Tuesday, January 21, 2020

Security Alert. Your accounts were hacked by a criminal group.


I am a hacker who has access to your operating system.
I also have full access to your account.

I've been watching you for a few months now.
The fact is that you were infected with malware through an adult site that you visited.

If you are not familiar with this, I will explain.
Trojan Virus gives me full access and control over a computer or other device.
This means that I can see everything on your screen, turn on the camera and microphone, but you do not know about it.

I also have access to all your contacts and all your correspondence.

Why your antivirus did not detect malware?
Answer: My malware uses the driver, I update its signatures every 4 hours so that your antivirus is silent.

I made a video showing how you satisfy yourself in the left half of the screen, and in the right half you see the video that you watched.
With one click of the mouse, I can send this video to all your emails and contacts on social networks.
I can also post access to all your e-mail correspondence and messengers that you use.

If you want to prevent this,
transfer the amount of $500 to my bitcoin address (if you do not know how to do this, write to Google: "Buy Bitcoin").

My bitcoin address (BTC Wallet) is: 1P2xW3dAjbD5rz6H7Ej46puSS2Ep3Mh1uQ

After receiving the payment, I will delete the video and you will never hear me again.
I give you 50 hours (more than 2 days) to pay.
I have a notice reading this letter, and the timer will work when you see this letter.

Filing a complaint somewhere does not make sense because this email cannot be tracked like my bitcoin address.
I do not make any mistakes.

If I find that you have shared this message with someone else, the video will be immediately distributed.

Best regards!

Sunday, January 19, 2020

Faith Works 1-25-20

Faith Works 1-25-20

Jeff Gill


When home and church are the same set of rooms



Preaching is, if you'll allow me to say this in a hard working community, work.


I know, the joke is we work one hour a week; well, we have two services on Sunday mornings at my church, so I work at least two hours a week. What I mean, though, is that the simple physical act of preaching a sermon is physically more than just standing around talking.


Our choir director is stepping back to the organist part of her worship responsibilities, and to help her celebrate this transition, the choir asked to do an "anthemfest" where I didn't preach, but they would sing a bunch (it ended up being eight) of their favorite choral anthems.


It was a hit with everyone, and I believe the word was preached, and I heard from a number of choir members that just doing three anthems in a row left them physically spent, so we spaced out the service so they only did that many at a time. A couple said "I see why you are worn out at least a bit after the service is over!" which I appreciated. There really is a spiritual as well as physical transfer of energy in delivering a strong message and speaking of matters of the spirit in front of a group.


The most rewarding and challenging pastoral experience I have each month is trying to create a worship experience in an assisted living facility. The dozen residents who come are so incredibly attentive to what's sung, what's said, and hungry for the contact and interest Pastor Karen (our associate minister) & I bring when we come.

So we delight in that ministry, we really do -- and yet we worship at a busy intersection, if you will, with other residents crying out at intervals walking back and forth through the middle of our group, another group of residents just a few feet away talking to each other as only the hard of hearing can, and even a wall between us the staff cleaning up from lunch and shouting at each other . . . bless 'em, often coming out the door in mid-holler, always looking startled and abashedly apologizing and backing through the door, and I feel bad that they feel bad for just doing their jobs. The PA often has an announcement of some sort, and the front door has a buzzer and staff bustling through to code them in or code them out, and usually the visitors come in chatting and often talk right through the middle of the 14 or 15 of us gathered together, singing, praying, me preaching.

I've done chapel services in prisons, jails, swim meets, and Scout camps -- they're all easier to manage and deliver at than being a regular Sunday afternoon service provider in a care facility, and that's at any assisted living center I've ever done it at. You can talk to staff in advance (if you can catch them) but they forget that it's going on, or they have what they have to do; there are arguments for different locations but the centrally located spot is usually best for residents, while aurally the hardest to make work. Each place I learn how to turn off or down the ubiquitous TVs (and put them back in service before I go), and where the controls are for the overhead piped-in music (whether I'm supposed to turn it off or not). But the ambient situation is always tricky, and your audience is always hard of hearing.

