Juraeth's Blog

Church Essay #3: Membership Standards

2010-02-03T22:03:00.000-08:00

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

2010-01-17T13:10:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-27T17:28:00.000-08:00

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!

2009-12-27T17:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-12-25T16:45:00.001-08:00

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

2009-08-28T19:43:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-18T16:11:00.000-07:00

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.

California Heartache – California Quarantine

2009-05-07T12:50:00.000-07:00

I find myself faced with yet another reason to be writing my next novel, “Burlesque.” Miss California, Carrie Prejean? That Miss USA finalist? That Christian who took a stand for God’s ideal of marriage only to have a moment of indiscretion shoved in her face?

In part, I’m enraged at the hypocrisy of it all. Seriously, folks. Who among us haven’t done something stupid in our youth? Those judges and pageant representatives condemning her? Don’t bother trying to tell me they’re pure-as-snow virgins. Don’t condone an industry that pays for contestant’s implants so they can parade the beauties across the stage wearing bikinis and sultry evening gowns, only to later condemn a contestant for succumbing to the pressures of being physically beautiful. That’s like a cop selling sports cars so he can later nail his customers for speeding. I wonder how the critics would hold up to the scrutiny if they were put under the microscope.

In part, I’m disappointed. This beauty, raised by a Christian family—or so I would presume from the news clips—who drops her top for a camera… I’m not pointing the finger here. I’ve just heard of so many Christians who fell into sexual sin and each time it breaks my heart. If I am to assign blame, I would point the finger at a church culture that doesn’t promote the freedom for people to struggle openly with their besetting sins. Were she allowed to talk about the temptations she faced at the age of seventeen, would there be any photos circulating on the internet now?

In part, I’m hopeful that the family movement Carrie Prejean’s become a spokesman for won’t drop her. The church is supposed to be a carnival of lost souls found, and if we toss out all the imperfect people then the pews would be empty. The Bible teaches a doctrine of grace on this matter. The world, however, teaches a doctrine of quarantine. It is my hope that the church and other religious organizations will hold to their guns—that is, the doctrine of grace—and stand by a fellow solder who held to hers.

Far too often, we follow the world’s example in this.

In the old west, we quarantined the soiled doves, passing laws that kept them from mingling with ‘respectable folk.’ Never mind that several of the lawmakers were customers.

Not to long ago, the city of Centennial had a female mayor who turned out to be a former stripper. She’s been quarantined out of office.

Porn stars are often quarantined from regular acting jobs and kept in their particular, sordid industry. Yet, are they so different from the countless actresses who’ve bared their breasts for a passionate love scene? An actress appears topless in a very public, major motion picture, and she gets an Oscar. A future beauty contestant let’s her boyfriend snap a few personal photos—a boyfriend who behaves himself like a knave by releasing said photos with no personal repercussions—and she’s put in quarantine.

How can we as a country support a pageant that passes judgement on how well a woman wears a bikini and heals, yet also passes judgement on the same women for having her picture taken in her underwear?

More importantly, if we encourage beautiful women to have high moral standards, but then ridicule her for bravely taking a controversial stand on those standards, what message are we sending to the beautiful women of tomorrow?

In my mind’s eye, I see a city of anthropomorphic pigs. They wear nice clothes, they debate politics, they eat in manageable bites. Yet, at the center of the city is a much cherished mud bath. Those who choose to abstain from the mud and seek other ways to cool themselves are mocked for not being true pigs. Those who work to maintain the mud, so beloved by the city, are placed in quarantine for fear they might contaminate the rest of society with their filth. Even those who leave a life in the mud for a life of cool towels and regular baths are still considered unclean by the unwashed masses.

In this city, pigs must wallow in the mud, but not dwell in it. They must indulge in the mud to be considered normal and acceptable. But they must also shun the mud in proper society for fear of contamination. Failure to abide by these rules, results in the pigs turning on the offending member.

Tolerate the mud; that is the choice, the only choice. Tolerate the mud that enslaves its denizens. Tolerate the mud, but uphold the quarantine. Tolerate the mud, or suffer the intolerance of those who tolerate the mud. After all, that is the only choice the pigs are given.

I, for one, do not support tolerance because I believe it doesn’t work. First, it is intolerant of any doctrine other than itself, which by definition, makes tolerance hypocritical. Second, it supports one group of people forcing their beliefs on another group, while denying the other group to so much as present their beliefs to the first. In other words, a homosexual can tell me to be tolerant of his lifestyle, but if I so much as mention the Bible verses that list homosexual behavior as a sin, I’m being an intolerant jerk. (even though tolerance isn’t my doctrine, it’s the doctrine of the person shoving his beliefs down my throat)

Third, it constitutes hate speech. Tolerance is like a missile designed to seek out moral absolutes and destroy them. God’s Word is based on moral absolutes, which means tolerance is a polite way of telling the church to roll over and play dead.

If we did that to any other group on the planet, we’d be on our way to court.

I do not tolerate the mud.

I support sex between a married couple as God intended. But I do not support seeing it exploited in movies or popular culture or fashion or pageants. Kill the double standard. Lift the quarantine. Acknowledge that we’re all pigs in need of a bath.

My heart goes out to Miss California. Despite the pictures, I’m proud of her. I may not support every decision she’s made, but I support her willingness to stand for the truth. And in that, I’ll stand by her.

After all, if Jesus didn’t condemn the woman caught in adultery, then who are we to start throwing stones?

Prayer

2009-03-30T13:57:00.000-07:00

There is absolutely nothing like the sound of my little boy’s voice. I love the way he coos. I love the way he squeals and talks to his toys. His sneeze is still the cutest sound I think I’ve ever heard.

I won’t tell you about the belch that left me in stitches for hours.

The other day, I dreamt about my son’s voice. And in my imagination I wrapped that little voice around the words, “Daddy, I love you.” I’m told that when he finally does speak those words of his own accord, I can kiss my heart good-bye. Even now I’m starting to tear up.

God spoke in that daydream. He told me that when Koen starts talking, it won’t really matter what is said. What will matter to me is that he’s saying it.

He told me that prayer isn’t all that different for Him.

My ADD mind wandered to a church Sunday School room where a person asked, “If God already knows my needs, then why should I bother praying about them? Why won’t He just provide?”

Prayer, according to what God whispered in my ear that day, is not about daily bread. Ultimately, it isn’t about words of worship or words of thanksgiving or words of supplication or the Lord’s Prayer. In the end, prayer isn’t about prayer requests or holding others up before the Throne of Grace or asking that a loved one comes to know Christ.

