With Sincere Apologies to, and Admiration for, Jonathan Edwards and David Brainerd whose lives are historic examples of devout service unfettered by the world’s influence for the sake of God’s Kingdom.

Dear Readers: By what can only be described as the Providence of God, I was lately bequeathed the dented, noisy remnants of a Dell laptop computer which contains the electronic diary of one Dave Brainerd, a Christian missionary to the natives of Central Michigan, who recently succumbed to a deadly virus which shortened his brief life and ministry at the tender age of thirty-two.

According to those who witnessed his final hours, Brainerd had been driving to a new Starbucks to pick up his morning Double Espresso when his Garmin GPS became infected by a rogue Trojan virus and guided Brainerd several miles deep into the Michigan wilderness.

By the time Brainerd realized he was lost, it was too late. Suffering from severe caffeine withdrawal and barely alive, he stumbled into a greasy-spoon diner outside Lansing where a waitress with three months of practical nurse training carried him to a booth and tried to revive him with bargain brand java. The mere sight of the stained Bunn decanter filled with vile brown sludge only aggravated the situation and Brainerd’s weakened body went into shock.

Just before slipping into the deadly coma that preceded his passing, Brainerd grabbed a laminated menu and, using a ketchup squeeze bottle, wrote his last request in elegant red cursive letters: “Give my laptop to the Bohemian Baptist so my diary can be published for the benefit of his readers.” Thankfully, the diner was not known for cleaning off their menus and Brainerd’s message survived until the coroner and a busboy arrived to clear the booth for a waiting party of four.

What can I say, dear reader, but be humbled by the task that has been entrusted to me. I have read Brainerd’s diary many times, in-between playing the “Halo” game on his hard drive, and every time I find myself weeping. His private journal is a tour de force of Christian piety and practice in this uncertain age and serves as a remarkable testimony to the great work of a devoted missionary who, despite his many bouts of melancholy, was striving to lead young heathens to Christ.

Mindful of our short time on earth, I present but a few excerpts from Mr. Brainerd’s diary to give you a sufficient glimpse of the trials and triumphs of a modern-day evangelist, with the hope that the complete work will soon be published by a major Christian publisher after the receipt of a large cash advance to my account.

THE BOHEMIAN BAPTIST.

EXCERPTS FROM THE DIARY OF DAVE BRAINERD.

August 2. After enjoying much sweetness in prayer, my heart was filled with the prospect of bringing the young heathens of North America to Christ. In anticipation of the Lord employing me thusly, I sought the necessary provisions for evangelistic success: the guidance of the Holy Spirit, the light of God’s Word, and a Facebook and Twitter account. Oh! What heavenly blessings for the advancement of God’s kingdom!

August 10. After eating a large bowl of Froot Loops for breakfast, I had an affecting sense of my own vileness and cried out to God that He might restore the self-esteem that my teachers at Bill Clinton Middle School instilled in me during my youth. My pleadings brought serenity to my soul that I might yet become an able, psychologically-balanced witness for Christ to the heathens. Watched the “Lord of the Rings” trilogy for the 56th time in preparation for spiritual battle.

September 7. My ministry begins! Entered heathen territory after many days journey deep into the wilderness of Central Michigan University where the natives call themselves the “Chippewas.” With my Dell laptop in tow, I encountered my first group of campus pagans in the student lounge and was immediately discouraged by the sight of the natives using Macbooks and other demonic tools from Apple. Alas! I have already alienated their homogeneous unit with my PC. Was enabled in the evening to plead to God for deliverance from iPhone envy.

September 23. Was in great distress, and under a sense of my unworthiness today. Communication with the Chippewas is more difficult than I anticipated. One of the heathens inquired of me: “You gank them threads from your g-rent, dawg?” I have no idea what he said. Must find an interpreter in the morning, Lord willing.

October 11. God has enabled the furtherance of my work! My solicitation on Craigslist for an interpreter has garnered the attention of an able linguist to help me preach Christ to the Chippewas. Quickly learned that “ganking threads from my g-rent” means I look as if I stole my clothes from my grandfather. Well, excuse me for thinking that the Walmart menswear department sells a quality product for an affordable price. At dusk, I was especially assisted by the Spirit to intercede for the heathen with the smart mouth.

