Because I liked Trouble's idea of a runway so much, I thought I'd run a few more ideas of the flagpole and we'll see who salutes! Now you'll recall the problem we're trying to deal with here, right? That annoying lack of a proper defense mechanisim our buildings seem to have when it comes to errant planes (standing still and hoping that maybe planes' visual acuity is based on movement like T-Rex - he'll lose you if you don't move - does not count as a viable defense mechanism) is something that demands a solution. No, really. Right now. You could be next Mr. I'm-Relaxing-At-Home-On-My-High-Speed-Net-Connection! So, here are four more plausible solutions.

1. Building Built with a Plane-Sized Hole in It (with a nod to Rabi)
Really, I'm not certain why this idea hasn't caught on before. Simple and cost-effective, it saves on building materials while making a minimalistic statement of nouvo-luxury. This big plus of course is the undeniable fact that planes will harmlessly pass through the building's core—naysayers have yet to come up with any argument to counter the simple truth presented by the above illustration-based-upon-hypothetical-actual-events.

2. Building Coated with Slick Oil
With all the oil we're going to doubtlessly come home with on our crude-wresting venture in Qatar (or whichever Middle Eastern entity we're assaulting now), this plan is almost too delicious. We all know how slick oil is (and anyone who doesn't need only rent Transporter to discover The Truth About Oil). The genius is how many people have thought of how slippery a building would be if coated with the stuff (like Jason Stratham's body). There's not a plane alive who could make the assault without simply sliding off!!

There are, unfortunately, two potential setbacks. These are illustrated immediately below.

I s'pose another viable alternative could be banana peels. I mean it's not like we save 'em and look what happened to the O'Doyle clan when they went up against a single peel!

3. Building with Runway Painted on Its Side
This one is really Trouble's baby but I thought I would give him some publicity so that potential investors/contractors/etc. could get the jump on the new idea-farm. And y'know? I really like this one. It's got style and panache. I'm betting more aggresive business empires could even install their own control tower to assist with safe and sane landings. Mmm, I foresee a golden era in commuter lifestyles on the cusp even as I type this!

4. Building Equipped with Death Star Cannon
Let's be honest now. Who hasn't at sometime or another thought that this would be the best solution to our problems? Thank me for having the guts and self-confidence to put it out there where we can all look at it, our hearts, and our problems honestly. I think once we do away with our inner demons (and consciences) we'll long to install one of these babies in every home. Heck, I hear that soon they'll even be standard issue in 2oo4 models of both Ford's Excursion and Lincoln's Navigator. Don't expect Mercedes to catch on to this one very soon though... (just the word from the inside).

Honestly, We've all got a ton of viable options and ideas brewing here at the dream factory we tenderly refer to as Nowheresville, USA, but you'll just have to be satisfied with what we feel compelled to occasionally dole out to you. Remember to thank us. Er, me.

By the way, as passover finds new covenant expression in the Lord's supper, even so does circumcision find such expression in baptism. So long as Christians enjoy reliving the old covenant expression of the Lord's supper and revelling in picture of Christ it offers, I think we ought to also relive the old covenant picture of baptism and glory in it as it points us to our citizenship in Christ's covenant family! That's right everybody: Let's Get Circumcized!!!

Because both Brandon and I share a grave concern for the welfare and prosperity of the America of future generations, we have identified a much publicized problem and are working on feasible solutions (something that we just don't see anyone else doing). The problem to which I refer is illustrated below:

As we have all been made aware by grave tragedy occuring a year and a half ago, our nations buildings are left entirely and indefensibly vulnerable to the mundane. A single jet airline can render the priceless to naught. And so far, no real solutions. Until now. In the following, Brandon and I shall present a number of means by which our nation mightproperly protect its city's skyscrapers. With that, we'll toss a few of these ideas out on the stoop and see if the cat licks it up.

Let us begin with two of Brandon's ideas for he was the one who put the treads on our think tank by proposing the first solution. Here are illustrations of two of his methods:

1. Building Surrounded by Steel Wool
If this doesn't grab you by the pancreas, all the while screaming, "Genius!" then I don't know what does. Simple and cost effective (last time I bought some for dishes, steel wool was what, two bucks?), this is a sure means of protection as any errant planes become trapped in the weblike hold of the wool. There is no hope of penetration and all inside the building are both safe and happy. The added morale boost of seeing a huge jet liner rendered helpless outside one's office window is enough to make anyone's day!