Prayer, at its most basic level, is about the sound of my voice.

Prayer is about the effect my voice has on His heart.

Prayer is about God hearing His little boy, whom He dearly loves to no end, speak the words, “I love you, Daddy.”

The Bible says that His voice shakes the mountains; the very foundations of the earth. He lifts his voice, the earth melts.

We lift our voice to Him in love and worship; His heart does the melting.

His eyes well up with tears of joy and elation.

Imagine tickling God. Imagine telling him a joke that He finds irresistibly funny. Imagine making His day because we stopped to say, “I love you, Daddy.”

Why pray when God already knows our needs? Because prayer isn’t about the needs.
It’s about a little boy talking with his Daddy; a Daddy who stops the universe to listen

My Son

2009-03-30T13:56:00.000-07:00

I would like to announce that my son incontinent, and I couldn’t be more proud.

My son babbles in incoherent syllables, and I couldn’t be more proud.

My son is an egocentric little whiner who screams and throws a tantrum whenever the world doesn’t revolve around him. But even then, I couldn’t be more proud.

My son is nearly five months old.

It would be absurd for me to even consider waiting for him to impress me before thinking him worthy of my love. He rolls over, I cheer. He grabs a blanket to stuff in his mouth, I clap. He grabs my hair and gives it a good yank…I scream, but I still love my son.

Anything he can do, I can do better. Yet, he’s the one I brag about. He’s the person I tell stories about in church or at the store or with total strangers on the bus…

I brag about my incontinent, incoherent, unproductive, exhausting, demanding, needy, whiny, egocentrical son.

And why?

Isn’t it obvious?

Haven’t I already told you a dozen times?

He’s my son.

And because he’s my son, the very sight of him fills my heart with joy.

Because he’s my son, I sing a lot more.

Because he’s my son, his laugh is like music. His smile is like diamonds. The word “precious” doesn’t even begin to cover what Koen means to me, because he’s my son.

It is a curious thing that he would come into my life now.

It is a curious thing that after telling God I really needed to see Him as loving, Jill would announce that she’s pregnant.

It is a curious thing that while I approached fatherhood with such an excitement for what I could teach Koen, I didn’t account for what he would be teaching me.

Koen has taught me what I look like from God’s point of view. Incontinent with besetting sins, incoherent with prayers on autopilot that tend to drift into a completely unrelated day dream, selfish prayers that demand this or that or throw tantrums…

And yet, I am completely, unashamedly, and boundlessly loved. Not for what I’ve accomplished—for anything I can do, God can do better. But because He created me.

That’s a good enough reason for me to love my son.

That’s a good enough reason for Him, too.

Practice or Pyre

2009-03-26T18:01:00.000-07:00

I’m a better musician than many, not professional by any means, but certainly proficient. As a guitarist, I can lead camp fire songs with the best of them. As a bassist, I usually only need to know the key in which the song is played. Yet, in both cases, I’m really just a competent fake.

Some years ago I attended a concert with a musician who is far and away my superior. Yet, when faced with the master solo guitarist on the stage, he turned to me and said with a smile, “Some guys make you want to go home and practice, and some guys make you want to just burn your equipment.” The musician on the stage fit the latter category.

Again, I’m a good musician, better at least than the youth pastor at my church or the members of some garage bands I’ve encountered. But in this I’m comparing myself to amateurs and other competent fakes. I could probably play a decent rhythm track under most professionals, or at least the staff of the local music store.

But pair me with a true master, whose guitar strings whisper sweet music at his very presence, and I’m playing $300 worth of firewood. I simply don’t measure up, and pretending that I do would only make me look more foolish.

I think the same can be said for people in general. As an evangelical Christian I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people brush me off with the words, “I’m a good person.” But what if that “goodness” is determined by a fallen standard? Most who say that following the Ten Commandments will get you to Heaven can’t even name them—not by half. No matter how good we are, God is still better, and compared to His mellifluous tones, the best of us sounds like a violin student in his first lesson. After that jam section, the prospect of being thrown into Hell won’t sound so unjust.

But God as a trick up His benevolent sleeve.

The soundtrack to the movie Black Snake Moan is played by a group of highly professional, highly competent blues musicians. The actor, Samuel L. Jackson, is not one of them, but he did spend some rather humbling time with them learning to play. In the film we see the actor playing the song to the best of his meager ability. Again, he was taught by the pros, and he knows the part. But in truth he’s just playing along with soundtrack, and it’s the notes of the master musician we’re actually hearing.

This is what the cross was about; Jesus taking our pour excuse for righteousness and replacing it with His own.

This is what the Christian Faith is about; crap musicians learning to play at the feet of the Master.

For those of use who know Him, He makes us want to practice.

And of course, there’s also the desire to keep others from needlessly burning their equipment.

Philosophy and Chess

2009-03-26T18:00:00.000-07:00

I suck at the game of chess.

It’s not for a lack of study, mind you. I’ve read about a dozen books on the topic; some comprehensive overviews, some focusing on strategy, or tactics, or openings, or whatever. I know how to fianchetto a bishop. I’m familiar with the concepts of material, time, and position. I’m fluent in a few different types of Chess notation.
I know the point value attributed to each piece, and I know to develop the lower point values first. After all, “Pawns are the soul of chess.”

I also know the adage, “To learn, play.”

But of course, if I play, I might lose, and if I lose, I’ll feel foolish for all those hours I spent studying the game instead of simply letting the computer—or local chess club—kick my butt. A friend of mine—who just recently learned that a Knight is worth three points—follows this latter tack and his experience on the board really shows.

I don’t play him much anymore.

Instead, I run back to my safe little chess opening puzzle book and try to learn what not to do in an actual game.

But chess is not a theory to be studied. Instead, it’s a game to be experienced. Only by spending time at the board can one learn the intricacies of the pieces. Only by losing can one hope to win the simple pleasure of knowing, not knowing about, but knowing the game. To learn about knight forks, get caught in a few. To learn the power of pawns, challenge them.

To learn, play.

With this in mind, I’ve met a number of philosophers and theologians who treat God the same way I treat chess. They’re much better read on the subject than me, having absorbed books by monks, and rabbis, and seminary teachers. They know the difference between Calvinism and… and… whatever theology is the opposite of Calvinism. Compared to them, I’m sure I sound like a backwater hick.

