Church Essay #3: Membership Standards

The older woman looks at the younger lady and rolls her eyes.

“It’s getting so that they’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

She adjusts her suit coat and points a bejeweled finger at the one person in Fellowship Hall who isn’t easy to miss.

The young lady’s light brown hair is nearly shaved around the sides and back of her head. In contrast, bubblegum pink highlights sprout like a fountain from the top, adding a foot to her height. Her jacket matches her hair. Her jeans show skin through the fashionable tears.

The older, respectable looking woman says, “God loves her I’m sure, but really.”

Membership standards.

Jesus had them.

Churches don’t.

For a moment, I imagine joining an Anime club. I tell the costumed fans that cartoons are for kids. I tell the cyborgs and swords-carrying wannabe ranger heroes that I think our meeting time would be better spent discussing politics.

In my mind, a blue-haired samurai escorts me to the door at the end of a katana blade.

He doesn’t simply let me walk out onto the side walk.

I don’t land on anything I particularly care to mention.

Some people can be so rude.

The older woman rolls her eyes and says, “Learn to dress yourself.” Then she points to another figure across the room. “Oh, there’s another one.”

This time, it’s a guy. His color palate ranges from dark charcoal to black. His trench coat hangs open. A knit cap covers his ears. Dark, unkempt hair peaks out under the bottom. His gloves have no fingers. His pants sag over his legs.

Membership standards.

In the corner behind me, I hear one teen from the youth group say to another, “Oh yeah? Well if you’re so righteous, tell me what Hezekiah 3:19 says.”

Having been expelled from the Anime group, I joined a model railroading club. I’ve always liked playing with toy trains.

The second teen has flipped through is Bible from cover to cover, only to start flipping through again from the beginning. His eyebrows are down in concentration.

In my mind, the model railroaders start getting annoyed with me for playing with their stuff.

They say that to be in a model railroader’s club, you have to be a model railroader.

I tell them that’s discrimination.

Moments later, I’m knocking on the front door of the hobby shop asking if I can at least come back in to get my coat.

“What are you looking for, son?”

“The Book of Hezekiah, sir,” the teen says, He seems grateful for the help.

I recognize the older man as he takes the teens Bible. He’s my deacon.

“Hezekiah. Let’s see. Sounds like it’d be in the Old Testament right?”

The second teen nods.

The first teen puts his hand over his mouth to conceal his smile.

The older woman says, “I hope Myrtle is watching her purse with shady characters like him around.”

I leave the hobby shop and decide to join an Old West Historical Recreation Society. They say their costumes are authentic; detailed replicas of what the real cowboys wore.

I arrive for our first meeting dressed as a steam-punk version of Ironman.

Even the saloon girl shoots me before they all run me out of town.

Some people have no imagination.

Another deacon joins the hunt for Hezekiah 3:19 as the older woman says. “People actually dressed up to go to church in my day. We had membership standards back then.”

I nod. Jesus had membership standards, too.

Near the sanctuary door, the head usher tells one of his subordinates, “You’ll just have to find someone to cover for me.” He holds up two tickets and says, “I gotta go. Kick off’s in an hour.”
Jesus had membership standards.

No, you may not go home and burry your father.

Follow me.

No, you may not bid farewell to your wife and kids.

Follow me.

And if you can’t sell all you have to give it to the poor, then I won’t be waiting for you at the city gate. I love you, man, but no.

The five thousand who ate off a kid’s sack lunch? They tried to make Jesus their meal ticket king. Not exactly what He was going for, so He abandoned them. The whole walking on water bit was His way of sneaking off. And when the crowd didn’t take the hint, He turned on them with a sermon He knew they couldn’t swallow.

Follow me. Not your ideal of me, but me; the Bread of Life. Nothing like hinting at cannibalism to thin out a church. That’s how they did it in Jesus’ day. That’s how they pruned off the prune-faced posers; those free-loading hangers-on waiting for Jesus to make their lives better.

Asking Jesus to fix your life is like asking a car salesman to help you to keep your old clunker on the road. The cross wasn’t about fixing lives, it was about trading them in for the new and improved model.

A true disciple would know that. Deny yourself, take up your cross daily, and follow me: the membership standard for the Official Jesus Christ Fan Club.

All others need not apply.