2. Building Made of Elastic
While not as elegant as his steel wool idea, we feel that both the fun and usefullness of an elstic building more than makes up for stylistic concerns. Terrorist driven planes bent upon the destruction of lives of our workforce will be terribly dismayed as they bounce harmlessly off their target. Try as you might Mussahmed, there's no breaking this puppy!

Now here are two designs of my own design:

3. Building Surrounded by a Big Moat
Personally, I think I outdid myself on this one. A moat. Really, how many planes do you see doing anything but sink when it comes to water? SPLOOSH! And large companies may wish to stock their moat with a fire-breathing moat-monster for added security! An interested co-worker asked if a force field was need to hold the moat and this—THIS—is where genius comes to bat! No force field or special gadgetry is needed. Just like a castle's moat, this moat is simple dug out! You simple take a shovel (although large earth movers will get the job done more quickly) and dig out the moat from around the building. It's that easy!

4. Building Built Down Instead of Up
Really, I'm surprised this hasn't caught on before now. With the added bonus of having a nearly unlimited capacity (since vertigo will be a thing of the past), building downward truly thwarts every plane-crashing potential by eliminating entirely the possibility of errant-plane disasters. Brandon adds that for added protection, one can build a moat around the underground building as any tunneling planes will meet the like fate of those attacking building method #3 (this will also help with earthquakes as the building will simply float around instead of being jarred by hard bedrock).

We have a number of other designs that we hope to develop in the near future. Right now these include the following (and keep in mind that we are always adding to the list):

• paint the building like sky and the sky like buildings (Brandon) - talk about confused terrorists!!
• hire King Kong (me) - we all saw how much he enjoyed smashing down planes in the movie adaptation of his life
• grow the building a heavy afro (Brandon) - similar to the steel wool idea, but all natural
• surround building with mime shields (me) - you know how good those mimes are at making invisible boxes and all!
• utilize a pinpoint barrier much like that used by the SDF-1 (me) - 'nuff said, eh?
• build skyscapers out of muslims (me) - I mean, so long as they'll stand still and hold together, the building would be virtually invulnerable from zealot attack

Additionally, I'm thinking of adding a drawbridge feature to my moat idea so you can let the good planes in while keeping the bad ones out.

Today's adventure carried my coworkers and I to Irvine Meadows (oops, Verizon Amphitheater... I wonder if they ever expect people to call it that) for the Good Friday service attached to the annual Easter in the Meadows extravaganza. To be honest, I wasn't expecting much because I attended last year. But with the exception of this guy Santos who performed again this year and the fact that no matter how sincere he is, my mind drifts whenever Poppa Chuck begins to speak, I pretty much give a thumbs up to the whole shebang. Since Brandon didn't bring his camera to chronicle the event as he did last year, mine will have to do.

Weather on the path did not look encouraging. It was raining on me when I left the haus this morning and as we travelled to the outdoor event circa 11:oo am, Brandon made not infrequent use of his windshield forcefield blades. As the service began, John Courson announced that he had a large number of people praying that we would be rain-free for the service. *sigh* I'll need to talk to John about being more specific in his prayer life for now I have a slightly sunburnt forehead (as there were nothing but very bright and very blue skies from Noon onward). Perhaps next year he can pray for a light cloud cover to quench the sun's rays and timely breezes if it gets too hot (especially during Chuck Smith's reflections).

On our way, I noted three things. The first of these is that Brandon is far to big for Wendy's car. In truth, I am as well; but the picture of Brandon smushed under the steering column is more exhibitive than me simply regaling you with tales of how my head is bruised from hitting too often the ceiling of the small Japanese ride. The second of these is that Brandon has left his heart in 'Bama. I wasn't sure if I should reveal this or what havoc it could cause in his married life (as the reason he presumably visited the state in the first place lives with him in California now). Ah well, I s'pose it was only a matter of time before this site turned into a hip version of a Liz Smith column. *sigh* My apologies. In any case, the third revelation was the reason it took so long for the car in front of us to finish at the drive thru at McDonald's. In case you, gentle reader, are wondering why I would in any way patronize such a foul-tasting establishment as McDonald's when there are obviously many untapped garbage bins available for perusal in the Southern Orange County region, I will simply defend myself by saying all I got was a medium Diet Coke. The car in front of us, though, has no excuse and ought to be ashamed of itself (as well for having placed such a large order in a drive thru).