Except, that I’ve spent time at the chessboard of God. And at that board I’ve lost opinions, unfounded beliefs, sugar-coated doctrines, and a part of my soul that I came to learn wasn’t really mine in the first place. I still come away licking my wounds more often than not. But like a chess player who exchanges bad habits for good ones—inexperience for wisdom—I don’t miss what I lose, especially when compared with what I gain.

The Bible makes it very clear that following Jesus comes at a cost, so I don’t blame the theologians for hiding from the Lion of Judah in their non-threatening books. But to do so is like studying art without ever attempting a doodle, or learning to sail from the comforts of one’s couch.

Or learning to play chess without facing an opponent.

I know a lot about chess.

And yet, I suck at the game.

I love it at a safe distance, denying myself the adventure of its company.

And that is my greatest loss.

Church Essay #2: What?!

2009-03-26T17:55:00.000-07:00

(To be fair, things have changed since this was written.)

I’m trying not to see this as hypocrisy. I’m trying to connect what’s being said with what’s being done. I’m trying, really trying.

But I’ve seen this before.

I told the planning committee to focus on Christ. Focus on worship.

“We are,” they said. “But we need a band, a good band, and band that would really rock this house for Jesus.”

I told the music leader to forget the band. I told him to play, not for the crowd, but for the King.
I told him to play for an audience of One.

He told me he was. He insisted he was. I stood blinded by the laser lights on the stage as he told me about fog machines for Jesus.

Yeah, yeah, worship. Check. But what we really need is a band. A band will bring people. A band will fill this place like the mega-churches that Jesus never preached at.

He gathers musicians. They look and sound like American Idol rejects. Yet, they play louder as though the neighbors not filling the pews are missing out. The cacophony rattles the stained glass.

Thirty come to hear the band play.

Twenty-five faithful souls.

Twenty willing to give them another chance.

The precious band draws a faithful dozen … sometimes.

Soon, only the pastor is clapping.

I told them to focus on worship, instead of the band.

They didn’t listen.

There isn’t a planning committee anymore.

That church is dead.

No one speaks of them, not even in whispers.

I’m seeing it happen again.

This time, the band can actually play. This time no one comes to throw shoes at the chorus of screeching cats. This time, people clap.

But the music is too loud. People stop coming for the ringing in their ears. People tell me they can’t hear themselves join in the song.

I voice my concerns.

“We’re reaching a younger generation with this service,” they tell me. “There are those who would complain we’re still too quiet.”

I look at them and shout over the ringing, “What?!”

They don’t hear me.

They don’t see the people leaving.

More speakers appear on the stage.

It’s this or the traditional service. If only I could stomach the sound of the organ. If only I could stomach worshipers who smile too much, or too little. If only I didn’t mind gray headed relay racers who won’t let go of the baton. I don’t belong in the traditional service.

I try to tell myself that I belong in this service because it’s the only other option, this service where everyone keeps saying the music is too loud. I can’t hear myself pray, or worship despite the songs I don’t know. Speakers compete with the still small voice.

They tell me to be seated as the band leaves the stage.

I shout, “What?!”

Earplugs are provided at the door.

Standing outside in the parking lot, I can identify the song being played.

I sing along as the sound man moves the master volume slide up.

The pastor says that worship is worship is worship. He says style doesn’t matter. He says rap, hymns, rock, country; worship is worship is worship.

Style doesn’t matter. He says it like a man so hurt by racism that everything becomes about race. “Style doesn’t matter,” he says, again and again and again.

I shout, “What?!”

No one is listening.

No one can hear me.

If they could, they would know I’m not talking about style. They would know I rather enjoy the band. They would know that worship is worship is worship, but I’m not worshiping.

I don’t see worship in the band’s faces either.

The music leader says, “We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The guitarist chews his gum, focused only on the next chord.

“We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”

The pristine notes of the base player thunder from the extra speakers. He’s playing the music, but his face doesn’t move.

There’s a look that comes with love songs. There’s a glow that overtakes the countenance when the singer voices in melody the most ardent cry of his heart. Worship is worship is worship. But what is worship if not a love song to the wild and passionate lover of our souls?

The band speaks of worship.

The pastor speaks of worship.

Worship I can neither see nor feel.

I raise my hands despite the absence of that radiance from the stage.

My heart and lips remain silent, a counter-balance to the assault on my ears.

In my head, I wonder if I’m not going crazy. I wonder if I’m not just being overly critical. I wonder if I haven’t allowed the Evil One to corrupt me, and block me from encountering Christ.

They tell me God is moving in the band, and I want to believe. I want to support what God is about.

Yet, I wonder if I’m the only one noticing the diminishing crowd.

I’ve seen this before.

I’ve seen a church forget that the world is turned around, and that the way that seems right often isn’t. Beware the yeast. Beware the decoy. Beware the theatrics of Hell.

Since when has church been about bringing people in the doors instead of sending them back out into the world refreshed? Since when did this spiritual gas station become a concert hall? Since when has music in the service been the focal point? When did we forget that we aren’t singing for our benefit, but for God’s?

Treat the root to treat the tree, not the leaves.

I long for a church that creates a place where Christ—not the band, not the style, not the target demographic—but Christ is the center of the service. Only then will He come to inhabit the praises of Hhis people.

I long for a church that teaches the discipline of being still and listening to God when He speaks, letting Him saturate our lives.

That would be a church where people would leave dreaming of returning next week.

That would be a church where our hunger for something real, something of substance could be satisfied.

That would be a church that doesn’t waste it’s time with laser lights and fog machines.

Focus on worship.

Focus on lifting the name of Jesus.

Focus on encountering Christ, and the rest will come.

They tell me they are focused on worship.

They tell me they are seeking the glorification of Christ.

I shout, “What?!”

The congregation applauds the band. At least I presume it’s the congregation. I’ve run for the door to find a place where I can hear my own thoughts. Five people are clapping near the sound board.

I leave church as exhausted as I was when I came.

I dream of not returning next week, of staying home with my guitar and playing a few hymns.

The neighbors in the unit above mine wouldn’t hear me worshiping. But God would. I’ve felt Him in my living room as I voiced in melody the most ardent cry of my heart.

Perhaps I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I’ve become a curmudgeon so stuck in his own ways that nothing anyone else does is good enough.

Or, perhaps I’m truly seeing church for what it was meant to be. And in that vision, I’m seeing church fall short of its true potential.

Self-diagnostic complete, yet inconclusive.