Yet, the unconditional surrender of discipleship now plays out like the negotiated terms of a ceasefire. Sure, Jesus may have exchanged His throne in heaven for diapers on our behalf, but asking us to give up clubhouse seats for Him? That’s a little extreme.

In the corner, six different Bibles are open in search of Hezekiah 3:19.

One of them flips past the parable of the Ten Virgins.

Another goes over the passage about hating your mother and father, sister and brother, wife and children…

No one wants to read the sermon they can’t stomach.

Joshua clearing out the promised land.

Jesus clearing out the temple.

The pretence and subsequent deaths of Ananias and Sapphira.

The Apostle Paul telling the church at Corinth to expel the immoral brother.

None of these can be found in Hezekiah 3:19.

An elder reviews the table of contents and says, “Well, it’s not in the Old Testament. I’ve checked the list twice.”

The first teen starts to laugh and walks away.

In my mind, I’m at a Star Wars Convention telling everyone to live long and prosper.

Those plastic light sabers hurt.

One of the Bibles flips passed the second letter the Thessalonians, telling them to remove disobedient members from the fellowship. They were strict back then. They really took this walking with Jesus stuff seriously.

Fanatical zealots. Not like today. Today, the church welcomes anyone in the hope of them hearing the word, and being saved.

One of the Bibles flips passed the Great Commission, telling the church to go into the world. It says nothing about bringing people into the church. No one seems to notice. Again, it’s not Hezekiah 3:19.

In my mind, I get a job at a soup kitchen so I can throw buttered rolls at the unwashed masses of lazy bums. The supervisor tells me to cut it out. I tell her that soup kitchens are supposed to welcome anyone in need. She points to the line of filthy, freshly-buttered coats and tells me I’m on the wrong side of the counter for that.

It would appear the bums can start a food fight if they want, but employees cannot. I try to point out the double standard, but I lose my job anyway.

Some people just don’t understand church logic. I’m guessing that’s a good thing.

I imagine a military base during wartime, where enemies are allowed to waltz in through the front gate where they’re issued a uniform and treated as defectors seeking asylum. Throw in a little tolerant understanding. Throw in a little patriotism to a different flag. In time, that outpost would fall without a single shot being fired.

I think of the church.

The Trekkies are amongst the Jedi.

The bums are in the kitchen.

The atheists are teaching Sunday School so they can complain about all the hypocrites. And of course, none would be un-Christ-like as to point them out as chief contributors to the problem.

“Shameful,” the older woman says, shaking her head. “They’ll let anyone in the church these days.”

I nod, and when I speak, I’m not looking at the guy in the trench coat. I’m not thinking of the bubblegum fountain on the other side of the room.

From the corner someone says, “What? Hezekiah?” He laughs. “That’s a joke. There’s no such book.”

And my deacon says, “Are you sure?”

“You’re absolutely right,” I say to the older woman. “Clearly, the membership standards of the church need to be addressed.”

Fair Trade

In the movie adaptation of Frank Miller’s Sin City a cop on the verge of retirement goes after a high profile pedophile in the hopes of saving a little girl. His partner tries to talk him out of it, telling him his adversary is more than his match, that he’s not as young as he used to be. He’s earned his retirement, why not just let this guy go and enjoy it?

Later in the scene, after the big showdown, he doesn’t regret ignoring his partner’s advice. Heroes never do. The would-be victim stands beside him as he lies bleeding on the dock. The pedophile is in no condition to hurt her now, and police sirens are closing in the distance. In the voice over, this cop says the incredibly beautiful line, “An old man dies. A young girl lives. Fair trade.”

The other heroes in fiction would no doubt agree. Ask Luke Skywalker if overthrowing the Empire and confronting the dark side of the force was worth losing a hand, and I’m sure he’d say yes. Was the emotionally tramatic, soul scaring, body mangling trip into Mordor an experience Frodo is proud to call his story?

A hobbit loses a finger. A dark evil is vanquished in Middle Earth. Fair trade.

These are the stories we tell to our children’s children’s children. These are the knights who risk it all in the face of impossible odds to slay the dragon. These are the people we want to be… from our comfortable stadium seats at the local multiplex. But try to face those impossible odds in the real world, and the popcorn flies.