Actually there are a couple more thing I noted en route. One was that Brandon always gets lost on the was to Irvine Meadows. Before leaving today, we teased him about last year and how he missed the off-ramp on the 405 north that we needed to take and how he had to go up an extra exit and get back on the freeway to get to the amphitheater. I think the picture at right, taken today, says all that needs to be said about this. We also noted that Pearl Jam would be playing soon and considered ditching the day's events and attending Pearl Jam's observance instead. But troopers that we were, we forged on in steely courage. The sixth thing noted (in case you were losing track—I know I was) is that while we got the day off to reflect upon the crucifixion, others were toiling in back-breaking (or posture-gifting) manual labour. Brandon honked and gave them the finger, yelling out "¡Suckers!" in his closest approximation to the proper Spanish phrasing.* I roundly chastised him and told him that racism is not becoming of a believer. He scoffed and in further Liz-Smith-style, I have faithfully reported his misconduct here that you may all know what you're dealing with. Looks like a wife wasn't the only bad habit he picked up in the South.

Upon arrival, we found that among unexpected sponsors Coors Light and Del Taco, in a P.R. move that is sure to astound, was Planned Parenthood, the birth-planning (i.e., birth-hampering) agency. Long having been at odds with the "Conservative Right," Planned Parenthood has taken a large step in diplomacy in its support of Easter in the Meadows. Likely recognizing that yes, Christ may have died for even their many sins, we are hoping the PP members will come to awareness of their shortfall, repent, and simply rename their organization "Parenthood."

Ah, who are we kidding. <editorialComment>They probably just recognize that a large number of attendees will likely find use of their services in the coming years as, though I hate to say it, Calvary girls are notoriously, erm, easy (though never having dated a Calvary girl myself, I have known many guys who claim this to be so). And let's be honest, condoms and Christianity have never had a close-knit union.</editorialComment>

Next we found our seats. Not quite so nosebleed as last year (being about twenty feet closer), but there was alas no cement barrier upon which to rest our tired, huddled masses of feets. Anyway, I've never been into the whole cult of personality thing, so I didn't mind in the least not having a warts-and-all view of the speakers and performers. And by speakers I don't mean the big, black, square things. And by big, black, square things, I do not mean large-though-unhip African Americans. I would never call them "things." No matter how unhip they might be.

Our company ended up experiencing more dissolution than even the Fellowship of popular ringlore. One chunk sat in the surprisingly-not-very-wet "meadows" (you'll recall that it had been raining). One chunk sat elsewhere. Another chunk fell ill and unfortunately may have chunked elsewhere. As for our chunk, I had clowns (and sockgirls) to the left of me and a joker (or Wason) to the right. You guessed it, you're stuck right in the middle with The Dane. While the sockgirls displayed a sensible degree of interest (despite one's particularly rude outbursts of "What?! What did you say? C'mon guys tell me!!" Brandon didn't seem to find much to be very much more exciting than his cellphone (which rings the theme to The Simpsons in a grating ascending volume the longer it remains unanswered).

There were a number of cool things to be seen. An usher who was old and funny-looking (largely because of the goofy hat). People say Kennedy killed the hat for men. They're wrong, it was people like this who choose the wrong kinda hat to wear. This guy is crying out for either a classy fedora or a bishop's hat. *shrug* Well, we know his wife doesn't dress him....

We were also able to see Poppa Chuck and the Triumvirate (Jon Courson, Brian Brodersen, and Don McClure - who looks like Jack Nicholson) in action. Interestingly enough, they all seemed to have taken on the vocal mannerisms of Big Poppa C (well, their pauses are only three months pregnant, while Big Poppa C's are three weeks overdue and ready to be induced). Come to think of it though. Brodersen actually sounded not like Chuck, but like Brodersen. Curious. I wonder if that is some omen of things to come. Oh! And please note the incredibly large bread beast perched upon the table there. Wow, mama!

While Santos the Tragedy was singing, I drew a fist on my face. Or, uhm, a face on my fist. It was meant to reflect an alternate version of a story we were told during, I believe, Courson's reflection on the cross.

You see, there's this teacher who approaches a mother to speak about this woman's child. For creative writing, they were told the first half of the fable of the ants and the grasshopper (you know, ants work all summer while the grasshopper kicks it on a lily pad. Or something). They were told the story up to the point where winter comes and the grasshopper is foodless and were instructed to finish the story themselves. Well, most of the kids, decided that the ants, having such a great surplus would share with the hopper—to each according to his need you know (freakin' commies). A few of the kids, likely taking a cue from A Bug's Life decided that the ants have enough for themselves alone and allow the grasshopper to starve (you made your bed, big guy! Now die in it). Yet this one child wrote something unheard of!! He wrote that the ant gave the hopper all his food and died in his place. At the bottom the kid drew three crosses on a hill.

