The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.
For the next year and a half—the remainder of the 11th grade and all the 12th grade—I attended First Baptist Church of Christ and I hung out with the Flaming Five. Looking back, I really don’t know why they included me in their group. I seemed to be the broken spoke in a wheel that was popular and given freedoms that most other high school students could only dream of. The incident in the locker room was never mentioned again but it lingered in my thoughts and became my reason for why I was made a part of the in crowd, although Dad’s reason had a truthful ring to it. I even got my own moniker. Somewhere along the way, I think it was at the beginning of our senior year, people started calling me the Boaz Scorekeeper.
The Flaming Five didn’t disappoint a growing fan base. They rattled every opponent, winning every game, including six games in the playoffs. It was the first ever Class 3A state basketball championship for Boaz High School.
The only game ever in doubt during our Senior year was the last regular season game against the Albertville Aggies. The first half was basket for basket ending with Albertville ahead by two. As the mid-point buzzer rang and the teams were heading to their locker rooms, Wade came to the score table and whispered for me to come to the locker room. He said, “this is serious, you must come,” and walked off. I sat there for a few seconds vividly reminded of the last time I had been asked to come to the locker room. But, now things were different, these guys were my friends.
As I entered the locker room I heard John ask Coach Pearson if the team could have a few minutes alone. He agreed and walked out. The Flaming Five pulled me into a corner and said they were depending on me to help them out in the second half. I asked them what they meant. James said that if needed they would cause a disturbance to distract the refs and the fans. Fred said, “you add us a point or two during the chaos.” Randall said, “Tanner, you owe us.” I told them to forget it, that there was no way I was going to cheat for them or anyone else. John said that I had no choice but to do what they said and that if I didn’t I would regret it. I pushed my way out and returned to the gym.
The second half was pretty much a repeat of the first, basket for basket. Good to their word, with a minute left in the game, Bart Jones, who had just come in for Randall, started a fight with Albertville’s big center, Zack Wilson. The eight other players on the court rushed to the fight and started throwing punches. The refs were virtually powerless to stop the melee and half of the fans in the stands joined the fight on the court. I continued to sit at my station and spent the next minute or so thinking a week’s worth of thought. ‘I will add points. No, I won’t. I don’t care if I’m cast out and un-friended by the entire school.’ But, I did add two points to tie up the game, but got sick and gagged as though I was about to throw up. I immediately removed the two points knowing that it was wrong. I steeled myself for the coming retribution.
The entire Boaz Police force showed up a few minutes later with a megaphone and broke up the fight and quieted the crowd. The game continued and the clock ticked away as each team matched the other’s points. At the end, Albertville tied the game almost assuring an overtime session. But, the Flaming Five had a plan. Against a full-court press and a four second clock John delighted the crowd with a behind the back pass to James who was slanting across mid-court who instantly and with contorted body shot for the basket where a leaping Randall caught the ball above the rim and slammed it through the hoop. Boaz had won and they had done it fairly. There has never been a better basketball team at Boaz High School.
I guess it was God who gave me the strength and courage to face the Flaming Five at church the following Sunday. It sure wasn’t my bravery. Mr. Smith was late to class and the six of us—I never knew why the other class members also showed up late that day—sat in our circle just looking at each other. Wade spoke up and said, “Micaden, we again are ashamed of our conduct. We were wrong to ask you to cheat for us. We ask that you forgive us. We value your company and friendship. Will you forgive us?” The other four chimed in with “I’m sorry too.” Without hesitating I responded, “It’s already done. I’m a Christian and have a duty to forgive.”
Biking is something I both love and hate. The conflicting emotions arise from the undeniable physical effort it demands. However, this exertion is precisely what makes it an excellent form of exercise. Most days, I dedicate over an hour to my cycling routine, and in doing so, I’ve discovered a unique opportunity to enjoy a good book or podcast. The rhythmic pedaling and the wind against my face create a calming backdrop that allows me to fully immerse myself in the content. In these moments, the time spent on the bike seems worthwhile, as I can’t help but appreciate the mental and physical rewards it offers.