This is particularly true in the church where the warfare is a spiritual struggle against the hordes of hell. We sing our songs of victory and talk about the armor of God. And we do so from the safety of the castles keep while our enemy ravages the land. It rather pisses me off, to be honest.

I’d rather stand in defiance to the prince of this world, even though it comes at a price.

Jill, my beautiful wife, has recently been called on to help the friend of a friend deal with her daughter’s supposed imaginary playmate. But three-year-olds don’t retain imaginary friends for eight months. Nor are children inclined to spend the night on the couch to avoid said companion. The mother can’t research her daughter’s imaginary friend because every time she tries, her computer wigs out. She can’t talk about it over the phone, because static fills the line so she can’t hear what the other person is saying. Imaginary friends don’t behave like this. But demons do.

The mother has a copy of my book, Ripper Grimm, but every time she tries to read it, her daughter flips out and she has to put the book down. (Interesting that the book starts with a warning against this very type of occurrence.)

I’ve asked a lot of people to pray for Jill and against this entity. Most of them understood the importance of the task and the seriousness of the situation. One man even thanked me for bringing him into this.

But another—a dear lady whom I’ve relied on as a prayer warrior for years—replied with, “Nathan, I warned you this would happen if you starting writing what you’re writing. Please, write something else. Please, leave this alone.” I get this from my parents a lot, too. I get it from people who mean well, because they don’t want to see me come to harm. I understand this. I just don’t agree with the world view it represents.

We’re not meant to play it safe, which is why those great stories resonate so deeply. I looked into this dear woman’s eyes as she pleaded with me to write something else. Write a story about puppy dogs and butterflies. Write anything, except your stories that challenge the darkness. Stop rustling the wings of the dragons in hell.

But how could I? I can’t walk away from where God has called me to be any more than that cop could leave that little girl. I can’t walk away anymore than Frodo or Luke could abandon their world to darkness. I said, as I’ve said to so many others, “I’d rather get to heaven with my armor beat to hell, than to stand before my King with the tag still hanging from my shield.” I said, “We have to take a stand against this sort of thing, because if we don’t, then we’re allowing it to advance unchallenged.”

Imagine being Bruce Wayne. Imagine Alfred pleading with you to abandon your silly bat costume and just enjoy your father’s money. That’s what it felt like. Have we learned nothing from the great stories?

An old man goes home and eats steak.

A young girl gets butchered by a sick degenerate because no one else will stand up to him.

Not a fair trade. Not by half.

Batman doesn’t play it safe, and we love him for it. Buffy the Vampire slayer didn’t play it safe. Neither did Indiana Jones. Neither did Flash Gordon Neither did Buck Rodgers. Neither did the Lone Ranger. Neither did Zorro. I could list those who did play it safe, but you wouldn’t recognize any of the names. Those aren’t the stories we pass through the generations. Those aren’t the people we dream about being.

My father asked if I might be under spiritual attack because I’m writing books like Ripper Grimm, and my current project, Burlesque. Absolutely! I’ve been dealing with chronic fatigue over the last five years. I’m hit with depression on a regular basis. That feeling that I’m wasting my time, that I’m writing garbage, which no publisher would ever want, which no reader would ever want to read? Welcome to my world. And of course I’m snipped with the urge to hang myself several times a week—a momentary impulse, not a planned or contemplated course of action. Most normals freak out when they hear about this.

Sometimes calling people out of the darkness means going in after them. This is me not playing it safe, and yes, it’s coming at a price. Sure, I could save myself a lot of mental instability by abandoning my quest. The latest temptation has been to lose myself in the world of roll playing games. It would be easier. It would be much more fun, not to mention more pleasant. That, and I certainly wouldn’t be putting my wife and child in the cross hairs of a dragon’s rage.

But when I get to the end of my life and look back over what I’ve done, will I be proud of myself for taking the easier road? I doubt it. I’ve already spent too much time rolling dice for imaginary heroes who’ve shed imaginary blood to accomplish nothing. Fun times, but I don’t look back at them with pride. I’m much more pleased with the songs I’ve written that changed peoples lives, or the puppet scripts and characters I’ve brought to a world who loved them. I’m pleased with the years I’ve spent as a puppet team director investing in the lives of youth. I’m pleased with taking the road less traveled.