Now of course, being the happy cynic I am, I had to interrupt the tale in the middle of the last line with my version: "So the ant gave the grasshopper all of his food, AND fattened him up and ate him (thereby quenching his hunger and ridding the world of a ne'er-do-well according to the laws of natural selection)!" Anyways, so I drew the hungry, carnivorous ant on my hand while Santos sang. Santos, Santos, Santos. I'm told he's an acquired taste. I've heard the same about heroin. And I think I remember Magic Johnson acquiring The Hiv. So yeah, I'll buy that he's acquired. But I didn't acquire his taste last year. And I sure didn't this year. Santos Santos Santos. He couldn't even do different songs. *sigh* I'm crotchety aren't I? I can't imagine how bad it'll be when I'm eighty and actually have a reason to be crotchety....

Hmm, also, at one point, both the American flag and the "Christian" flag were standing side by side. I remember because some cub scouts appear with them and there was a pledge of allegiance. Then, twenty minutes later, I glanced back and there was no American flag to be seen. In what can only be imagined a terrorist action, the flag of these here You-Kighted States was absconded with. In the light of this tragedy, I can only say, "Well... it's probably for the best." While I'm all for the Pledge of Allegiance and the American flag, it did strike me as slightly distasteful that in the midst of the gathering of the saints (in whose company there is no longer Jew nor Greek, neither Barbarian nor Scythian, in whose company there is but one heavenly nationality) that such saints should lay honour and allegiance to a geopolitical entity AS the church. As individuals there is no problem, but for the church to declare a nationality stuck me as queer.

Anyway... there was more, but I didn't take pictures of it so I've pretty much forgotten what it was. So peace out little children.

* This and the related story is a patent untruth, but I thought you might enjoy seeing a side of Brandon that no one ever glimpses. Cheers!

Vexation #20: A Satyr?
It looks as if I'm going to be involved in another Passover meal. I'm always slightly discouraged by these events. They happen every Easter and usually they're in the realm of something so-and-so is hosting or attending. That has always been fine with me because while I'd rather they just stopped altogether, I'm perfectly happy to allow others to cultivate a lifestyle with which I don't necessarily agree so long as they don't involve me. Alas, not so lucky have I been in years passed and not so lucky am I this year.

Why do I not find Jewish Seder suppers helpful? I'm glad you've asked that and I'll try to explain and step on as few toes as possible in the doing.

The first problem is minor. I am not Jewish. And Cracker that I am, I have little love for Jewish traditions. Especially those steeped more in esoteric Talmudic tradition than in Scripture. Matzoh? No thanks. Bitter herbs? Maybe in a pastrami sandwich. Setting a place for Elijah? Cracker-what?

It's not what I find most disagreeable, but some of the modern evangelical embrace of a faux-Jewishness leaves me scratching my head. You know what I mean. Calling Jesus "Yeshua." Leaving out the vowel in G-d as if that somehow was the right thing to do. Embracing all the Jewish feast days and taking great care to pronounce everything in a Jewish sort of way (saying Christ is "meshiach," or however that's spell, and favouring Bible versions like the Hebrew Names Version). What's with this? I understand the desire to better understand the culture through which the revelation of Christ came, but a lot of this seems to be much ado about nada.

My real issue is this. We, as new covenant believers, no longer worship through type and shadow. We, upon whom the ends of the ages have come, presently worship in spirit and in truth. The old things are passed away. We no longer circumcise as either sign or seal of our covenant place. We no longer look to the pomp and ceremony of the levitical priesthood. We no longer look to the gilding of the temple and its worship to point us to the heavenly promise. The veil is rent. From top to bottom the curtain of separation is torn asunder. We no longer look to signs and portents to catch a glimpse of our would be savior, Christ.

No, we look upon Christ Himself. We look to things unseen. We look to a heavenly throne. We see things as they are, no longer in shadows. For we see Christ.