I especially like having ridden. The post-biking feeling is one of pure satisfaction. The endorphin rush, coupled with a sense of accomplishment, makes the initial struggle and fatigue worthwhile. As I dismount and catch my breath, I relish the sensation of having conquered the challenge, both physically and mentally. It’s a reminder that the things we sometimes love to hate can often be the ones that bring us the most fulfillment. In the end, the love-hate relationship with biking only deepens my appreciation for the sport, as it continually pushes me to overcome my own limitations and embrace the rewards that follow the effort.
My bike
A Rockhopper by Specialized. I purchased it November 2021 from Venture Out in Guntersville; Mike is top notch! So is the bike. The ‘old’ man seat was salvaged from an old Walmart bike (update: seat replaced, new photo to follow, someday).
Something to consider if you’re not already cycling.
I encourage you to start riding a bike, no matter your age. Check out these groups:
Sam speaks with poet and essayist Jane Hirshfield. They discuss Jane’s poems “Habit,” “Many-Roofed Building in Moonlight,” “A Cedary Fragrance,” “It Was Like This: You Were Happy,” and “Three Times My Life Has Opened,” all of which she recites.
They also discuss Jane’s experience as a member of Princeton’s first graduating class with women; the creative power of beginner’s mind; poetry as a hybrid art form; Jane’s years-long “detour” at America’s first Buddhist monastery; distinguishing between lineages and teachers; various frameworks of Buddhist practice; Jane’s experience with psychedelics; the Japanese poem that changed Jane’s life; the deliberateness of practice vs. the automaticity of routine; how a Miles Davis record inspired Jane’s first glimpse of non-duality; the fundamental unknowability of other people; and other topics.
Jane Hirshfield, in poems described by The Washington Post as belonging “among the modern masters” and in The New York Times Magazine as “among the most important poetry in the world today,” addresses the urgent immediacies of our time. A practitioner of Soto Zen for almost fifty years, she received lay-ordination in 1979 in the San Francisco Zen Center lineage of Shunryu Suzuki Roshi. Hirshfield’s honors include fellowships from the Guggenheim Foundation, Rockefeller Foundations, and the National Endowment for the Arts. She has received the Poetry Center Book Award, the California Book Award, and Columbia University’s Translation Center Award. Her books have been finalists for the National Book Critics Circle Award, National Book Award, and England’s T.S. Eliot Prize in Poetry. Her latest collection is The Asking: New and Selected Poems.
Sam Harris is a neuroscientist, philosopher, five-time New York Times bestselling author—and creator of the Waking Up app. He has practiced meditation for over 30 years and has studied with many Tibetan, Indian, Burmese, and Western meditation teachers, both in the United States and abroad.
Other words come to mind as well: indifferent, complacent, gullible. Quite bluntly: There is a lack of curiosity. If the church says that the Bible was inspired by a god, isn’t that good enough? In fact, it is one of the great ironies in the ongoing debate between believers and atheists that the Bible is one of Christianity’s biggest embarrassments. Atheists—anyone outside the faith, for that matter—can point to countless passages in the Bible and ask, “Is that really the god you believe in? Why do you follow/adore/worship Jesus when so much of his advice in the gospels is so bad?” Professional Christian apologists work very hard to make the Bible look good—make it look like it came from a divine author. But the huge problem is that so much of the good book is just awful.
But then there’s the process that created the Bible—as it exists in gleaming splendor on church altars, or the plain copies the devout have in their homes. How did dozens of ancient documents, written in languages that most laypeople today don’t know, end up in a book so widely revered?
The last stage of this process is translation—and that has produced substantial confusion. There are dozens of different English Bible translations, many of them turned out by different translators with their own faith-based agendas. In a posting here a few days ago, 16 October 2023, titled Dr. Hector Avalos on Mistranslating the Bible, John Loftus showed a few pages from Avalos’ book, The End of Biblical Studies.
[For those who follow this blog, be sure to check it every Monday. Loftus has announced his intention of posting especially value material—drawing largely on the content from the past—on a weekly basis.]
Christian apologist Bible translators take on the task of disguising what the Bible actually says, and Avalos offers examples.
It took a long time—as the Bible documents were being written over the centuries—for the concept of ONE powerful god to emerge as orthodox. But this wasn’t the case in Deuteronomy 32:8-9; Avalos quotes the Catholic New American Bible:
“When the Most High assigned the nations their heritage, when he parceled out the descendants of Adam, He set up the boundaries of the peoples after the number of the sons of God; while the LORD’s own portion was Jacob, his hereditary share was Israel.”