I’m still trying not to see this as hypocrisy.

Am I missing something?

I try to ask others for a second opinion as a sanity check on my perspective.

I try to voice my concerns and observations.

I try to say, in love, that I feel we’re going the wrong way.

I try to keep my church accountable in its claim of seeking Jesus above style or band or demographic.

They look at me and shout, “What?!”

I wonder why I even bother.

Church Essay #1: The Dance Party

2009-03-26T17:52:00.000-07:00

He’s thinking about cheating on his wife.

But he won’t say so here.

It’s not allowed.

In church, we’re not allowed to be human. We’re not allowed to come through the door tired from the week, or struggling with besetting sins. There’s no room on the altar for our shit; it might soil the hand-crocheted doilies.

People ask how we are.

We nod, smile, and tell them we’re fine.

We’re getting our asses kicked by hostile employers, unappreciative wives, unsupportive husbands, and yet, we nod, smile, tell them we’re fine, and move on. That’s the dance.

No one waits to listen to the answer anyway.

People ask how I am.

I tell them I’m dead.

They say, “That’s nice.”

And walk away.

I tell them I’m wrestling.

A plastic smile says, “That’s nice.”

They move on.

I don’t.

I’m still wrestling.

I’m still dead.

No one will bear my burden.

It’s not part of the dance.

No one teaches that step in Sunday School.

I suppose it clashes with the doilies.

* * *
She walks through the church doors and packs away her thoughts of suicide, packs away the pain of a life that didn’t turn out as advertised. She packs it away behind a plastic smile.

People ask how she is.

She lies, because this is church.

Thou shalt not tell the truth.

Thou shalt say thou art fine and move on.

She didn’t always lie. She talked about her daughter’s stalker. She talked about the worthless man she married who walked out on her for a waitress, walked back in when the money ran out, walked out again with borrowed funds she’d never see returned. She talked about the revolving door of her heart, and the burden of not knowing what to do with it.

She told the truth, and the dancers tripped.

She told the truth, and the dancers got angry.

Jill the Tripper.

So, she learned to dance like the rest of them.

Learned to lie.

This is church, after all.

Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.

Pack your true self behind a plastic yellow smiley mask. Pack your heartache. Pack the lust that knocks on the door. Pack away the sins you’re not supposed to struggle with anymore because you’re saved.

Learn to dance.

Learn to play along.

Learn to lie.

Trip, and they’ll turn on you.

Fall, and you’ll be ostracized.

Show your true colors—toilet brown—and they’ll call you a hypocrite.

* * *
A man stands in the corner. He isn’t wearing a suit. His hair is too long. He looks too thin to be healthy. Even cleaned up and showered he looks grungy. He looks like those prostitutes and drug pushers we talk about bringing to Jesus, but not to church.

Save the sacred hand-crocheted doilies.

He talks with another man, a man in jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt.

They smile at each other. It isn’t plastic. It isn’t natural … here. They smile the way brothers smile, the way neighbors smile, the way love wraps itself around a persons face.

They don’t nod.

They don’t say they’re fine.

They don’t move on.

They stop long enough to share each other’s lives.

They stop long enough to share each other’s burdens.

I join their little group.

They ask how I am.

They wait for the answer.

I tell them.

They listen.

I lay my sickly brown burden on their shoulders.

They bear it with me.

Behind me, the dance continues. Clumsy kindergarten ballerinas cute in their tutus; crashing into each other; dancing for what’s-his-name.

But in our corner, we say words that aren’t allowed. We talk about porn and the struggle of resisting the cute girl in the copy room. We talk about the heartache of life not meeting expectations. We talk about being works in progress, not works perfected.

We promise to pray for each other, and we actually mean it.

We bear each other’s shit.

An eavesdropping dancer trips. We shouldn’t be saying words like that.

A man will have an affair this week.

But we shouldn’t be using words like that.

A woman will stop coming to the dance.

But we shouldn’t be using words like that.

She won’t be missed anyway. Jill the Tripper. Few will hear about the hanging. Fewer still would
believe it.

Christians don’t do that.

Christians don’t say words like that.

Christians, good Christians, dance.

Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.

Dance on the coffin of hurting souls

Dance to the tune of Nero’s Fiddle.

Dance to show the world that Jesus saves.

We stand in the corner and watch the spectacle. Jesus stands with us, playing a drum. But the dancers continue moving to a different beat.

Fist Full of Nothing

2008-12-23T06:29:00.000-08:00

A few moments ago, I was feeding Koen, and we paused mid-bottle to burp as recommended. But in the time it took me to recline him, retrieve the bottle, and put it to his lips, he'd put his fist in his mouth and proceeded to suckle it. We've learned this to be a sign that he's still hungry, so I proceeded to work around the blockade.

"Let me through, little man," I said, hooking his wrist with my pinky. "I can't give you what you need if there's stuff in the way."

And God spoke.

In that instant I had the image of our Father God having to work around the sin in our lives to supply us with what we crave; a craving those sins cannot satisfy. Holiness isn't just for God's benefit, it's for ours.

I was going to write a book for Koen of all the things I wanted to teach him. I might, instead, write a book about all the things he's taught me.

Hearing Voices

2008-11-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

A few days ago, on November 4th at 8:05 a.m., I became a father.

The weirdest bit was to see this purpleish blob emerge from my wife's butt like something out of a Sci-fi movie--especially when the doctor twisted the blob and revealed that it had a face! Seriously! It reminded me of a Tales from the Crypt episode!

But then they took him out, let me cut the cord, cleaned him up a little, swaddled him, and placed him in my arms.

Like all newborns (or so I would presume) Koen screamed and cried as though the world was coming to an end. But at the moment I said, "I love you, Koen," he stopped crying and looked at me.

He stopped crying at the sound of my voice and looked at me.

It was as though he was saying, "Hey, I know you. You're my daddy."

He stopped crying. I became a blubbering idiot. Let's move on.

God spoke to me in that moment, reminding me that this was how He feels when I stop crying and recognize His voice.

That same day, Obama was elected as our next president. I'll confess, I'm not thrilled with the prospect. I don't like his policies, and I have to wonder if such a racially charged nation is really ready for a black president. I have no problems with it personally, but I can see it becoming an issue.

I found myself singing, "It's the end of the world as we know it." I did the same thing on 9/11, imagining my view zooming out on the smoking remains of the World Trade Center until I envisioned the planet resting in God's hands. "And I feel fine." It helped put things in perspective, back then.