Yet we can't stop doing this. It's important. We've cut back from two a month to just doing this one, and the requests still come in a few a month to add them, as activity directors plead and our members and friends move to facilities where the word goes out to "ask your pastor if they'd just consider doing only..." I cannot imagine doing none -- I've done at least one a month like this somewhere for over thirty years now. What I worry about is how new assisted living and care facilities are popping up, and the need for those rooms and beds are real, but the number of churches and clergy who will bring a message and a prayer to them continues to shrink. Of all the community losses a decline in church presence creates, this could be the most subtle, the least widely noticed, but I think it could also be one of the most tragic.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he'd be happy to tell you who to contact, but any care facility would probably be happy to hear from you! Tell him about your worship experiences in a different sort of space at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Tuesday, January 14, 2020

Faith Works 1-18-20

Faith Works 1-18-20

Jeff Gill


What Joe's Thank You Meant To Me


My first two years in college, I worked in residence hall food service.


I wore the mustard colored jacket, the "smock" which only the managers called it. They were industrially washed and you got one clean smock per week unless you had more than four shifts in the dorm cafeteria. They were pretty nasty after one shift, especially if you were on dish room duty, "Hobie's Helpers" after the giant Hobart dish machine in the back. But front line or roving could get messy in a hurry, shifting trays to the warming stations up from the kitchens, pulling empties that of course never quite were empty, filling ice cream machines, all the usual joys of food service in cafeteria style set-ups.

The coveted spot in Cary Quadrangle was to get tapped for training table, over in East Hall, for the football and basketball teams. Training table meant a number of things. One, you got fresh smocks every shift, and you could count on finding one that fit -- there were plenty. Two, the food was better. Look, I worked our dorm cafeteria, and I worked catering, and I worked training table. The difference was obvious. We didn't get dog food, but training table got quality. And third, once the players were through, you ate your fill.

So if you could line up your shifts right for post-practice slots, the goal was to be in the line of fire for the finger of selection to get sent over to work training table. It was less messy, a shorter if more intense shift for the same hours paid, and you got more and better food. Everyone wanted it, and it was a reward of sorts to get it, and keep getting tapped.

The players and coaches, however, did not see you. I mean, they could have, in theory, but they didn't. We were invisible. And that's how it was. Back in the dorm, we'd see friends and roommates and banter across the steam tables or chat out on the cafeteria floor, wiping tables or emptying trash -- on training table, we were furniture. Nobody that I recall across two years made any conversation with us, and I don't recall anyone telling us not to talk to the players, it just didn't happen. They talked to each other, and after the players went through the coaching staff came through in a big intense clot of polo shirted men talking with great energy to each other about the blocking and tackling and drills and such, but they didn't talk to us, and for the most part they didn't make eye contact.

There was a guy on the team who went to my high school, a couple years ahead of me, and he would nod, and once did pause and ask me something about back home, but it was quiet and kind of furtive. And hey, we weren't friends, it was cool that he acknowledged my existence at all. Other noticed and said "hey, he talked to you" and I explained why -- mystery solved.

That was training table, and it was what it was. The football program in the fall and the basketball team on their heels (smaller group, fewer of us needed to staff it, less often an experience for me) had their needs, and we all were pretty matter of fact about how they worked more, ran more, lifted more, and they needed calories to burn they wouldn't have gotten in the regular cafeteria line. We got to gather in a little excess of our own in their wake, and it was our "brush with greatness."

I'd almost forgotten those days until Monday night, when Joe Burrow in thanking his teammates, the coaching staff, and everyone else who helped make the LSU program great started getting specific beyond "teammates, coaches, family, & friends" which is usually where it stops. He went on to name trainers, managers (I was once one of them, too), team doctors, and he said the words "dining hall staff" on top of thanking the chefs . . . which meant he was specifically trying to recall and appreciate the folks in the mustard color jackets.

I don't know if that's the color they wear at LSU. Doesn't matter. And it was forty-plus years ago I last handed a plate of steak and fries across a stainless steel counter to a student-athlete. But I felt the appreciation from Joe Burrow, from a QB to the people on the serving line, as a personal gift. That was a class moment from a class act. In any case, he's made a fan for life of me. I saw him play on a cold night in Athens as he led his team to pound the Granville Blue Aces in a playoff game six years ago, and caught others saying "that kid goes to Columbus next year, and we're going to hear great things from him" as he showed the kind of passing then he's still doing today. Well, I heard great things from him Monday night, and I thank him for that kindly attention to us dining hall staff. It's truly appreciated in return.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he's got a few other food service stories to tell, not all quite as uplifting but all educational. Tell him what you've learned from customer service at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.


Saturday, January 11, 2020

Notes from my knapsack 1-16-20

Notes from my knapsack 1-16-20

Jeff Gill


Waiting, not impatiently, for winter



This winter there seems to be a majority in favor of this warmer weather we've been having.


Facts and opinions about climate change aside, I haven't run into very many people in the last few weeks who are complaining about not being cold, or even the lack of snow and ice.