So then, to what end do we gaze upon the reflection of our Lord when we might gaze upon the reality? To what end do we return to pomp and ceremony when all such is declared, "Passed"? To what end do we embrace types and shadows when the Light that casts such long shadows stand in our presence? Why are such things so seductive to us? Why do we imagine that unordained signs and symbols would be a help to us when even a clear glass can only obscure that in front of which it is placed?

Christ gave us two signs of the new covenant, baptism and His table. Why don't those suffice for the modern believer? Why have they not been made real? Why are we offered forgeries?

*sigh* I don't expect answers. I merely need catharsis.

p.s. I don't disagree with studying the passover to note its significance in the history of God's revelation of redemption as I find such to be the purpose of preaching from the Old Testament—and altogether proper. I only object to the extra-biblical, tradition-fraught seder meal and its explication as pointing to messiah. I don't find such to be devotional and would rather see Christ expounded from Scripture.

Neat. I'm sick today (nose and throat) and came home early from work (eight ay em) with some work so I could rest/work without spreading my contagion. I bought a nice new umbrella last night because my old one broke yesterday. Keep in mind that umbrellas are important because I gave up driving in January in order to accumulate massive amounts of the Big Green. So I'm headed home on one of three buses, in the midst of a sickly haze. I get off to transfer. I was that alert. Sometimes I'm not (another story for another time). As the bus pulls away, I feel a chill and the burst of an eyedroppers woth of h2o that had travelled a thousand feet or so just to meet my cheek. I pull up my hood to kill the chill and open my nothing over my head to stop more happy meetings with suicidal raindrops. I opened nothing over my head because my three fins worth of umbrella has just waved "Adios" with a gust of deisel and dust. Lost-and-not-stolen for the OCTA is located in Santa Ana, the black eye of Orange county and a six-hour roundtrip (barring no hassles—and I always get hassles) from my house). As I said. Neat.

So yeah, about three or such years ago, Johnny and I went up into the mountains with Johnny's brother-in-law in tow with one thing on our minds: paintball. An old friend of ours had been hired on as a youth pastor at some local church a year earlier and so was taking his junior high coalition on a quest to get shot up colourfully. He invited us to go along and we were hip to that idea since we hadn't played before.

Anyway, this paintball joint is some Christian-run place up in the woods and I think they tried to make some spiritual points about God and paintball before they let us have at it, but honestly, I didn't really pay attention. I mean, would you? It turns out this place is also probably the safest paintballing place in the world as they have a ton of rules to prevent harm from befalling any individual player. No point blank shooting and once someone's shot, do not shoot them any more (my mind immediately translated this into "Any more than you feel is necessary"—but I digress).

So the first match, I'm very cautious. Creeping along with the rest of my team. Safety in numbers and all that nonsense. Yeah. As it turns out, while our force was creeping towrad the enemy, a number of their party had run ahead as scouts and had flanked us. Just as I was getting into position to squeeze off a rainbow of bullet-love *PUH-TWAK* Ow. Right in my armpit.

The second game I vowed to see more action. Playing capture the flag, we found that our flag had come to rest in the middle of a boggy field. I noted the areas encamped by several junior highers of the other side. Hmm, might as well... It works for Arnold, I thought. After requesting cover fire from those with me. I made a dash forty yards or so for the flag, pumping off colour-bursts as I ran. I dove over a log, grabbed the flag, and stood to pump off a few more. Nothin' but spray. I had a misfire and needed to clean out my barrel, but now was not the time. So I ran madly toward safety, weaponless and fancy free. Rule #1: never let junior highers run cover fire for you as such big words only confuse them. They stood cheering while I ran. They also stood cheering while I got shot. In the butt. *sigh* Ah well, at least its padded, right? not like my friggin' ARMPIT!!

So the third match. Same idea. Capture the flag. This time, my interest is only vaguely related to flags. I just wanna shoot people. In the armpit if possible. I do well, taking out a few early birds and give 'em dirt naps. After a few minutes, the enemy is slowly being weeded out. I pick off a one here and a one there. I get involved on the fringe of a firefight and help as I can, but I'm staying largely on my own. I've worked my way pretty deep into enemy territory. And am keeping my eyes peeled. I see two of the opposition on my left moving into a position that would leave me vulnerable, so I run full blast toward a low-lying bunker about fifteen yards ahead. I can just making it out through the perspiration-haze in my goggles and I hear shots whizzing by me though they are dampened by my head gear (each player is issued thorough head protection: goggles and a helmet that completely covers the ears and temple and maybe more of the face, I don't recall).