And now that I’m hacking my way through a danger infested jungle, creating my own road, I can honestly say I’m proud of Ripper Grimm. I’m proud of the unpublished novel I wrote about cutting, even though I spent a month feeling very suicidal and self destructive. A year from now, when Burlesque is finished—a book about dealing with our disappointments when God says no, a book about adult entertainment as an industry of human sacrifice, a book that has dragged me through the dark shadow of my soul for months on end (and no, I’m not being dramatic)—I believe I’ll be just as pleased. After all, if demonic imaginary friends don’t want my work read, I must be doing something right. And given the trouble I’ve had in writing Burlesque, my friend might be right when he says it might be the most important work I’ve ever done.

This is a rocky road, and I’m certainly feeling banged up for being on it. But I want to look back on my life the way the heroes do in those stories. And when I look back, I want to see a thousand souls who worship Christ because I lived. Give me that when all is said and done, and I’ll limp through the Pearly Gates in duct taped battle regalia, whispering through smiling lips, “Fair trade.”

Unpublishable Sample Chapter

I would like to note that on my most recent trip to a writer's conference, I presented this to a critique group. I'll never forget the look on the leaders face when I told her I was pitching a deleted scene because I thought it was a bad idea. Every last person in that critique group told me later during the conference that they loved the idea.

Anyway, here's the sample chapter.

And of course, terribly sorry.


Chapter (Sample)

INT. LIVINGROOM SET – EVENING

The buxom strawberry blonde turns a page on the script, then turns it back. She raises an eyebrow, and looks at the director. Her mouth speaks the words her vacant eyes and absent expression broadcast.

“I don’t get it.”

“I’m with Strawberry on this one, sir,” her male co-star says. He’s balding a little bit with a patch of hair between two expansive parts. He’s not quite as tall as she is. He thumbs his suspenders.

“I mean, this is even pretty weird for you, Mr. Wylde.”

The director looks back at them both. His eyes are enormous behind the thick glasses.

The male actor raises his eyebrows the way people do when they realize they’ve made a faux pas.

“Mr. Lumpkin, I mean. Sorry sir.”

Infamous director, J. Artemis Lumpkin, looks the way Alfred Hitchcock would look if he were several pounds lighter, painfully nearsighted, and endowed with wild hair that would have made Albert Einstein jealous.

He points at the script and, with a slow, muddled, British accent that furthers his resemblance to the great director, he says, “It was Mr. Winston’s idea.”

He says this as though it settles the matter.

The man looks at his copy of the script. He flips a few pages, then closes the booklet bound by brass brads and covered in light blue cardstock. “But the dialogue…”

J. Artemis Lumpkin nods. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”

The man looks aghast. “At least.”

“Mr. Wylde,” a woman says, out of the shot.

Everyone turns to her.

Angle on a woman with horn rimmed glasses and makeup brushes. Her face is contorted by a burning question, a question heating her steps.

“Mr. Lumpkin. Sorry.” She points to the camera crew. “The guys tell me you’re planning on doing this entire thing in a single take.”

This was news to the actors.

“What?”

“That is correct,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says.

The strawberry blonde drops her jaw.

“You’re kidding,” her male counterpart says.

The director looks taken aback. “Of course not. I’m J. Artemis Lumpkin.”

The two men stare at each other for a few moments. Finally the director says, “Excuse me.”

He turns to the camera operator. “Mr. Johnson. Are we ready to start shooting?”

“In more ways than one,” he says.

“Excellent. Places everyone. Places.”

The strawberry blonde and her male counterpart exchange worried glances.

He mouths the words ‘good luck,’ before taking his place outside the front door.

She takes her place with a book behind the couch. She stashes her script, checks her sultry wraparound dress.

“Speed,” the soundman says.

“We’re rolling, sir,” the cameraman says.

“Mr. Lumpkin, I must insist…”

“It will be fine, Ms. Baylor. Just do the best you can, and the rest will take care of itself.”

“But…”

J. Artemis Lumpkin turns to the set before him, to Strawberry Muffy, to the closed door, and says, “Action.”

Angle on the monitor, showing the strawberry blonde. She’s looking through the pages of her book. The title on the cover reads, Cannibalism 101.

She hears the knock at the door and perks up. Her hand melodramatically cups over her ear.

“Blah,” she says, following Mr. Winston’s riveting dialogue. “Blah blah blah blah.”