Granted, I don't know any ski area operators or cross country ski rental managers. Anyone in those categories in Ohio is probably discontented. Otherwise, I'd say a clear majority wants more of the same, only with a little more sun.


I don't get out in the woods and on trails as much as I'd like, but probably more than most. And yes, I can assure you that it's soft and mucky out there off the paved pathways. Even if you have no intention of checking this out for yourself, it's worth telling everyone that it's squishy like spring time already out in nature.


There's an old saying that if you don't have any spring in your winter, you'll have winter in your spring. So a warm stretch is almost mandatory (if that's scientifically valid, which I can't support). If this year's winter is any indication, though, we've had so much spring in our winter then there shouldn't be any winter in our spring, right?


The popular assumption in fact is that "we're gonna pay for this in March." Or April, I like to add helpfully. It does seem likely. And Ohio is known for our "surprise!" snowfalls right up to Easter (which is April 12 this year, for what it's worth). What we're almost certainly not going to get this year, though, is a good hard freeze down deep into the soil. As the sun starts to climb higher in the sky with the accompanying longer days, the angle of the sunlight means deeper penetration of that solar warmth, plus the duration of that radiant energy.


Believe it or not, a little bit of longer freeze can be good for the soil and the ecosystem. Less of it means changes to the environment, from earlier germination of certain plants to shifts in migration patterns and also developments below the surface.


I remember learning in a college biology class that a teaspoon of topsoil has in it more micro-organisms than there are people on the planet. Of course, that was a long time ago, and there are more people, but I think it's still true. Fungi and bacteria and nematodes and tardigrades abound (if you don't know what a tardigrade is, you should go online and look them up, cool tiny creatures), and their life cycle along with the roots of plants and shrubs and trees are used to a certain pattern of dormancy and reactivation. We're learning even now about what changing that pattern does, leading to the end of some life forms in this area and an overgrowth of others. Have you noticed how much more often you have to clean the north side of your house, and that black fungus getting more and more common earlier in the summer?


A hard freeze can also protect the deeper soil and the warmth locked up in it, so paradoxically, a mild winter can make it colder deeper. Anyhow, it's all about trade-offs, and I suspect most of us are on board for a warmer winter. Just be aware of the fact that, like every pleasure, it comes with a price to be paid sooner or later.


Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; he generally likes cold weather but admits to having his own layer of insulation to allow for that. Tell him what climate you prefer at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.

Thursday, January 09, 2020

Lenten devotional - March 17 CCINOH

March 17 "From Ashes to Rejoicing" devotionals

For so the Lord has commanded us, saying,

'I have set you to be a light for the Gentiles,
so that you may bring salvation to the ends of the earth.'

~ Acts 13:47 (NRSV)

Saint Patrick is a Christian figure who floats into and out of our consciousness from the mists of time, and of legend.

He's associated with Ireland, and the day is an observance that has a pretty spectacular secular association, but the good saint and bishop didn't convert water into green beer.

Patrick was a victim of slavery and oppression who chose not only to forgive his captors, but to commit his life and ministry to their benefit. Patrick, in short, wasn't Irish. It was Irish pirates who captured and sold him, and it was from his home in England and his adopted land of France where he was trained for ministry, out of which he dedicated his life to return to the Emerald Isle.

That's a tough calling to fulfill. We have only fragments to tell us about how Patrick must have wrestled with God over this call, to go to the place he had escaped, and work for the good of those who had hurt him. It may be enough to know that someone can, with God's grace, do such a thing.

How to forgive people who have hurt you, and in many cases are unrepentant, is a pastoral question that has no short or easy answers. And it's a process of recovery and redemption that you can't just pretty up with a few shamrocks and green hats. There's no happy veneer of "yeah, it's in the past, let it go" which can really hide the pain. Some victims never hear an apology, and some offenders never really do get it. "Avoid them" is the cop-speak answer; "give them over to God" is a faith response that's accurate, if incomplete.

And surely we're not all called to be Patricks, or even to be Jesus. We have our own mission fields to find, our own crosses to bear. What the essence of St. Patrick offers, as a gift for us in Lent, is the way his choice to accept his missionary field shows how forgiveness and reconciliation and redemption are all necessary parts of the work of mission. If you engage in any mission or ministry worth doing, you will encounter injustice and pain, sorrow and suffering, and yes, even evil. Some of that encounter will evoke for you parts of your own history that has brought you to the present moment; sometimes it does seem as if God uses our experiences to bring Good News into the world to help us deal with our own unhealed wounds.