So I'm running toward the bunker, my torso turned at 90° to fire off some rounds over the heads of my attackers. "He's almost there! The twenty. The ten! Only five yards to go! Oh, that's gotta hurt!" My world exploded into an oblivion of pain and shock and mindless blathering. I was John Fitzgerald Kennedy and these woods were my Dallas. I was yet another victim of General Nguyen Ngoc Loan's family-friendly style of execution. Shot in the ear at near point blank by someone I just didn't see because, well, I was busy, the last things I felt were my feet lift up in the air, a moment of weightlessness, and then the ground. After a thousand years I saw someone's legs dancing a jig and I heard an afro-cuban rhythm welling up in the background. The legs, it turns out, were mine. They were spasming as I lay in the dirt. The rhythm was me as well, as I whispered sweet nothings to the pine cone next to me. I was delerious but as that passed into consciousness, the full knowledge of the pain set loose and delerium was once more my comrade.

Somehow, I was dragged off the field of play and seated in bleachers while I got ahold of myself. My problems now were an ear full of paint and bits of pellet and the fact that I had lost all perception of depth. There was no difference to me between a foot and three. This lasted five days. I couldn't take stairs without great caution. Walking into street signs was not uncommon. I had no conception of how far it was to the ground. And pain was like a dear old friend.

And this in spite of a helmet. The shot exploded through the ear-vents. And so, I don't play paintball anymore.

Okay. So after thorough use of muscle relaxants and pain killahz, I'm walking and breathing once more. Whereas on Monday I could not walk nor get out of bed, Wednesday I had returned to good enough shape go to work, take a shower, et cetera. Why did this happen you ask? It's all Gary Kusunoki's fault (he's a local pastor). And the fault of his wife. Because one thing led to another and eighteen years ago, they birthed a daughter whom we shall call Heather (this makes things easy because that's what she calls herself as well). In any case, "Heather" decided to celebrate being eighteen not by going out and getting some Scratchers (as Levens would have) nor buy going out and buying her first legal pack of smokes (she may have indeed done this, but if so, it was a private moment), but buy enjoining in that glamourous ritual of stealth and action heroism: Laser Tag. And, to quote Art Spiegelman's father, this is where my troubles began.

"Heather," being the kindly (though short) person she is, decided to invite me (a coworker) to fill out her group of thirty individuals for three fifteen minute matches in the two-story maze. Though I hadn't played in two years, I remembered well that just fifteen minutes of play could be quite a workout, so I stretched and worked ever so slightly on my cardio-vascular in the days before to properly prepare myself.

It happened in the first match, about seven minutes in. I was travelling through the dark and proceeding down a ramp to the floor below where I might better stalk my quarry. Alas, I misjudged the length of the ramp and believed it continued on another two feet instead of levelling out into flat ground as it did. Expecting to step on ground that was two or three inches below where it really was, I stepped with unprepared force on the landing and in so doing, torqued my spine something fierce.

Fully adrenalized, I completed the match, coming in first place out of thirty-one combatants. Due to the adrenal-rush, I wouldn't become fully aware of how serious my injury was until much later and so I competed in the two following matches though becoming stiffer and stiffer as time progressed. In any case, I came in first place in all three matches and got the high score for the day twice (i got the high score of the day in the first match and then beat it in the last match). Still though, I wonder if it was worth it....

hurt.back.pain.evcruciating.can't.wlak.can't. stand.blind.with.pain.

Written in response to Sarah's thoughts on contemporary worship at A Blog Apart

Hey Sarah, a few thoughts.

First off, a brief run-through of my background. I spent the first 26 years of my life in "spirit-led" congregations. Not quite pentacostal, but there was definitely hand-raising, eye-closing, and body-swaying aplenty. In more recent years, having found myself to be more intellectually and spiritually comfortable with the tenets of a conservative presbyterianism, I've been in two congregations: one very conservative (hymns only) and one slightly less so (hymns and praise songs). And honestly, I prefer this last form.

Before I touch on your main points, allow me to alleviate at least one concern. You say that others are down one contemporary praise music because "apparently the newfangled [worship songs] lack substance." I just want to clarify that it's not all contemporary music that grates upon the conscience of those objectors, but only a certain breed. My personal feeling is that songs present an inadequate view of man or God, songs with choruses repeated ad nauseum becoming mantric vain repetitions, and songs with flawed theology should be done away with. The reason the majority of hymns we sing aren't like that is not because none ever were, but because those have not stood the test of time (well, some have, but I have the same gripe about them). I have several contemporary worship tunes that I cherish, but the fact is, there is a trend in modern worship music toward fluff and poor doctrine (this is similar to the woefully increasing trend of the "purpose-driven" church).

