February 20001
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Published with the belief that God acknowledges no distinction between the secular and the sacred.
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In this issue:
13 January 2001
Dear Bishop Hackle:
I called Gary tonight. He thinks my 4-weight should be ready by the 27th. Finally! You have no idea how anxious I am to get this rod, particularly since the guy is fanatical and won't let a single wand out the door until he's personally pleased with his craftsmanship. The wait has been long, agonizing and often irritating, but such is life when you're at the mercy of an artist. Far better, though, to put up with the peculiarities of a perfectionist than the quickness of a quack. The $500, plus, I'm paying for 7 1/2' of bamboo is a bargain, especially when you consider that a certain Vermont concern is charging close to one thousand bucks for something similar, but nowhere as nice.
You know, Harry, modern rods originated with grass, progressed to glass and leveled off with graphite. Boron made a guest appearance, but now there's some "revolutionary" new material on the horizon, supposedly better than anything the world has ever seen. But, oh the cost, and I'm not talking dollars and cents here. Technology has finally reached the stage where it's diminishing the soul of our lovely sport. We've come to rely upon the latest and greatest to solve the same problems addressed by presentation, patience and prayer in the old days. Don't get me all wrong; I'm not entirely against scientific advancements. Thankfully, we're well beyond the silk line-gut leader era. Still, when it comes to trouting nothing beats cane for feel, sensitivity and sheer beauty. Moreover, the aura of tradition is most pleasing because it promotes continuity between past and present, putting one consciously in the stream of fly fishing history. Also, the price is hardly more expensive than plastic if you stick with the pre-owned stuff or stumble across the right custom deal like I did. Fortunately, I'm preaching to the choir. At least you understand my idiosyncratic preference, although nobody else really does.
Speaking of preaching, I've heard a lion's share of rotten sermons recently. Surprisingly, none of them were yours--a pleasant change, indeed. A friend of mine sent a collection of tapes from a sovereign grace conference put on by a bunch of Reformed Baptists. Generally, the immersionists are much better pulpiteers than their Presbyterian counterparts and infinitely superior to us Episcopalians. This group, however, was downright terrible. Every speaker, without exception, misappropriated the New Testament as a private launch pad for flighty pontifications. Genuine exposition was non-existent. The messages reflected little hermeneutical work and even less homiletical skill. In short, the poor listeners were--I'm assuming--bored to death by the religious opinions of egotistical preachers. A man who won't sit diligently in his study day after day has no business standing behind the sacred desk during any sort of worship service. If he presumes to speak for God, he ought to have something to say. Good sermonizing logically bridges the gap between what a biblical passage originally meant and what it presently means. Neither exegetical imagination nor elocution can get the job done properly. Careful wrestling with Scripture in the presence of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit is unavoidably requisite. Organizing the results according to a winsome manner is equally important. By virtue of hearing those miserable discourses, I've been sorely convicted of my own ministerial mischief. Guilt requires repentance.
The Puritans surely provide a fantastic model for the pastor who takes his pulpit calling seriously. Their homilies were always textual, doctrinal, christological and applicable, full of substance and saturated with sweetness. Greyfriar turned me on to Watson, Boston, Flavel and a few others from whom I have received innumerable blessings. Try Thomas Watson as a point of introduction in case you're curious. Of course, he believed the Word and you don't, so your reading might go a bit rough.
How's your pipe carving coming? If you butcher a block of briar as bad as the Bible you'd better give up now while you're ahead. Should you actually get that root shaped and ready to finish, don't use stain to bring out the grain. Instead, put the wood in an air tight container with an open bottle of ammonia for sixteen hours. The effect will be incredibly interesting.
Well, my heretical bishop, I've been married just long enough now for Sharon to witness a tad of weirdness in her already eccentric husband. Apparently I overlooked an element of personal disclosure in the course of our prenuptial romance. Last Saturday we happened to be in Brattleboro, where we stopped for gas, soda and a snack. There was a small pile of Millie's home made dog biscuits stacked on the check-out counter. I naturally grabbed a few and paid for them along with everything else. Sharon asked who they were for since we don't own a mutt, and I said, "Me." Harry, I never realized my wife had such big eyes. Anyway, on the route home I had to delve into grand detail concerning how, as a child, I would share meals with my grandmother's beer guzzling, bubble gum chewing black lab, thereby developing a taste for certain kinds of food rarely associated with human consumption. She seemed satisfied and the matter was dropped. Yet, the next morning Sharon cooked bacon and eggs for herself, but on my spot at the table she placed a big bowl full of Milk Bones. It was a great breakfast and I thanked her profusely but, Harry, I strongly suspect the girl was poking fun at me.
Sincerely,
�copyright 2001, Perry S. Fuller