October 19. By the grace of God, the Chippewas have slowly accepted my presence. To put them at ease, I have taken to drinking coffee and carbonated caffeine beverages while wearing a new wardrobe from Urban Outfitters and carrying a messenger bag with a “Question Authority” button. The heathens now seem more inclined to hear of Christ, though most would rather praise the gods they call Coldplay. Still, I have been personally invited to one of their rituals tonight where they will dance around a large fire and sacrifice a fatted keg, which I understand is a type of indigenous deer that is gutted and drained of its bodily fluid for their primitive religious use. I plan to bring a festive jello salad to the event to show my goodwill.

October 20. Note to self: last night’s “keg” was not a deer, but a vile concoction created by a Mr. Hamm from the land of sky blue waters. My interpreter hath forsaken me, having loved this present brew. Even worse, I fear the Tupperware container I used to bring the jello salad will not be returned to me as is customary at civilized potlucks. The savages!

November 4. The loss of my interpreter has hampered my work. Received a text message from one of the campus atheists I befriended which read, “GDNEYSC.” Believing this to be an abbreviation for the phrase, “God does not exist, you stupid Christian,” I engaged in a three-hour text debate with him on the evidence for the Creator. Found out later the atheist had been accidentally sitting on his cell phone and I had been arguing with his rear end. Have resisted the temptation to insert joke here.

November 18. Was sensible of my barrenness and decays in finding common ground with the heathen in order to share the things of God. Visited a tattoo parlor to obtain body art for the purpose of bonding with the Chippewas. Perhaps a quaint shamrock or tiny unicorn. Woefully, I underestimated the seducing influence of my fleshly desire to look cool. While laying on the table to receive a sweet Virgin Mary tattoo on my chest, I suddenly remembered I was a Protestant with a low threshold for pain. I fled in haste. Lord, grant that my fear of needles does not impede the spread of the Gospel!

December 21. My soul longed for mortification of indwelling desire for Taco Bell, an abominable staple of the young Chippewas that beckons the mouth, but greatly burdens my intestinal fortitude. I also believe I may have become addicted to a pagan power drink they call Mountain Dew Code Red. Cursed carbonation and pintos ‘n’ cheese! I am so disordered in body by my attempts to mirror the heathen’s cultural identity, that I have only the strength for the confinement of my bed where I will attempt much fasting, prayer, and the intermittent viewing of the Hogan’s Heroes marathon on TV Land. That Sargeant Schultz is a hoot.

January 12. Disgusted with my declining health and inability to connect with the heathen, I spent the morning in a campus lounge reading my Bible with no desire to interact with anyone. Despite my lack of postmodern accoutrements, a young woman who had seen me on campus talking of Christ sat down to talk. Burdened by the emptiness and despair in her life, she asked me if my faith had the balm for her overwhelming sense of guilt. Then did the heavens seem to open above us! Providentially, I was enabled to speak to her about the Gospel message in a plain, easy, and familiar manner. The word of God at this time seemed to fall upon her with a divine power and influence, and there was both a sweet melting and bitter mourning in her countenance. She seemed newly-awakened by my simple plea to repent and draw closer to Christ for her salvation. When we ended our visit, she agreed to go to church with me on Sunday. Oh! What tender mercies God has displayed in this scene!

For the first time I realize that it is the Gospel that mediates the Spirit’s power of conversion and not the hay and stubble of my worldly wisdom and evangelistic techniques. Surely my presence as an humble advocate and representative for Christ is an important conduit, but it is the Lord Who performs the marvelous work and wonder, despite my weakness and pretense. Tomorrow I will cancel my tongue piercing appointment and subscription to Rolling Stone. Praise be to God!

January 20. Discovered a brightly-lit corner of the Internet this morning: The Sacred Sandwich! Their wayfaring correspondent, the Bohemian Baptist, is a theological wunderkind, scholar, and exemplary human being! I also marvel at his great humility. It was immediately put into my mind that I should write him and see if he can help me with the caffeine sickness I acquired from the heathens. Perhaps I will do so after I visit the new Starbucks in town, if I can find my way there. Alas, my new GPS seems to be acting up.

Oh, well! A little adversity never killed anyone.