She puts the book behind one of the cushions on the couch, then bounces her way across the room. She checks her appearance in the front mirror, then opens the door.

The man stands in the frame, smiling. He’s carrying a suitcase with the word “Salesman,” on the side.

“Blah blah,” he says, smiling. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.” He gestures his open hand across the bottom of the suitcase. “Blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah?”

Strawberry Muffy puts her hand to her chest and gives a scandalous, coquettish gasp.

From off camera, the microphones faintly pick up J. Artemis Lumpkin as he says, “I think there’s a speck on the lens.”

Strawberry Muffy says, “Blah, blah blah!”

The salesman nods, backs away and says as he prepares to leave, “Blah blah. Blah, blah blah.”

“Oh, no, don’t stop filming. I think I can take care of it.”

“Blah, blah?” Strawberry Muffy tucks her head down in a pout. Her hands go to undo the buttons securing the halves of her dress. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah?”

At that, she opens her dress giving the salesman a clear view of what we presume to be her pendulous breasts.

But at that same moment, Albert Einstein hair precedes the appearance of magnified eyes behind thick glasses. The director’s open mouth moves in, fogging up the lens.

“Blah,” the salesman says. He sounds happy. “Blah, blah blah blah blah blah.”

The screen goes black as the director wipes the lens clean with his tie.

The door closes.

“Blah, blah,” Strawberry Muffy moans.

“Blah,” the salesman says in a pleasurable grunt.

Enormous eyes inspect the lens.

“Yes, that should about do it.”

He walks out of the shot to the left, revealing Strawberry Muffy and the salesman. Her back is to the camera. The salesman seems to have forgotten his suitcase, having his hands in another matter.

“Blah blah,” she says, pulling away and reuniting the halves of her dress before turning back to face the camera.

She walks back toward the couch.

“Blah blah,” she says in a come-hither voice. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah.”

Her eyes widen. She starts counting on her fingers. She regains her sultry air and adds, “Blah.”

“Blah blah,” the salesman says, removing his coat, loosening his tie.

“Blah blah blah blah?” she says, preparing a comfortable spot for him on the couch. With a coy glance over her shoulder, she walks away. Shoulders tight. An extra wiggle in her hips.

The salesman watches her go with unwavering attention. “Blah blah,” he says, as though he means every word.

He takes his prepared place on the couch and spreads out. One might think he’s just pulled the lever on the right slot machine.

His hand falls against the soft end pillow, and his face furrows.

He pulls the pillow away, to reveal the book.

He draws the book closer and reads the title.

His eyes widen.

His mouth falls open.

His face seems to flush.

“Blah blah blah?”

“BLAH!” Strawberry Muffy says, charging in with a rolling pin poised over her head.

He looks up.

The pin comes down.

The blow knocks him to the floor.

He crawls to the end of the couch.

She meets him there and readies another blow.

The shot zooms in on the murderess, her victim, and the edge of a special effects person rushing into position. He looks toward the camera and backs out of the shot.

The roller comes down on the salesman’s head as Strawberry Muffy shouts, “Blah!”

She raises it again for another strike.

The special effects person’s hand appears in the shot. It’s holding a brush dipped in fake blood.

Red droplets spatter Strawberry Muffy’s dress several beats too late.

Strike.

“Blah!”

Delayed spatter.

Strike.

“Blah!”

Delayed spatter.

She raises the weapon over her head and laughs victoriously over her murdered victim.

“Blah, blah, blah blah blah blah!”

Delayed spatter finds her dress, her face, her open mouth.

Her chortle changes to a cough, the way one would when they swallow a bug. She begins wiping off her tongue.

“Sorry! Sorry!” the effects person says somewhere out of the shot. “I got a little carried away!
Sorry!”

Strawberry Muffy tries to spit as much of the blood from her mouth as she can.

“Blah,” she says.

There’s nothing sexy or overtly attractive in her gait as she walks back to the kitchen. The camera pans right, following her to the swinging door.

She disappears through it.

The camera pans left, back to the corpse, back to the makeup artist rapidly applying a grayish hue to his skin.

The actor waves his hands toward the camera.

“Not yet. Not yet.”

The makeup artist rapidly applies a few last touches and runs out of the shot.

His skin is pink in some parts, light gray in others, dark gray in others.

He gets to his feet and, accepting the reality of his situation, slips into the character of a zombie.