Avalos comments: “Most readers will miss the fact that ‘the Most High’ and the ‘LORD’ are two different gods, among many different gods, here. The term translated as ‘the Most High’ is probably the name of a god, pronounced as Elyon, and the term translated as ‘LORD’ corresponds to the Hebrew name we pronounce as Yahweh, ancient Israel’s main god.” (p. 43, The End of Biblical Studies)
The same translator trick, Avalos notes, is used in Genesis 1:1, “In the beginning when God created…”
“The word ‘God’ is probably best translated as the name of the specific god named ‘Elohim.’ If one were to be even more literal, one might note that Elohim is actually a plural noun, which could be translated as ‘gods’.” (p. 45, TEBS)
Since humans began imagining gods thousands of years ago, deities were given names. And the god who eventually stood out as the primary god of the Hebrews was Yahweh. Christians pay homage to this practice with the common formula, “In Jesus’ name we pray”—and even in the opening of the Lord’s Prayer, “…hallowed be thy name…” I suspect, however, if we asked Christians what their god’s name is, most would draw a blank. Yahweh wouldn’t be the first thing that comes to mind—primarily because translators have disguised it. Whenever we see the word Lord—in the Old Testament—in all caps, i.e., LORD, this is their substitution for Yahweh. Perhaps pious translators suspect that their god having a name makes him look like other gods.
Just beyond the pages Loftus included in the 16 October post, we find a section titled Sugarcoating Jesus—that also in a project of translators, as Avalos explains:
“Christianity often markets itself as more inclusive and loving than the religion of the Old Testament and Judaism. However, this has required using mistranslations to hide or suppress some of the darker discontinuities between what Jesus taught and what current versions of Christianity want their audiences to think Jesus taught.” (p. 50)
He refers specifically to the infamous Luke 14:26, in which Jesus states that hated of family, and even life itself, is required of those who want to be his disciples. Avalos adds, “According to this text, Jesus acts more like a cult leader who actively attempts to transfer allegiance from the believer’s family to himself.” (p. 50)
And he shows the efforts of some translators to disguise the plain meaning of this text; they want to deflect attention from alarming cult flavor of this quote. For an exhaustive analysis of this verse, see the 39-page chapter, “The Hateful Jesus, Luke 14:26” in Avalos’ book, The Bad Jesus: The Ethics of New Testament Ethics. The pious scholars who oversee translations have a cherished, idealized Jesus firmly embedded at the center of their faith. They can’t let even the Bible get in the way.
Some translators/editors go so far as to print the words of Jesus in red—even Luke 14:26! —to assure readers that these are the real words of Jesus. More deception. There is no way whatever to verify that the Jesus-script in the gospels is based on words that Jesus actually spoke. Churchgoers are inclined to trust their Bibles; the use of red ink for Jesus-script is a violation of that trust.
The beginning of the Bible-assembly process is also problematic, for those who are so sure that the Bible was divinely inspired. The blunt fact is that we don’t have any of the original Bible manuscripts. The traditional names of the gospel authors—Matthew, Mark, Luke and John—were added later to these anonymously written documents. The very first manuscripts of these authors have been lost. So how do we know exactly what they wrote? The invention of the printing press didn’t happen until well more than a thousand years later, so the manuscripts were copied by hand—in an era before electric lighting and eyeglasses. If the author of what we call Mark’s gospel handed his freshly finished document to three copyists, it is inevitable that each copyist would have made different errors—and those errors were repeated in copies made from those copies. So what do we have? Hundreds or even thousands of gospel copies that contain countless errors. There are scholars who devote their careers to careful examination of the old manuscripts, trying to discover the wording of the original.
Here’s another factor: copyists sometimes added words that reflected their own theologies—or if they felt something was missing. Hence we have the fake ending of Mark’s gospel, i.e., 16:9-20, which isn’t in the earliest manuscripts of the gospel. What a strange text is included here (vv. 17-18), Jesus-script promising believers:
“…by using my name they will cast out demons; they will speak in new tongues;they will pick up snakes and if they drink any deadly thing, it will not hurt them; they will lay their hands on the sick, and they will recover.”
