconciliation. He was the courier for the Messiah, the messenger of the one to come, and his mission was not one of appeasement. He knew his Lord from the time he was in the womb, and even though he had his doubts, he steadfastly proclaimed the word of God even in the face of the religious establishment of the day.

These men are not the tame, silent little believers we have come to respect in this day and age. In fact, their tactics and words may seem offensive, bordering on repulsive at times. But they had these things in common: they were as fiercely devoted to Christ as they were unconventional in their methods, and both prepared the way for the grace of Christ to overshadow the empty religious practices of their time.

One of my mentors once told me that to do anything for God, you have to be a little bit messed up in the head. The more I read the Bible and study the people I admire in the faith, the more I believe that it’s true. Are you crazy enough to usher Jesus into your sphere of influence?

Photo: The sun goes down over the Dead Sea, in a desert region similar to the one John the Baptist looked at every night. By Trevor Williams.

The New Babel?

Dubai has all the signs of an economic powerhouse: breakneck growth, a sky-is-the-limit attitude and a tower under construction that might pierce the o-zone. But can the real estate market really support the city’s displays of pride?

In 1990, the coastal strip of land where the city of Dubai now sits was nothing but miles of sand dunes. But over the past 15-or-so years, the place has exploded with growth, becoming one of the most popular tourist destinations in the Middle East by displaying a penchant for the biggest and best.

As a country, the United Arab Emirates is only a little more than 30 years old, and Dubai is not even the country’s political or economic center. Abu Dhabi, the capital, takes both of those titles. There, the oil flows like wine, sustaining much of the country’s estimated $129 billion GDP in 2006. Although Dubai's economy was originally built on oil, production has declined, and the liquid gold only makes up about three percent of the city's GDP.

An emphasis on tourism and a service economy has increased in the past few years, the city government has liberalized its real estate policies to allow foreigners to own land on a “freehold” basis. Basically, foreigners can now have sole ownership of property for an indefinite period of time, whereas before they could only lease it for 99-year stints. The new policy makes sense in a country where only 20 percent of the population is native to the area. Surprisingly, about half the population in the UAE is South Asian, and those from East Asia and the West—those two regions who usually have their hands on everything—only make up eight percent of the population, according to the CIA World Factbook.

Of course, Dubai was developing its gaudy real estate portfolio before they enacted these new rules. The city is home to the Burj Al-Arab, a landmark hotel in more ways than one. The building sits on its own manmade island, and you can’t look at its signature sailboat shape without thinking of the Dubai skyline. Fitting to the Dubai mindset, the Burj Al-Arab sets the bar for luxury. Its posh suites, which range in price from $1,000-$15,000 per night, have earned it reputation as the only seven-star hotel in the world, and you have to shell out 80 bucks just to go in and take a look around.

Just across the harbor, back on the mainland, is the Kempinski Hotel. Next to the Burj Al-Arab, it looks quaint enough. But the inside is really cool. In fact, it’s cool enough to support a 400-meter indoor ski slope, complete with snow-blowers that keep you chillin’ at 30 degrees even when its 90 outside.

While both of the above seem hard to believe, Dubai is making some even more gargantuan developments that have me hearing echoes of Babel. Dubailand, a theme park that will boast six different “worlds,” including a sports complex that officials tout as Olympic-ready, will have twice the square footage of Disneyland and Disneyworld combined.

And if that’s not enough, the crown jewel is the Burj Dubai, a 2600-foot building that in its construction phase has already surpassed the Taipei 101 tower in Taiwan as the tallest building in the world. The tower will be its own little city, mixing retail space with skyline residences and the first Giorgio Armani hotel, along with untold other amenities.

All this opulence begs the question: Is Dubai going too far too fast? Can the city’s economy, which one of the realtors I met described as “fast and loose,” live up to the pledges its extravagant buildings are making?

Only time will tell, but I hope Dubai’s developments will fare better than the ancient tower built toward the heavens in that part of the world.

The research for this article came from interviews I did for my job at GlobalAtlanta, an Internet-based international business publication. Check out the original story here.

Baseball Trip 2-Why I Love This Country

As if our plan to see three baseball games wasn’t American enough, our free lodging trail ended in a suburb of Washington D.C., staying with a friend’s mom whose husband was in the FBI. A 30-minute bus ride and a subway train of the same length took us into the capital city, where we would quickly tour the limestone and marble buildings that tell the story of our nation’s history.

With time so short, we knew we had to prioritize. Our main goal was to get a tour of the Capitol, no matter what the cost. Okay, so if there was a cover charge, we probably wouldn’t have gone, but that’s one of the reasons I love this country. The museums in Washington that house our nation’s most precious treasures are free admission, and we’re probably the only country where the people throw around the word “constituent” like it gives us some entitlement.