November 5th, however, as I processed recent events, the last line of that song didn't come as easily. I had just helped my wife deliver a son into a country who'd just elected a president who wouldn't have valued Koen's life a day earlier. Like a lot of Republicans across the nation, I didn't feel fine. By the evening of November 5th, anarchy had become my new favorite word. Not political anarchy, per se, but just the need to rage against a world that seems to consider thinking an intolerable inconvienence. I wanted to start a cult of spiritual anarchy against the church for being so staunchly religious, it wasn't able to follow Jesus. I wanted to sit at home and write novels so outlandish and bizarre that they would border on literary terrorism.

But then, I got back to the hospital where my wife and son were waiting. Jill slept while I held Koen in my arms. He cried again, and though I tried to assure him it was alright, he cried anyway.

"I know the feeling," God said.

It's the end of the world as we know it, because I'm a parent now. They're right when they say it changes everything.

It's the end of the world as we know it, because Obama will be our next president. He's proud to the point of being cocky, and when that pride leads him to that predestined fall, I hope he doesn't take this country with him.

But though it's the end of the world as we know it, God remains unchanged.

Once again, I'm able to see Him holding us in His hands...

...and I feel fine.

A Message From Above

2008-10-16T19:34:00.000-07:00

I think my wife said this best:

"Last Friday afternoon, October 10th I was sitting on the balcony of the condo, working very hard at shortening a closet rod with a hacksaw. In the middle of my task I notice a young, black man standing by the fence that separates the condo property from the patio homes. His position pretty much put him directly across from me, one story down. He was wearing baggy pants, a white hooded sweatshirt with some sort of colorful design on it (hood up) and he had a pair of ear phones dangling from his neck. In other words, he looked very much like any other black youth you would happen upon in this neighborhood.

“Six pounds, fifteen ounces,” he said to me.

I must have given him a puzzled look because he repeated, “Your baby, six pounds fifteen ounces.”

“That’s what I thought you meant.” I replied.

And that was the end of our exchange.

Now you have to understand that I had been a bit anxious about the size of the child I carry within in me because just two days before at my weekly appointment the doctor said that she though the baby was kind of big. Being that I am planning on a natural childbirth without drugs the prospect of a big baby did not thrill me. After all, I have to push him out and the bigger he is the harder it’s going to be. And if he’s too big, there would exist the possibility of a C-section; the added cost and recovery time for which would be a challenge for me to come up with.

So to have a complete stranger, and a guy no less, take a guess at how big my baby is was a bit puzzling and most certainly made me take notice. Was this some guy just passing buy who thought it would be amusing to take a guess or could it possibly be a divine message? Both Nathan and I pondered this for quite some time.

Fast forward to today. Since the doctor had some question about the size and position of my baby, she ordered up an ultra sound for me just so we could make sure that everything is how it should be. During the session, the technician explained that she was taking measurements of his head, feemer bone, and stomach, which in turn would be plugged into a formula that would estimate his size. When she had done the math, she told us that he was close to seven pounds. Nathan, the ever diligent question asker, asked if she could provide an exact weight. After doing a conversion from grams to pounds, the technician replied, “Six pounds, fifteen ounces.”

Nathan and I exchanged knowing looks of wonderment and surprise. What are the chances that my baby’s weight would be exactly the same as the stranger’s guess? Pretty slim if you ask me. There is no doubt in our minds that his message was one from God, sent perhaps to comfort me and put me at ease. Whether he was an angel or a prophet is still a matter for debate, (I personally lean towards angel simply because that was my initial thought when the encounter happened) but the divine errand of that man can not be denied.

This is not the first time God has had something to say about my little baby boy. Almost two weeks ago while worshiping on Sunday morning He assured me that He would be with me as I gave birth. That alone made me cry simply because I felt so loved by my Heavenly Father. And if I were to go into all the ways that He has already provided for my baby this journal would be many pages long.

Something special is up with my little boy and I am not sure what it is. All I know is that it seems as if God has taken a very keen interest in the child within me and all I can assume is that He has extraordinary plans for my baby. I relate very strongly with Mary, the mother of Jesus, these days for she too had her baby’s needs provided for (gifts from the wise men), a sense that God was with her in her pregnancy, and yes, even a visit from an angel. I don’t for a moment believe that my little baby will save the world, but I’m pretty sure that God has something very special planned just for him."

Obama & Nebuchadnezzar

2008-10-14T18:37:00.000-07:00

There’s a car in our complex parking lot with an Obama sticker on the bumper. It bears the single word, “Hope,” and with all due respect to my Democrat brethren, I can’t decide if the sticker makes me want to laugh or cry. McCain may be less than ideal, yes, but if Obama is the new paradigm of hope, then—in my most humble opinion—this country is really in trouble.

I was talking with God about this, expressing my various fears on this issue. I fear that voters will start turning to the lesser known, more worthy candidates and water down the vote instead of voting my the numbers to put the “lesser of two evils” in office. Sure, I’m as tired of voting against someone as the next guy, but given the number of people blatantly voting for Obama I feel it needs to be aptly countered.

I fear that many will let their racism override their judgment and vote for Obama, not because he’s qualified for the job, but because he’s black. A friend of mine has already been accused of being a racist for saying (as the man’s own vice-president running mate once said) Obama isn’t ready to lead this nation.

I told God—in my infinite wisdom—that I fear Obama will charm his way into office, and when that happens this country can put its head between its legs and kiss its ass good-bye.

God—in His far more infinite wisdom—replied, “What’s it to you if I do?”

It’s at that point I remembered the teachings about Nebuchadnezzar, the Babylonian king who thought himself to have risen to greatness, so God made him eat grass for seven years to prove a point. (Daniel 4) The point, in brief, was that Nebuchadnezzar was king only because God placed him in that position. In the same way, the only way Obama will get into the white house is if God puts him there. Ultimately, in this upcoming election, the only vote that really matters is God’s.

“You put Obama in power,” I said, “and he’s going to flush this country down the toilet.”

“This country makes a sport of flushing Me down the toilet,” God said. I had to admit it sounded fair.

I hope I’m wrong, and McCain will win the election.

I hope that if I’m right, I’m wrong about Obama.
But even if these hopes are dashed, my ultimate hope remains in Christ.

Baggage Claim

2008-10-13T22:36:00.000-07:00

My wife nearly opted to become a widow a few years ago as we traveled to my cousin’s wedding in California. Being the planner that she is, she continued to ask a logical barrage of questions.