Many modern translations put 16:9-20 in a footnote, but in two old versions of the RSV that I own, even in the footnote, vv. 17-18 are printed in red. Why would modern Christians want to be assured by Jesus that they can pick up snakes and drink poison? The translators/editors use another trick as well. The footnoted material is credited to other authorities. How do manuscripts cluttered with errors and additions qualify as authorities? Isn’t this an attempt by these pious scholars to disguise the mess that exists in the ancient manuscripts?
What are the implications of this state of affairs for the claim that the Bible was divinely inspired? Is it even remotely credible that the Christian god who took the trouble to guide the minds of New Testament authors—to write the truth—couldn’t be bothered to protect the manuscripts from error and corruption? How does that make sense? It is even more embarrassing that the first complete manuscript of the New Testament dates from the fourth century; how many errors/additions/corruptions does it contain? How far removed is it from the content of the original manuscripts? One of the things that scholars argue/speculate a lot about is the presence of interpolations, i.e., texts that may have been inserted by copyists. There are hints that a verse or two, here and there, look out of place. What a sloppy, haphazard process. Bible god seems to have been asleep on the job.
It’s hard to argue convincingly that the Bible is the Word of God. It’s not a stretch to say that the Bible you hold in your hand today in processed Word of God. Or more correctly, the Bible is processed word of men who were confident they were somehow in tune with the divine and wrote accordingly. So much in the Bible betrays its obvious human origins: the author of Luke’s gospel—whoever he was—included the hate-your-family verse. Who wants to argue that this was divinely inspired? There is so much in the Bible that falls far short of great moral teaching—there is so much that is frankly horrifying—and this is not hard to figure out, even for ordinary churchgoers who make the effort to read/study the Bible. Which most don’t bother to do, hence far too many of the laity appear to remain clueless.
Fighting back—and winning—is achievable, important, and actually enjoyable
***
The Art of Noticing
Simple and uncommon exercises to reveal what’s hidden in plain sight.
In The Art of Noticing, Rob Walker—a journalist, author, and educator—invites us to attend carefully and playfully to everyday curiosities that most of us tend to overlook.
“Fending off distraction isn’t quite the same thing as making the most of our attention.” By engaging the senses, Rob says, we can enrich our daily lives with meaning, boost creativity, and even “reframe the way we take in the world.”
***
Rob Walkeris a journalist and author. He is a longtime contributor to The New York Times, and a columnist for Fast Company. His recent books are The Art of Noticing, and Lost Objects, co-edited with Joshua Glenn. He is on the faculty of the Products of Design program at the School of Visual Arts. You can find his newsletter at robwalker.substack.com.
The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.
Ever since I became the Boaz scorekeeper I heard more and more about Club Eden. It apparently was this mythical place where the Flaming Five hung out on weekends. The Tuesday after my first visit to First Baptist Church of Christ, John Ericson invited me to camp out with him and the other four Friday night since there wasn’t a basketball game. He said Club Eden was a private club and I had to swear not to disclose its location or what happens. He told me to meet him at San Ann #1 at 5:00 p.m. When I arrived, Fred was with John in his big red Chevy Blazer. They made me sit between them with a black hood over my head. They told me that I couldn’t know where Club Eden is until I became a full member. I asked how I became a member and all they would say is, “we have to know that you are a true believer. Don’t worry, it will take a while but we believe you have what it takes.”
It was not until much later that I learned why I had even been considered for membership. It was Fred’s dad, Fitz, who had suggested to the other members they give me a try. My Dad had told me at least a hundred times since the middle of the 9th grade how proud he was of me for transforming Fred into a good student. Dad also had told me how thankful Fitz Billingsley was and had often asked Dad how he could repay me.
Now, riding along, bumping and weaving, I tried to visualize where John was taking us but after a couple of turns and Fred’s loud impression of ‘Imagine,’ I quickly became confused. After twenty minutes or so, John parked and Fred pulled the mask off my head. We were sitting in front of an old log cabin in the woods that sat beside an overflowing creek. Fred told me to check things out as he and John unloaded the coolers, several boxes of food, a couple of lanterns, and a host of other gear.