Now to your points:

1. One size does not fit all.
I'm willing to agree to this to a point. Like I prefer the newer version of "Rock of Ages" to the older one. So I definitely see room for taste involved here, but there is also a danger I think you ignore.

We are not allowed to worship in whatever manner we wish. We are not allowed to approach God - no matter how sincerely - in a manner by which he has not ordained. Look at the children of Israel at Sinai. God killed them because of the golden calf, but don't think they were worshipping a false god. No, they were worshipping God inadequately. "Behold the God who brought you out of Israel!" Aaron was declaring that the golden calf was a representation of the strength of God and so the Israelites were using it in their sincere worship of God. And God strikes them down because no matter a man's sincerity, negligence in approaching Holy God is still grievous sin.

We see several other examples of this kind in the Bible, and they seem to point toward something we refer to as the regulative principle in worship. This says that we can only approach God as He has given us permission to do so. Corollary to this is the idea that OT forms are passed away for now we worship in spirit and in truth. We know longer look to the spectacle and drama of the OT temple worship for that is passed away and our true worship occurs in the heavenly places as we declare our praise to God for who He truly is. It is our honest declaration of truth in the singing of psalms, and hymns, and spiritual songs that has become the spectacle now - and not for its outward show, but for its unseen majesty.

2. Emotionalism in worship.
I'm fine with being emotionally drawn into a greater depth of experience in singing praise to the Lord, but this must come out of a deep sense of awe before God and recognition of my humble place before him. We should never look to aestheticism to guide us into an emotional experience before God (that people would look to pretty music or throbbing rock to validate their worship experience is frighteningly normal). Emotionalism is no evidence of true worship. True worship originates in the heartfelt response to the proper and accurate declaration of the majesty of God and all His works. This will necessarily carry an emotional response, but it will be a valid response rather than the kind you would see at a Beatles concert.

3. Substance.
A valid critique of the majority of modern praise songs relates to substance (note that this means there is a strong minority that don't fall prey to this error). They either possess a lack of substance or a bad substance.

Songs that repeat a line over and over and over and over and over again are hazardous to fallen man (and even earth-bound redeemed man as well), for the difficulty in not falling into a mantric glaze is nearly insurmountable. I mean really, how many people would be reading my blog if I posted the same four sentences over and again? Not a lot. I know I wouldn't read it. One of the critiques of worship choruses is that they are too repetitive, robbing even quality songs of their power to inspire the soul to worship. One solution to this that I have seen in a couple churches is to only sing through a song once (or twice at the upmost). This helps to save congregants from mindless repetition.

As far a bad substance, there are a whole lot of songs out there that just promote, through negligence, an improper view of God, man, and honest Christian reality. These are songs that, while sincere in their approach to God, are still sincerely in error. Because the focus of NT worship is spirit and truth, to be offering praise to God that is less than truth is to quench worship. I've mentioned Matt Redman's fudged lyrics in the past, but his are merely symptomatic. There is a movement in modern worship music to focus upon the heart of worship (which is fine), but too often this focus comes at the expense of truth.

4. Focus upon the worshipper rather than God.
That just sounds spooky doesn't it? The elevation of man over God? Now I know that's not what is intended but it sometimes can become the case. The fact is this, we, the children of God, play a very real part in the whole dynamic of offering worship and praise before God. And simply stating things from our perspective is not wrong (as pointed out, David does this conspicuously in the Psalms). In fact, one of my favourite songs, "Be Thou My Vision", is a petition to God that He might have a real effect on the daily life and way of the believer. But it is a song based upon a proper view of the relationship between God and man. It's songs that blur the relationship or present a poor view of that relationship that stick in the craw.

5. The un-numbered point
"If you don't like it, DON'T LISTEN TO IT." I'm sorry Sarah, but it is a little more than just taste that we're talking about here. The objections people have are not just, "Y'know? That whole 'More love, more power' thing? It just ain't my thing." No the problem is that people believe that some of the contemporary music presents God and Christianity wrongly. In such eyes, the offending songs are not just in bad taste, but sinful. It's not the kind of thing that can simply be brushed under the rug.

p.s. This is my special April fools template. The real question is will I be able to bring it back to its many splendored green tomorrow....