He extends his arms out in front of him and staggers in an unsteady, reanimated gait.

“Blah.”

He staggers around to the far side of the couch.

The camera pans right to where Strawberry Muffy reenters the set through the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she’s holding her open book. In the other, she’s holding a meat cleaver.

“Blah, blah blah, blah blah,” she says reading to herself.

The zombie salesman reaches for her. “Blah.”

She looks up from her book, and screams, “BLAH!!!”

One zombie hand wraps itself around her throat. The other takes hold of the wrist of the hand holding the cleaver.

She resists in vain for a few moments, but in the end, he brings her to the floor behind the couch.

The zombie raises the meat cleaver over his head, and strikes.

Blood spatters the wall by the kitchen door.

He strikes again.

Blood spatters the zombie’s partially gray face.

He raises the cleaver over his prey and holds in a dramatic pose. “Blah,” he says, preparing to strike.

Blood spatters his face in more copious amounts than before. This time the brush hits him in the face as well.

“Hey!” he says, yelling at the special effects guy off camera.

The camera pans over to see him, holding his hands over his mouth. A small bucket of fake blood sits by the side.

“Oops! Sorry, man. Sorry. It’s my first day.”

Angle on Strawberry Muffy sitting up from behind the couch. “I think I got some of that in my mouth again.” She looks at the camera. “Wait. Did he say cut? Sorry. Blah blah blah blah blah…”

Her costar knocks her in the side of the head with the bloody brush.

“Blah!” she says, affronted.

“And cut,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, standing to his feet.

Angle on Ms. Baylor readjusting her horn rimmed glasses as she says, “Mr. Lumpkin, please tell me we’re going to re-do that scene but in smaller segments.”

His wide eyes stare at her for a moment. He looks to the side, cocks his head back.

“I don’t see why we should, Ms. Baylor.”

“You don’t…” the zombie salesman stands to his feet, his face aghast. “How could you not see that we need another take?”

“Well,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, “it is a deleted scene.”

Angle on Ms. Baylor’s astonished expression.

Angle on the zombie salesman standing stock still, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide, his face and clothes covered in fake blood.

Angle on Strawberry Muffy, confused as usual.

“I don’t get it.”

CUT TO:


To download the rest of the book, visit Amazon.com and look for Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.

Unpublishable--published!

I went on Amazon.com today to see if my new ebook was available yet, and to my great delight, it was. So, now I'm faced with the daunting challenge of marketing the thing, so it doesn't get lost in the mass of published work lurking at Amazon.com. The synopsis my publisher posted concerns me a bit. I'm working on getting it changed to:

"When exploitation horror film director, Guy Wylde, gets tired of wasting his potential on making porn, and when his producer and brother, Larry Wylde, refuses to let him quit, he begins to sabotage his own career in an attempt to get himself fired. The subsequent z-movies—including such atrocities as Attack of the Sofa Squid, The Duct Tape Mummy, and Utterly Pointless Massacre Part 9—develop a cult following. Yet, despite the profits, Larry wishes Guy would abandon his Holy Crusade against their chosen genre. When the conflict climaxes with a horde of Zombie fans marching on the studio demanding to eat Larry’s brains, the end result is murder."

I dunno. I think it's better. But what do I know. I'm just the author.

Anyway, if you're reading this, and you have a Kindle or other e-reader, please pay a visit to Amazon.com and buy a copy of my new ebook, Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.

Also, Facebook users can join my N. Paul Williams fan page. Not terribly exciting yet, but I'm working on it.

Christmas Parties

I’m not a big fan of Christmas to begin with. It’s the time of year when the pretence of the church is accepted and adopted by secular society. No longer can people like me escape the shallow pandering and platitudes which work to water down the Christian Faith by escaping into the general population. No. It hounds us through November and December with “Happy Holidays,” and “Season’s Greeting,” and the occasional, courageous, “Merry Christmas.” Peace on earth, but not necessarily to those on whom His favor rests.