The cabin had a porch across its front with five big oak rocking chairs. I walked around to the back of the cabin and saw a fire pit encircled with big rocks and an assortment of chairs and benches. Thirty feet or so beyond the fire pit was a twenty-foot-wide creek that revealed the effects of the big rains we had had the last several days. Upstream to the left I could see an old army tent. I walked the 100 feet or so to it and raised the front flap and peeped inside. There were two large beds set up, one on the far left, the other on the right. They were both partially covered with what looked like bearskins. The floor was covered in a green bristly carpet that reminded me of a hairbrush my mother had—but it was brown.
I walked back outside and heard another vehicle driving up. As I came around to the front of the cabin I saw Wade getting out of his blue Chevy Blazer. I never did know why Wade and John chose the same type vehicle. At least they were different colors.
Randall hopped out the other side and opened the rear hatch. Out poured James along with two girls. I could tell they were girls even though they had black masks over their heads. I didn’t know either one of them.
Over the next several hours we grilled burgers, built a big fire in the fire pit, and listened to James’s boombox. Fred told a ghost story that made me want to go home. Around 10:00 p.m., Wade and Fred walked away with the two girls, which I never knew their names, and wound up in the tent. About an hour later Fred and Wade returned to the fire pit and Randall and James went to the tent. As far as I remember, John stayed at the fire and never went to the tent, but the other four were persistent in taking their hour-long turns. No one said anything about what was going on in the tent but I figured I was learning firsthand that the rumors I had heard about the underlying meaning of ‘the Flaming Five’ was apparently true—they were as determined to score with the girls as they were to fire up the nets.
Around 2:45 a.m., Wade and James left with the girls. I caught a glimpse of them before Wade pulled on their masks. They didn’t look near as happy and gleeful as they did when they arrived nearly eight hours earlier. Wade and James returned in about an hour and we all pulled out our sleeping bags and slept under the cold starry sky. After a breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast, and coffee, and ten minutes of packing, I was again sitting between Fred and John under a damp and black hood heading back to San Ann #1, my car, and with a new understanding of the real Flaming Five.
Biking is something I both love and hate. The conflicting emotions arise from the undeniable physical effort it demands. However, this exertion is precisely what makes it an excellent form of exercise. Most days, I dedicate over an hour to my cycling routine, and in doing so, I’ve discovered a unique opportunity to enjoy a good book or podcast. The rhythmic pedaling and the wind against my face create a calming backdrop that allows me to fully immerse myself in the content. In these moments, the time spent on the bike seems worthwhile, as I can’t help but appreciate the mental and physical rewards it offers.
I especially like having ridden. The post-biking feeling is one of pure satisfaction. The endorphin rush, coupled with a sense of accomplishment, makes the initial struggle and fatigue worthwhile. As I dismount and catch my breath, I relish the sensation of having conquered the challenge, both physically and mentally. It’s a reminder that the things we sometimes love to hate can often be the ones that bring us the most fulfillment. In the end, the love-hate relationship with biking only deepens my appreciation for the sport, as it continually pushes me to overcome my own limitations and embrace the rewards that follow the effort.
My bike
A Rockhopper by Specialized. I purchased it November 2021 from Venture Out in Guntersville; Mike is top notch! So is the bike. The ‘old’ man seat was salvaged from an old Walmart bike (update: seat replaced, new photo to follow, someday).
Something to consider if you’re not already cycling.
I encourage you to start riding a bike, no matter your age. Check out these groups:
Our task isn’t to comb through haystacks, but to maximize what we’ve already found.
***
You Are Here
Find greater enjoyment and meaning in navigating life’s unknowns.
In You Are Here, author and journalist Oliver Burkeman offers a collection of essays exploring the nature of limitation, uncertainty, unpredictability, accomplishment, enjoyment, and more.
“Life is so intrinsically confusing and precarious,” Burkeman says. But when we stop struggling against that reality, we are “liberated at last to give this admittedly rather preposterous business of being a human absolutely everything we’ve got.”
***
Oliver Burkemanisthe author of the New York Times bestseller Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, about embracing limitation and finally getting around to what counts. For many years, he wrote a popular column on psychology for The Guardian, “This Column Will Change Your Life,” and has reported from London, New York, and Washington, DC.
Iceland is a fascinating place for reasons geologic, geographic, linguistic, and cultural. Add to the list that it’s one of the least religious nations on Earth.