If we are to be bearers of good news, which is what evangelist means in the original Greek, just someone carrying word that others need to hear, we have to be ready to face those obstacles. If our buttons get pushed by the bad news we're pushing back against, we can find ourselves trapped in a cycle of reaction, stuck in recriminations even inside our own heads, turned aside by past fears that make present challenges loom larger than they are. Henri Nouwen famously asked us to consider "the wounded healer" in all of us, and how we are often called to be healed in the midst of healing work we're doing for others . . . and they can't be separated.

With God's help, Patrick dealt with his own pain, and ministered not just through it but used it to empower a ministry to Ireland that likely no one else could have done as well. We can try to follow Jonah, Patrick's opposite, and run in the opposite direction as far as we can from our own call, but the Book of Jonah lets us know that our need for healing will travel with us. The Feast of St. Patrick tells us that our hurts can be healed, and our wounds might be a way others can see the journey we've taken, and why we are willing to be vulnerable in the places the Gospel puts us today.

Oh, and Slàinte to you!

Jeff Gill
pastor, Newark Central Christian Church

Tuesday, January 07, 2020

Faith Works 1-11-20

Faith Works 1-11-20

Jeff Gill


Another step into tomorrow



My faith in the future is strong, but my hopes for the near term are, well, limited.


God has sent a strong witness into the world for us, a sign of life beyond life that points toward a promise that is offered to us all. And if you read your Bible with heart and attention and care, you'll see clearly how that future prospect is intended to strengthen us for the now.


And now is where we live, where we make decisions and take action. Now is important.


Then, on the other hand, the moment now past, is not when we choose or do. We've chosen, we've done, and it's memory where we reflect perhaps on what we should have done, might have decided to do, but can't change. That's what then, or once upon a time, is for us in the now. It's a huge part of us, maybe the biggest part in many ways, but it is relatively fixed.


Now, on the other hand, is filled with expectation and anticipation and opportunity. Now is when we grasp the nettle or take the helm and set our course, one direction or another. Now is the moment in which we shift into drive or back into reverse, and either way step on the gas pedal.


If the road ahead seems clear, we can accelerate accordingly. If there's a path forward, we step out and start with that proverbial single step onto a greater journey.


Where we get gummed up is with soon, or next, or even just tomorrow, let alone next week. It is amazing, really, to see how much possibility can be taken up just in consideration of tomorrow. Today we are where we are, we go as far as we can see, and we've got what's at hand. Our now is a developing, evolving, possibility consuming reality, but tomorrow is filled with everything from uncompleted tasks to long deferred potential and much put off possibilities. Tomorrow you could step on a plane to Orlando; that can't happen at 2 pm today (getting tickets, passing through security, travel time), but tomorrow? It might be far down the list, but it's not off of it.


So we've got our past to hand over into forgiveness, and the farther future into the care of an eternal hope, both of which are intended to allow us to make the most of our now – this is a largely Christian formulation, but its also a common understanding in our culture in general.


The flaw in all of this for most people, myself included, is tomorrow. Not the deeper, more distant future, but getting our plans and motivations worked out from just past now to "next." And my pastoral sense is that the dilemma is that we're just too used to ratcheting up our expectations too quickly up out of now into what's possible next, what's necessary soon, what's right for us later, from the limitations of the moment which we might well accept, to a series of steps into possibilities that should be close at hand, but keep receding into a fog of more of the same.


In practical terms, it's called procrastination. Putting off. It's all around us in various forms. Every burden we carry unnecessarily, every pile of stuff we can't figure out what to do with, every obvious option we delay in starting until it's too late: procrastination. It can be delaying the start of a task we don't want to do, but it can also be our hesitation to do things that are not only good for us, but that we want to do, but don't . . . because to do so would be to deny some even greater, if unlikely option.


Paul says in Romans, chapter 7, verse 15: "I do not understand what I do. For what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do." Given that he wrote this nearly 2,000 years ago, this problem is clearly not unique to our age. The tendency to ratchet up our own sense of possibility from the now into our then, our next maybe, our could be soon, opens up so much potential for our imagination that we can't even be practical about what our simple steps forward beyond now should be.


So I am trying in 2020 to abandon my hopes for tomorrow, to look at my now a little more realistically, and let the light of my lamp show me one step forward at a time, and let that be . . . enough.



Jeff Gill is a writer, storyteller, and pastor in Licking County; tell him how you're thinking about tomorrow at knapsack77@gmail.com, or follow @Knapsack on Twitter.