And that’s exactly what we did: We called the Georgia congressmen from the Athens, Columbus and even Hartwell districts, asking for a guided tour. When none of them came through, we went for the Senate. In 2000, I did eight hours of volunteer work for Saxby Chambliss’ Senate campaign, and I was determined to use the hard time I served making signs and doing phone surveys as leverage if Mr. Chambliss happened to be too busy to get us in.

The Senate was nearing its annual recess, and the Sax was not in the office, but he had a full staff of interns who were more than happy to accommodate us, even though we arrived just 30 minutes before they stopped giving hour-long tours.

Strangely enough, we finished our tour with plenty of time to spare. Our three-man group wove through droves of hapless tourists, and our fast-talking guides (one of which was from Columbus and knew Evan) led us to many interesting sights.

Here’s a very abridged version of what we saw at the Capitol:

-Apparently, this Italian guy named Brumidi did a bunch of the craftsmanship in the Capitol. He worked on the smoky gray mural (the frieze) that circles the rotunda, and to thumb his nose at his overseers, he added his own face to the picture. Speaking of the rotunda, can you guess who is the person most pictured there besides George Washington? Pocahontas. Disney fans rejoice.

-In one of the halls where the Senate used to meet, there are gilded ceilings, and there’s one spot where the acoustics are so perfect you can hear a whisper from the other side of the room. One of the senators eavesdropped on the others while they were preparing their arguments, and they could never figure out why he made such great rebuttals (John Adams?)

-There’s a little starry, circular design on the floor in the catacombs beneath the rotunda. Washington D.C. was built around that very circle.

-Speaking of catacombs, a sweet little underground train takes the Senators to the Capitol, and to get on it you have to pass by a life-sized replica of the statue that stands atop the Capitol.

-It’s a little disappointing, but just about everything in the Capitol was made in Europe. The floor tiles were imported from England, and all the marble was brought in as well. Even the architecture was stolen from ancient civilizations. It’s kind of like how the Statue of Liberty was made by the French. I guess you can save face if you call your country a "melting pot."

By the way, the game that night was pretty dull. The Nationals did please the RFK Stadium crowd by getting an extra-inning victory. The guy behind us said that it was the best game they’d played all year, so apparently we got lucky. I hope that’s not true. If so, I would have to cry on behalf of Washington baseball fans. One more stadium down, two to go.

Life Update

It seems like forever since I've posted on the blog, but once you hear about the whirlwind that has been the past few months, I believe you'll forgive me.

My last post was a narrative about a baseball road trip that served as my bachelor party. In that post I gave the impression that I was going to continue writing about that trip, and I'd still like to, but I'm notorious for beginning compositions that never get finished. I've gotten better at that over the past few years, but that might just be because I don't start that many big projects anymore. I did finish a China narrative that spanned three or four handwritten journals, but I still haven't got around to typing it up.

I won't say that the baseball trip was my last ridiculous, completely illogical adventure. I don't think that part of me will die as I grow older (I have a little over 10 more stadiums to get to). But it was a relief from the real-world pressures of a newly graduated, almost-married twenty-something. As of that trip, my search for permanent employment was a little like the baseball trip narrative: unfinished. And I was less than a month away from marriage to a girl that needs food, clothing, shelter--among other essentials--to survive. The next few paragraphs highlight the recurring theme God's faithfulness in the face of my unpreparedness.

About two weeks before the wedding, I got a call from a potential employer in Decatur who wanted to meet with me for a second interview. At this point, I was still entertaining the possibility of heading to Montana to help plant a church with my pastor. I was torn because I didn't want to get sucked into a professional routine that would suck the life from my heart, but I also didn't want to starve, and I didn't want to move away from Georgia without the unwavering certainty of God's call on my life.

Long story short, Montana never panned out. I can't say I felt a specific "calling" to take the job in Decatur, but the definition of a calling becomes more fluid when your choices are either winging it or taking the obvious bet that God provided. My purpose as a married man would be to provide a home for my wife, something I couldn't do by vascillating back and forth between uncertain prospects of employment.

The week before the wedding, I called the man who is now my boss to tell him that I would take the job as an reporter at an Internet-based international business publication called GlobalAtlanta. This would not be slave labor. The pay was competitive for a recent journalism graduate, and I would get to write, interact with the Atlanta international (most importantly, the Chinese) community and learn the tricks of the journalism trade outside the high-pressure environment of a newspaper. Permanent employment? Check.

