You see, a natural consequence of this situation is that every piece of office equipment, from the chairs to the toilet paper dispensers, is secondhand and demon possessed. This is called being on the "front lines." I'm not sure why missionaries are described as being on the "front lines." I think it has something to do with being where no one else wants to be. I understand it's quite an honor. Consequently I should be thrilled to work in the midst of secondhand, demon-possessed office equipment. And I confess at times I even approach jolliness at the thought. But when it comes to third and fourth generation . . . well. . . .

There seems to be an unwritten law that the more complicated a device is, the older and more abused it will be by the time it gets donated to us. Conversely, if it is brand new, it will have more bugs than Windows '95 and operate about as smoothly. Of the two pieces of equipment that most strongly fit this definition, one of them isn't really a piece of equipment at all; it's many pieces. If I have my way, it will soon be in many more pieces. Ah, but I've tipped my hand. You must have guessed it by now; we're going to talk about Jesus People's phone system. What's that? You say you'd rather talk about life insurance? Well, who wouldn't?! Briefly, our phone system works like this: Remember when you used to call us and get put on hold? Now you can just talk to our phone system! "If you need counseling press 1, prayer press 2, if you'd like to talk to the idiot who designed this phone system press 3," if you want to talk to a real live human being drop dead, and then the phone line does just that.

Our phone system is also multilayered and comes with a manual written in the same language scientists use to talk to dolphins. Being short on dolphins, we have just barely managed to establish friendly contact with our phone system. I once struggled through all its layers only to be reminded of the movie scenario where someone shows up for an appointment and is led through a huge building by a series of doors. The last door drops him off outside, usually from the tenth floor. This gives the victim enough time to wish he had called first. Of course this doesn't work with phone systems because it assumes the phones will be working when you call.

Rumor has it that we adopted our current phone system to discourage bill collectors. Unfortunately, it seems to discourage everyone else as well. In fact it would not be entirely remiss to say that the discouragement of those attempting to hack through the thick jungle of our phone system has achieved legendary status. One parent attempting to reach a young adult who'd recently moved here actually burst into tears when she finally got a human voice on the line. Our local alderman, who to our knowledge does not share our Christian faith, became so frustrated that after finally getting a message box she swore at it. It didn't help.

The best part of our phone system is the mystery lady who provides the system's voice. I'm not sure, but I suspect she's an Irish Catholic because she inspires more guilt just by saying the phrase "You have a message" than any of the nuns I had in parochial school. I've often suspected the voice wasn't a tape recording and tested this by asking her to "Open the pod bay doors, Hal." Either she didn't get it, or she's never seen 2001: A Space Odyssey. Even if I had gotten an answer, it probably would have been along the lines of "I'm afraid I can't do that, Dave."

But I must say the pi+e+ce de resistor of all this electronic mayhem is easily my computer. I like to think of it as my giant typewriter because there's very little difference between the way I use my computer and the way I used my old typewriter. The main difference is I can play solitaire on my computer without getting ink on the cards. Someday I may learn the difference between a spreadsheet and a screensaver, but for now my IBM clone sits glowing (or is that glowering?) on the corner of my desk, a constant reminder that it can think faster than I can and is often more interesting to interact with. But it's not simple jealousy that inspires my next potent observation. Read on and I'll prove to you that my computer is plotting with our phone system to take over the world--or at least prevent any work from getting done in this office. Near as I can figure, it happens this way: All of our computers are what hackers affectionately refer to as Frankensteins. This means they are pieced together from many other deceased computers. The comparison with Mary Shelley's story is apt, except that her Dr.'s creation was much better behaved than our computers. And his wouldn't die. Our frankensteined machines die under the slightest abuse. Turning them on, for example. I should say that never in the three weeks I owned it did it ever give me a single problem; it was usually able to manifest an even dozen at once.

Computer death is not pretty. Whether it decides to "crash," dive into that great NET, or just plain overDOS, it usually takes your life's work with it, wrecking records, flaming files, and generally making noises not unlike an enraged hippo defending her calves. During the distraction this creates, it sends a modem message through the phone system (because after all, only a computer could get through our phone system) to a secret computer graveyard not less than two hundred miles from the point of the message's origin. This graveyard is usually run by some poor slob like us who has thousands of similar carcasses on his hands. When he sees the message (supposedly from us, but really from the computers) that some organization desperately needs computers to ease their work load (Hah!!), he calls us up personally to tell us he has some great equipment he's been praying about how to get rid o--I mean, who he should give it to. If we will come to get it, we can have it.

After a round trip of not less than four hundred miles to Gland Haven, Illinois, and back, we are the proud owners of fifty to sixty deceased computers from which we are able to salvage two keyboards, half a motherboard, and one screen which works but emits a high-pitched squeal that will kill any small pets in the office. The remaining computers must then be carried from one room to another for storage or until we get a message from some poor soul (often a paperweight manufacturer) who desperately needs them. As a result we are too exhausted to write, proofread, or edit anything, even if our computers were working.

I'm not antimachine. Quite the contrary, in my tenure here at Cornerstone I've used handfuls of paper clips, staples (granted those can be a little more tricky), and even the odd pencil sharpener or two. Actually the behavior of our secondhand machines would be bearable if not for the behavior of my coworkers. For some reason they actually insist on being grateful, if not downright cheery, about having machines around at all. They quote to me from Brother Lawrence and say things like "Do you need to pray?" as if throwing an already "crashed" computer off of our roof was not the normal, rational response to planned obsolescence. I will admit that after I pray I usually feel better about not getting any work done that day.

Somehow Cornerstone magazine and a host of books still get published. Records get recorded and released and, in the middle of it all, in spite of the secondhand machines and secondhand lives (mine the biggest hand-me-down of all), lives are changed. It seems God isn't stopped by stuck buttons or touchy hard drives, and despite our phone system (and us), His message gets through loud and clear to people all over the world. When I think of that, gratitude doesn't seem like such a bad response. Maybe all these machines drive me crazy because they make me feel foolish, but isn't there something in the Bible about God using the foolish things of the world to confound the wise? Now if anyone out there has some office equipment they'd like to donate, we'll be happy to take it and (I promise, really) we'll be grateful. New computers, desks chairs, tape (just kidding) would be very appreciated. You can call us at (312) 561-2450, and the extension is . . . On second thought, maybe that's not the best idea. Why don't you modem it in to Jon Trott's uh . . . computer. Well, I guess you could fax it to our fax num . . . Sorry, forgot, on the blink. Look, just write us. Okay, even with Uptown's post office it will get here event . . . Oh, just forget it. 

First published in Cornerstone (ISSN 0275-2743), Vol. 25, Issue 109 (1997), p. 47-48
© 1997 Cornerstone Communications, Inc.
Electronic version may contain minor changes and corrections from printed version.