“Who’s coming to get us at my parent’s house?”

I answered truthfully, “Don’t know.”

“Well, when are they coming?”

“Not really sure.”

“Where are they taking us?”

I shrugged.

“When is the wedding, by the way?”

“Don’t remember.”

“Were is the wedding?”

“California, somewhere.”

I can’t blame her for being frustrated with me, but on the return trip she understood why I found such vital details unimportant.

As much as I love my family, as much as I consider them all to be wonderful people, I’ve learned that when traveling with them the best plans to have are no plans. Just get yourself to baggage claim and blend in with the luggage because everyone else has planned everything without you and you’re just along for the ride. It’s a rather stress free way to travel, actually. All you need to know is that dad will meet you in baggage claim and that everything else is taken care of whether you like it or not.

God brought this to my attention this evening whilst meeting with my beloved Brotherhood. I believe the reason He did so was because we’re facing a lot of uncertain times just around the corner where we might not know where the mortgage check is coming from or how we’ll get our next meal. (Perhaps not that bad, but that’s how it feels.) The message, or so it seemed, was, “Just get yourself to baggage claim and trust that Dad has the rest in hand.”
Why is it so much easier to trust my parents than it is to trust my God? Even so, there’s peace about my future. Stress free way to travel if you ask me.

Exactly How Does One Research Masochism?

2008-10-07T07:09:00.000-07:00

As usual, I have about six different major ideas trying to force their way out of my head at the same time, and after prayer and deliberation, I’ve finally decided to start writing the novel, “Burlesque.” This makes me both excited and nervous.

When I was writing the eventually abandoned novel, “Wounded,” I had cutters coming out of the woodwork, including a girl at the local Christian bookstore who pulled back a scarf around her wrist to show me her scars. It was great for research purposes, as I had all these brains to pick. In addition, I hit a spell of depression at that time, which is very out of character for me, and I spent a month asking God what He was up to. He told me that this is what my characters were going through, so I needed to go through it also. If the novel didn’t have so many structural problems, I’d try to get it published.

In the same way, God brought me a witch when I started writing “Ripper Grimm,” a novel currently being reviewed for publication. Again, it was great having a brain to pick and ask my silly questions.

Given that God loves helping me with my research in this manner, I’ve opted to delay work on my zombie musical. Say what you will, but I’ve learned to trust His sense of humor.

Which leads me to “Burlesque,” a novel about sex, sexual abuse, sexual aberrations, and a Las Vegas recreation of the infamous Parisian Theatre of Horror, the Grand Guignol. Researching the theatre aspect of this isn’t going to be a problem. I have some resources on the Grand Guignol, on theatre in general, and a handful of thespian friends. The only exception to this is that I need to know what the various slot in a burlesque show are called, and I’m having trouble finding it. Is the fan dancer performing in the forth slot, vignette, segment, or what? If you know, please share. If not, I have a few other options.

But exactly how does one go about researching the Adult Entertainment Industry without researching the Adult Entertainment Industry, if you get my meaning? My deacon has agreed to go to a few local burlesque shows with me, as a matter of keeping me accountable, which is good. (Hopefully, he won’t come wearing a dress, but that’s another issue altogether.) However, the story requires a far more broad scope of research than the show can accommodate. The element of masochism, for example, plays a part in the story, and somehow I don’t feel all that comfortable about strolling into a BDSM dungeon and saying to the girl strapped to a St. Andrew’s Cross, “Excuse me, miss, do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

Wikipedia can only tell you so much.

I know that the parts of the brain that register pleasure and pain are so close together that the two are sometimes confused, but I have to wonder if there isn’t a psychological reason for it as well. i.e. abuse as children and eventually the two were connected in the mind. A friend of mine once told that that all fruits have roots, and I’m needing to know the roots of this particular predilection. If anyone reading this is a closet masochist or knows of a masochist who’s willing to let me pick their brain I would greatly appreciate it.

The only other option I know of is SuicideGirls.com where I’m told the girls keep blogs. But wouldn’t that be awkward; a married man in his late thirties writing to salacious twenty-somethings about what makes them tick sexually. And of course, I don’t feel right with having a membership to a soft porn website.

Someone pointed out that the blogs would be filled with lies anyway because the girls are likely lying, albeit unknowingly, to themselves. Her suggestion was to visit a Christian Counselor who deals with this issue. My problem with this approach is that I don’t want to be spoon-fed the answers. (Remember: wrestling with the questions is the whole point? See: “Can You Repeat the Question?”) If I’ve worked my way through the lie, it would be easier to blaze a trail for others. As the slogan of my life says, “Sometimes calling people out of the darkness means going in after them.”

I’m also trying to wrap my head around why girls would think it empowering to post naked pictures of themselves online. Current thoughts are that it’s an act of freedom as one ventures into the adult world, that one would enjoy the attention and the “power” their beauty would have over men, and of course, the power that comes with artistic expression. We all want to be known, and there is something remarkably freeing about being honest. There is also the view/theory that having been sexually abused as children, these girls now equate their self-worth with their sex appeal; therefore being considered sexy is the same as being loved. If anyone has any other thoughts on this issue…

(To think that some people get to write light-hearted children’s books about puppy dogs and giving a pig a pancake.)

The point is that while I seem to be tripping over people with stories about sexual abuse when they were children, I’m needing stories about people who continue to misuse the gift of sex that God has given us. Forgive my opinion, but I’m noting that those who are abused by sex when they’re young often grow with a misunderstanding of their sexual identity and therefore abuse sex itself.

In short, I need to pick the brain of someone of the BDSM community, gather stories about sexual abuse, and learn about the world of burlesque—all while staying faithful to my beautiful wife. Any help anyone could offer would be appreciated. If you don’t feel comfortable leaving comments on the blog itself, you can email me directly at Juraeth@talesfromthecross.com. I’m the only one who reads it, and I’d be more than happy to honor your privacy.

If you have no stories or thoughts to share, I still covet your prayers. My particular calling takes me into some very dark places.

The Beauty of Hitting Bottom

2008-09-30T16:00:00.000-07:00

Many people in the church like to talk about the “Mountain Top Experience;” that place in their walk with Jesus where God is real and life is peachy.

God never meets me there anymore.

He used to, back when I was in High School and College. But either my faith has become dyslexic, or it’s matured to the point where God can kick me around a little and I won’t run away crying. Of course, lately, I’ve been tempted.