With that item off the list, there was still that pesky problem of relocating while preparing for a wedding and honeymoon, which at this point were less than a week away. Luckily, my boss had given me until the beginning of July to start working. So, we decided that we would wait until after the honeymoon to find an apartment.

The wedding was beautiful, and only pictures can aptly describe the flower-soaked affair. My bride was stunning and spotless, and I have to admit that I got a little choked up while I stood at the altar and watched her come down the aisle. I sang her a song that I had written for her that week, and we said our vows under a flowery arch at Morningside Baptist Church in Columbus.

For our honeymoon we flew west to Arizona to spend a week in the desert. I don't have time to describe our itinerary in detail, but I will say that we spent much of our time in Phoenix, with visits to Sedona, the Grand Canyon and a one-night stop in Winslow at La Posada, an Spanish-style railway hotel just off old Route 66.

When we returned to Georgia, the world of pine trees and obligations, we used the next week to recover from our gluttony and find an apartment in Decatur. I've now worked three weeks for GlobalAtlanta, and we're still getting settled into our nicely sized one-bedroom. We still have yet to have a single weekend in Decatur. We've been coming to Albany so that I can finish the painting job I started in the spring semester.

We've got a long way to go in more ways than one, but as a wise sage once said, I highly recommend marriage. And Katy Williams and I look forward to discovering our purpose in Decatur and the world beyond our time in Atlanta.

A Luthier's Life-Baseball Trip Chapter 1

"Eventually, I want to become a luthier."

We didn't understand this sentence any more than the rest of what Jeremy was saying, but at least it was a breath of relief from the alphabet soup of guitar model numbers he had been reciting ever since I asked him about his job. Gibson LC-33 from 1963, Fender this, Martin that. Each model he mentioned was bigger, better, older and worth even more than the last. Some of the guitars in his long litany were part of the collection at the shop where he worked. Some occupied his own stock, accumulated over the years as a reflection of his all-absorbing passion for the twang of classic stringed instruments, from the giant mando-bass down to the smallest ukulele.

Jeremy is a former student of James Madison University in Harrisonburg, Va., an unassuming college-aged guy living with seven or so (it fluctuates based on the season) roommates in a crusty old house affectionately known as "The Toolbox". When we arrived, most of the house's normal occupants were either on summer vacation. We had stopped by on our way to Washington D.C., to crash with a friend that had had enough room in his downstairs bedroom for three college guys who were too cheap to spring for a hotel, especially when it was already one in the morning.

This is the anatomy of the American road trip. No trek across the country would be complete without exhausting every possible human connection to stay in random places and meet obscure new people. Evan, my best friend, and I have become professionals at the art. After graduating high school, we used $700 each of what should have gone toward books and college fees to log 7700 miles on his mom's Cadillac Seville. During a two-and-a-half week span, we hit 13 different baseball stadiums and only stayed in a hotel for one night. (Seriously, who has connections in Toronto?) The pay-off from that was huge, allowing us to save money and stockpile some unforgettable experiences.

I have just graduated from college and am getting married in a little over a week, so as a semi-bachelor party, Evan, Drew and I decided to hit three more stadiums: RFK in D.C., Shea in New York, and Citizens Bank Park in Philly. My next few posts will catalogue this 1600-mile whirlwind and the characters we met along the way.

We met Jeremy and Ernie, another roommate, on the deck outside the Toolbox. Our host had already retired for the night, and we decided that hanging out with the two strangers was a favorable alternative to sleep. Ernie, we found out, is a software programmer for the language software company Rosetta Stone, which is headquartered in Harrisonburg. A laid-back guy, Ernie lit up a Camel cigarette (precisely the fifth he ever smoked) and talked about his job, how he had stayed at the office from 8 a.m. till 10 p.m. to get everything ready for an upcoming software release. Both of the guys were actively involved in Young Life, and we soon found out that we all share the same faith.

All the while, Jeremy continued to enlighten us about guitars. A tried-and-true aficionado, during his first year or so of school he had frequented the Guitar and Amp Center, a shop in Harrisonburg that looks bland outwardly, but according to Jeremy is a veritable classic guitar paradise on the inside. The place boasts one of the country's largest collections of ukuleles, and the variety is staggering. Some of the hand-made Martins are worth over $10,000, and there are also banjo ukes, 1950s boomerang-shaped ukes, even one made from a cigar box (see photo).

As far as Evan and I were concerned, we had to see this shop on our way out of town. Drew was a little more skeptical, but now that we've seen the uke motherload, I think we can all say that it was a welcome addition to the trip. By the way, a luthier is a maker of stringed instruments, and since Jeremy dropped out of college to work at the shop, that's his new career goal. As a musician myself, you can bet I'll try to exploit that connection one day.