Yet, the thing that really gets me this year is the birthday party. Disciples of Jesus talk about celebrating Jesus, but the church services we attend feel as drab and traditional as any other Sunday. The Choir does their Cantata. The Congregation sits patiently waiting for the continental breakfast in the Fellowship Hall. We talk about the joy of the season, but too few of us are smiling. A pastor on the radio did a broadcast from his church in England where the liturgy talked—in language no human being would use—about “accepting with joy the gift of Christ in anticipation for the day he would return as our judge…” His tone sounded line one reading something grand that didn’t speak to the heart. The congregation, when they responded in unison to a reading, didn’t sound completely awake.

And you know what it reminded me of? The parties in those old classic slasher films. The parties where everyone pretends to be having a good time because the script calls for it. They guy with the guitar leading songs around the campfire. The girls holding a beer and singing along. They’re all smiling, because they’re being paid to smile. The parties were always lame, lame enough that a serial killer jumping out of the nearby woods wouldn’t ruin the party as much as liven things up.

It kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles of the local churches with a hockey mask and machete yelling, “Hey, guess what! The world is seriously messed up and on its way down the tubes to hell. It’s so messed up that whenever anyone tries to impede the progress of said world down the crapper, some outspoken activist stands up and insists they have the right to be flushed!”

I’d pause here for dramatic effect, then say, “But God loved us so much that He sent His only Son down into those tubes so we could have the option of swimming against the flow. And when that gift arrived, it wasn’t announced to the great, well dressed, churchy types. It was announced to the lowest form of life available—shepherds, who were regarded the same way we view the homeless drug addicts and prostitutes. Jesus was announced to the shit of the world, because He came to save the world from its own manure pile.”

Again, I would pause. Most believers aren’t accustomed to hearing the word shit in church. In fact, most of them would be more offended that I said shit, than they would be that people are going to hell unimpeded.

Then, I would say, “You guys can sit here and party like there’s a serial killer in the woods if you want to. Smile at the lame music, drink the beer of self-righteousness, and then act surprised when the guy covered in other people’s blood shows up. But I’d rather celebrate as though the greatest King ever came to humble men in humble means; an act that the bogeyman can’t handle. Why party like there’s no tomorrow when we can rejoice in being given a future?”

You’re right. Dumb idea. But as I think about the kind of Birthday party my Savior would throw for Himself—or prefer to have thrown—I’m left with the opinion that traditional Christmas isn’t it. He wasn’t about popularity. He wasn’t about pretence. Christmas bling is anathema to Christ.

Don’t get me wrong. I do wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I just wish the celebration of something so amazing was a party worth attending.

Blame it on Jack

The beautiful thing about being an author is that one can take their less popular, politically incorrect ideals and put them in the mouth of someone else—to be blamed later. With that in mind, I would like to blame the following on Jack Hacker.

August 9

Some Jackass politician talked about the progressiveness of our country today. Said what a great thing it was that we, as a nation, would elect a black man into the White House. Said Dr Martin Luther King Jr. would be proud.

Bull. Dr. King had a dream of equality, of a world without racism. In that world, no one would notice that we have a black President. No one would care. He’s a man who happens to have dark skin; a condition accounted for by 0.0025% of his genetic code. That’s less than one percent. Less than one tenth of a percent. Less than a hundredth of a percent. That’s not enough to alter his race from anything but human; not like it did between the gorillas, orangutans, and chimpanzees in Planet of the Apes. The only thing that sets him apart is his heritage. That’s not big deal, or at least, it shouldn’t be.

Told someone in a campaign shirt that I didn’t care for his man’s politics. They called me a racist. I guess he noticed the color of his man’s skin. I guess heritage is a big deal, something to be proud of, something to be obnoxious about. Perhaps I should give up my crazy ideals and celebrate my Arian heritage they way some revel in their African roots. Perhaps I should join my local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Petition my congressman for a White History Month.

Of course, some racists might protest my newly embraced racism. But I could sue them for reverse discrimination—hell, can’t even say it with a straight face. Nothing reverse about it.

No, Dr. King wouldn’t be proud. We haven’t progressed at all since the day we splattered his brilliance all over a Memphis hotel. Instead, we’ve settled for packaging the same shit in a different toilet. I guess just flushing and starting over is too much of a hassle.

Sorry, Dr. King.

We haven’t flushed racism in this country.

We just swore it into office.

Tolerance in Action

A few days ago I saw an interview with the recently fired Miss California. Despite what the pageant office said about her missing appearances in lieu of other “unsanctioned” events, she made a case for the obvious. Her stand against gay marriage cost her the crown.