I’ll be losing my job in a couple months so I can stay home with my newborn son while my wife goes back to work. Of course, I’d rather have the job that supports us both, and she’d rather be the stay-at-home mommy. All hail God’s sovereign sense of humor. It just feels like everything in my life I would like to change is staying constant, and every constant I hold dear is changing. I’ve never dealt with change well, and to have my life become this tumult of chaos is dearly overloading my system. Have I mentioned I’m not really sleeping all that well?

These are the times when jokes about my sanity are no longer funny.

These are also the times where one begins to separate the truth that God will not allow us to be tempted beyond what we can bear, and the absurd belief that God will not give us more than we can handle. Anyone who believes that tripe as never read Job, or the account of Noah, or Moses, or Daniel, or Elijah, or Joshua, or… or… or… The truth is that God gets a kick out of giving us more than we can handle so that He can swoop in at just the right moment and prove He’s big enough to deal with it.

He also likes pushing us to our limits, showing us how far we can go, and what we’re capable of enduring under with when we need to. My personal perspective of God, for the time being, is set in a boxing ring. God the Father is in the stands cheering me on. The Holy Spirit is standing in my corner shouting encouragements and counsel. Jesus is in the ring with me, and He’s kicking my ass. He’s not doing this to be mean, He’s simply working out my salvation. (Philippians 2:12-13) He’s changing me, molding me, pummeling flab, toning muscle, building endurance.

Of course, there are points in the process when I can no longer stand, and I’m feeling myself heading towards the mat. Not the mountain top with lush green slopes and a breath taking view, but the dried up riverbed in the lowest point of a desert valley. I’ve made this trip before, and last time Jesus was there at the bottom waiting for me.

He was there the time before that too.

He’s there this time; I can see Him waiting patiently as I finish tumbling down the rocky ridge.

When I finally land, I won’t hit the ground.

The trip down is like a visit to breath-takingly beautiful Yellowstone National Park, particularly from Denver. The memory of the eight hours you just spent driving through Nada, Wyoming, is quickly swept away by the view. In the same way, landing in the arms of Jesus is worth the bumps and bruises I collected on the decent. Even when it’s just catch and release. Even when it’s just a momentary reminder that He is still with me.

I hit bottom.

Jesus was waiting, right where He promised He’d be.

Catch and release.

Even Yellowstone doesn’t compare to this.

An Important Lesson from the Jedi Order

2008-09-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

A thousand years before Anakin Skywalker turned to the Dark Side, the Jedi fought a war with the Sith and defeated them. The Sith were not destroyed, however, and when the remnant reemerged a millennia later the stagnant Jedi Order fell.

Why?

Because for a thousand years, the Jedi were training themselves to re-fight the previous war instead of the war the Sith had in mind. They were ill-prepared and because they were unable to adapt to, hundreds of Jedi died before a handful of Sith.

A tragedy for the Republic and a warning for the Church.

More often than not, I see the Body of Christ reaching out to Cleaverville—young families with a single income, living in a house with their 2.3 children. To be more specific, the church seems geared for women raising children, or grandmothers. Sure, the men have their place too, doing this or that, but so much of church culture is targeting Cleaverville families.

That’s a great way to reach my parent’s generation, but not mine.

Like the Jedi Order training themselves for the previous war, I feel the church today is working at reaching a yesteryear community. Jill and I are not alone in getting married later in life, or in having children later into our marriage. Take a demographic of America today and you’ll discover that Cleaverville is not the norm. Singles, single mothers, childless couples, children with three daddies and two mommies, duel income families barely making rent on their two bedroom apartment… this is normal anymore.

Yet, these normals are slipping through the cracks in our local churches because they don’t fit the Cleaverville image. I’ve heard a number of Christian singles complain about being treated like there was something wrong with them in the church, almost as though the fellowship didn’t know what to do with them until they were married off.

That’s not adapting; its assimilation.

My own church is planning on starting a more contemporary service to reach out to the younger generation. My fear, however, is that the church doesn’t know who that younger generation is. What would my church do with an influx of young singles and single parents? I’m not sure they would be able to handle it.

I feel like I rag on the church a lot in this blog, and I don’t really want to, but I see so much that needs to be changed; so many ways our Christian Culture has veered from the teachings of scripture. For example, Jesus said go into the world, yet instead of leaving the church we try to get people in. Completely backwards. The Apostle Paul said it was better for a person not to marry because then they could better dedicate themselves to the work of the Lord. Yet, I know of a young widow in my church who was encouraged to remarry soon so she can bear children. Again, completely backwards. It’s easy to criticize the Pharisees of Jesus’ time for missing the forest for the trees. But aren’t we doing the same thing?

As I’ve said before, I have a great passion for the church. The vision of Hatchet Twain should speak to that. I’m just afraid that by the time we maneuver this great behemoth battleship into the fight, the war will be over.

Allergies, Coors Field, and my dear Anonymous

2008-09-26T08:56:00.000-07:00

In the comments on "Collecting Heads" my dear Brother in Christ, Anonymous, offered me the marvelous admonishment to keep in touch with my local church and to seek meeting them where they are. To let the body be the body, and to allow God to work thorough it.

I wanted to write back and say that I am, but two things hindered me in this.

First, its a bit of an embarrassment to be an aspiring writer who's doing good to successfully turn his computer on and off. The fact that I even have a blog borders on the miraculous. I went to the comments section, but wasn't completely sure how to reply. In the words of Yoda, "Embarrassing. How embarrassing."

Second, and perhaps more to the point, as I sought to articulate that I am, that still small voice answered, "Are you?"

Coors Field rather helps illustrate this point, if to no one else but me. Go to Wriggly Field in Chicago and nearly everyone will be decked out in Cubs paraphernalia. Any day at Fenway Park would boast a plethora of fans proudly wearing red to show their support for the Red Sox. I won't even bother mentioning Yankee Stadium.

But go to Coors Field when the Dodgers or Cardinals are playing, and the stands are not covered in Rockies Purple. In the seventh inning stretch of the last game of the season, the fans shouting out, "Root root root for the D-backs," drowned out those of us cheering for the home team. This is the standard of practice at Coors Field, and with fans like this, I'm more proud than ever that my team made it to the World Series last year.

Of course, we won't mention last years World Series.

Or the number of Boston Fans who flooded Coors Field from out of town when local Rockies fans couldn't get tickets.

As if there weren't enough Boston fans already here!