Unlike most of secular Europe, this isn’t a recent development. Prominent Icelandic expressions of nonbelief extend nearly a thousand years into the past. To gaze into the soul of a culture, look at their legends, the stories they tell about themselves. For Iceland, that would be the Sagas of Icelanders.
Consisting mostly of refugees from Norway in the 9th century, the earliest Icelanders brought Norse paganism along with them. The official religion became Christianity, though many of the settlers retained their pagan beliefs. And whenever two prominent religions cohabitate, a third strain of nonbelief is usually found nestling between them.
The first of the Sagas were written in the 13th century, at the tail end of a period wracked by violence and political uncertainty, and describe life in Iceland from the earlier period just after the Norse explorers had settled it. Among the most popular is the Saga of Hrafnkell.
13th-century Icelandic manuscript. Public domain.
Hrafnkell’s Saga tells of a warrior chief, Hrafnkell, who worships Freyr, the Norse god of such lovely things as wealth, sunshine, and sex. Hrafnkell gives Freyr his best offerings and constant devotion, even building a grand temple to the god. Despite all this devotion, Hrafnkell is attacked by an enemy, his temple burned, and he and his people enslaved.
“It is folly to believe in gods,” he says, vowing never to perform another sacrifice. Stories of lost faith in hard times are easy to come by, and you can usually count on the hero to experience a sudden epiphany that leads him back to the fold before the closing credits. But Hrafnkell’s Saga takes an unexpected turn: He escapes slavery, spares the life of his captor in exchange for freedom, and lives his life in peace and contentment without gods.
The most famous contributor to the Icelandic Sagas was the wonderfully-named Snorri Sturleson. In addition to leading the nation’s parliament and writing history, Snorri was a mythographer, a gatherer of myths and beliefs. And interestingly, Snorri came to precisely the same conclusion as the mythographer Euhemerus of Crete about the origin of god belief: Human warrior chiefs and kings were venerated in life, then venerated in death, then gradually became venerated as gods.
The more contact a person has with human mythmaking, the more he or she seems to see the man behind the curtain.
It’s unsurprising that Hrafnkell remains among the most beloved and widely-read of the Sagas of Icelanders among Icelanders today. Though most are nominally Lutheran, fully 60 percent of Icelandic respondents in a 2011 Gallup poll said religion is unimportant in their daily lives. It’s a number that is certain to have increased since then, making Iceland one of the least religious countries on Earth.
The Boaz Scorekeeper, written in 2017, is my second novel. I'll post it, a chapter a day, over the next few weeks.
Boaz lost its Saturday afternoon quarter-finals game to Anniston High School ending the best year ever for Pirates basketball.
Sunday morning, I met Wade Tillman outside First Baptist Church of Christ not really knowing why I had showed up. He thanked me for coming and led me to the second floor of the education building and the youth Sunday School Department. Mr. Neal Smith was a short and balding middle-aged man who knew his Bible and conveyed a respect for God and Jesus that I had never seen, other than Brother G of course. But, this Sunday, he did allow a few minutes for rehashing yesterday’s game.
James, Randall, Fred, and John were also present and, along with Wade, led the charge in the classroom nearly as well as they did out on the basketball court. I was surprised how engaging they were with Mr. Smith. It seemed that each of them had studied the lesson encased in a thick brightly colored book with a picture on its front cover of the crucified Christ hanging on the Cross.
I don’t think I really learned anything new in Sunday School that day, or during the preaching hour for that matter. It wasn’t because of poor teaching or preaching. All my life I had attended a Baptist Church. Although Clear Creek Baptist Church was probably only about a tenth as big as First Baptist, it taught the Bible as seriously as what I had just witnessed. Come to think of it, I guess I did learn something during my first visit. I learned that ‘the Flaming Five,’ as they were being called, had just as strong a faith in the Bible, God and Christ, as I did. They didn’t seem to have any doubts whatsoever that Jesus was God’s Son, born of a virgin, died for our sins on the Cross, was resurrected on the third day, and was now in Heaven sitting beside God waiting until Jesus’ return at the end of the ages. As for me, I did have a few little doubts, but I had always sized them up simply as a lack of faith, not as something to explore, and for sure, not something to share and talk about in a community that was so infiltrated by and immersed in Christianity that it would likely burn heretics at the stake.
by 
The Pencil-Driven Life 