It’s always nice to see tolerance in action.

Don’t get me wrong. My heart goes out to the homosexual community. I understand that a rejection of the sin is often misconstrued as a slap in the face of the sinner. I understand that most people can’t separate who they are from what they do. I understand that it’s only because of Jesus that I’m able to see this distinction in myself and in others.

I understand that most people who read this won’t understand, and that’s all right.

What isn’t all right is the hypocrisy in the doctrine of tolerance. This problem isn’t the fault of people, but a flaw in the doctrine itself. It’s elementary. For tolerance to work, everyone must follow it. Therefore, tolerance must be intolerant of any doctrine other than itself. Ergo, hypocrisy.

So when the rubber meets the road, people like Carrie Prejean are told to be tolerant, even though it isn’t her doctrine. Of course, when she expresses her beliefs, which are contrary to the popular ideology, is tolerance extended to this differing world view? How could it be? Tolerance insists that there are no moral absolutes, while the Christian faith insists that there are. The two stand directly opposed. The church says to tolerance, “Love one another, yes, but love God first.” Tolerance, on the other hand, says to the church, “Why don’t you hypocrites just roll over and play dead?”

The funny thing is, we’re the ones accused of hate speech.

To be fair, many Christians do preach out of a self-righteous hatred. They’re the ones who often get the publicity, unfortunately.

But people like myself and Carrie Prejean are motivated by our love for people. Some would ask, of course, “How can you slam a group of people in love?” First, and once again, we see the sin and the person as being separate. Homosexual behavior is the issue. Homosexuals are not.

Second, if the Bible—which we believe to be the ultimate truth—says that sin is harmful, and that homosexual behavior is a sin, then how could we tolerate something that so threatens someone we’re called to love? That would be like asking me to tolerate a rattlesnake in my child’s playpen. That would be like asking me to tolerate a serial rapist in my sister’s neighborhood. I could no sooner tolerate a carbon monoxide leak in the home of my best friends, than I could tolerate a seemingly harmless sin that promises to destroy people in the end. No! Love itself forbids it, and I am happy to comply.

“But isn’t it wrong to force your beliefs on other people?”

Isn’t it funny that such questions are often posed by those who advocate the absence of moral absolutes?

Isn’t it funnier still that those who preach tolerance—believing that forcing one’s belief on another is wrong—show no hesitation to apply consequences to those of us who won’t see the world from their point of view; consequences being the vital element in forcing a belief?

Carrie Prejean lost her crown because she wouldn’t adopt a belief. Consequence.

I shared my faith at a temp job once, and that evening the agency told me my assignment had ended. Consequence.

Preach tolerance like the rest of the world, or you’ll end up like the I.D. scientists in Ben Stein’s excellent movie, “Expelled.”

Here’s a question: Why should I tolerate a doctrine that seeks to destroy what I believe? Advocates of gay marriage don’t tolerate Carrie Prejean for her Biblical world view. Why should I tolerate their intolerant tolerance?

Let’s be fair. Hypocrisy isn’t a problem in the church, it’s a problem in the human race. The shortcomings of the church just get better publicity. Of course, such relentless ridicule against any other religious group would be considered a hate crime. But, we don’t follow the mainstream view of tolerance, so we must be punished, lest we force our beliefs on others, which we don’t.

Some would argue that we do. They would say that we threaten people with hell if they don’t fall on their faces before Jesus then and there. But that’s like forcing chastity on someone by saying, “If you sleep with your girlfriend tonight, Jason Voorhees will jump out of the closet and hack you both to pieces.” The couple might joke about Jason being a climactic ending to their moment of bliss, but they don’t really believe it will happen.

In the same way, hell is only a consequence if people believe. And if they believe, then the beliefs I’m forcing on them are not mine, but their own. Offering to send an unrepentant sinner to hell personally? That’s a different issue, and last I checked, not common practice, even in the gay-bashing congregation of Pastor Fred Phelps.

Christians, on the other hand, can lose their jobs for being Christians who practice what they preach. I know of nurses who’ve been told to keep their religious mouth’s shut. Freedom of speech? Freedom of religion? Any one?

Skeptics, of course, are welcome to walk a mile in my shoes. Stand up in a room of tolerant coworkers and tell them that Jesus saves. Then sit back and watch tolerance in action.