Not that I'm bitter or angry about it or anything! Damnit!!!

But on a lot of points, Church and Christian Culture feels the same way to me right now. Everyone seems eager to cheer for bringing people into the church when Jesus was clearly about sending those in the church out into the world. So much Christian music can only be considered fluffy anymore, and if I hear another praise song that says, "I will bless the Lord," or "We will praise you," (as though there's something wrong with blessing and praising the Lord right now) I think I might lose it and start a counter tune of "Take me out to the Ballgame!"

Don't even get me started on the number of times I've gone to work in a dark mood and the dear Christian company I work for has smiled that plastic smile and said, "Just give it to Jesus."

I did.

He gave it back.

Again.

A friend of mine once said that she was tired of the Christian hullabaloo and that she just wanted Jesus. With this statement, I whole-heartedly agree. My wife and I stopped going to church over the summer to explore what it meant to live Acts 2:42. I lead a time of worship in our living room. We prayed for our fellow believers around the world. We downloaded a sermon from lifechurch.tv. It was a great time of encountering God--I mean really encountering God. We tried to do lunch with another Christian couple, but in this we didn't do as well as we hoped.

In short, the only thing we really missed about the church were the people. Yet, how many times has my fellowship asked how I was only to walk away before listening to the answer? I don't miss the organ. I don't miss the choir. I don't miss the emotionally driven "I will praise you" worship mix. I don't miss growling silently in the pew because I just want Jesus, yet all the grey hair around me is cheering for church the way it's always been.

I feel allergic to Church right now. I feel allergic to Christian Culture. And I think I've developed this allergy because today's ideal of Christianity makes me feel like a Rockies Fan at Coors Field.

My dear Brother Anonymous, I would love to follow your advice and connect with the local body in fellowship. But the truth is that my wife and I have never really fit the traditional mold and feel as though we've had to wrestle our way in, and make our own niche. This September we've returned to our church, but we're wondering if we really want to say. I'm saddened to say this, Brother Anonymous, but Jesus put a high value on being honest, and I feel I must.

Again, perhaps God is calling us to start a church of misfits; a congregation where young families and grandparents are the minority instead of the norm. All I know for the time being is that the more I go to church and try to work within the body, the more I'm convinced that this isn't what Christ intended Church to be.

Don't get me wrong. I still love my Church Family, and I would be there for any one of them in a heart beat. In fact, we're having a dear friend from that congregation over for lunch this Sunday. We're still plugged in, as you suggest. We're still connected and still active.

Yet, I feel my true church, as defined by Acts 2:42, is my multi-congregation men's Bible Study; a group that calls itself, "The Spiritual Fight Club of Our Lady of the Blue TARDIS." When Dr. Who is a prerequisite for membership, it should be easy to tell how seriously we take ourselves. Yet, my dear Anonymous, you should see us wrestle with Scripture, or stand in the gap for each other. I pray my local church will become more like my Brotherhood; anti-pretentious, obnoxious, committed to the Apostle's teaching, to each other, to common meals, and to prayer. This is living Acts 2:42. This is the passion behind the Hatchet Twain Carnival Company. If you live in the Denver Area, Brother Anonymous, I would happily invite you to join.

Again, sir, I thank you for your comment, your admonishment, and your excellent advice. Please pray for me that I'll be able to follow it.

Collecting Heads

2008-09-17T19:25:00.001-07:00

To put it mildly, life is uncertain at the moment. Jill is about to have a baby in a month and a half. It also means I need to quit my job at the end of November to take care of Koen because my wife makes twice as much as I do. Expenses are going up, and our already meager income is going down. Not to mention the turmoil brought on by a new baby.

Need I also mention that the stock market is really starting to tank?

Jill and I are no strangers to financially hard times. My employment history is a testament to God’s sense of humor; I’ve bounced through nearly a dozen jobs in the nine years Jill and I have been married. And now to be losing my job again, albeit a dead-end job, is yet another jab at that wound in my soul that refuses to heal. The reason, of course, is a joy, but I still find myself battling with depression, and anger, and the seemingly inescapable conclusion that God is laughing at me.

Fortunately, I collect heads.

Seven years ago, right after we bought a condo mind you, I got laid off. I want to say it was a Wednesday. The following Saturday, we got a call from a couple we knew from Church who decided to move out of state rather suddenly. Problem, of course, being that they had food in their refrigerator and freezer they didn’t want to move across the country. In our current position, we couldn’t turn down anything that was free.

What our friends neglected to tell us was that this was one of those jumbo refrigerators, and the freezer was the monster unit in the garage. We were expecting a hand full of eggs and half a gallon of milk, not eighteen eggs, two unopened gallons of milk, and an additional four apple boxes of fresh vegetables, frozen home cooked meals, a variety of meat, pastas…

Weeks after that day, opening the refrigerator was an adventure. (And opening the freezer was dangerous!) Yet, for a good three to four months, our grocery bills were cut in half. We even bartered some of the meat for electrical work we needed done.

This is the giant we were facing in that particular time in our lives.

This is that giant’s head.

I got up one Sunday Morning to play bass in the praise band, and there was an envelope on my music stand with $100 in it. It was as though God himself left us a note saying, “Dudes, chill out. I got your back.”

Another head of a dead giant.

It was a year before I had something that resembled steady employment (“resembled” being the operative word,) and in that time, we never missed a payment on anything. Yes, we went without, and Christmas money that year went to paying bills. But whenever a need arose, God arose with that need and took care of it.

As a storyteller, I collect stories. Many of those stories are true tales of God’s provision in lean times. The heads of dead giants. I pray that as uncertain and lean times come, as they are indeed coming, Jill and I will continue admiring our collection in the hunting lodge of our glorious God.

A Ministry of Humiliation

2008-09-15T06:55:00.000-07:00

Several months ago, I had the privilege of hearing one of my favorite authors speak at a downtown bookstore. Chuck Palahniuk was promoting his novel, “Snuff” (marvelous, by the way) and in the course of the evening, the conversation meandered to his infamous short story, “Guts.”

“Guts,” which appears in his novel, “Haunted” (also marvelous), is so disturbing that people have been known to pass out when it’s read aloud. It features three true stories of masturbation mishaps and at one particular line in the story, several listeners have lost consciousness.

The amazing thing, according to Chuck Palahniuk, is what happens after the reading is over. Get up and read a story that so completely humiliates the reader, and no topic, no secret sin, no buried wound is considered taboo. “Guts,” becomes Chuck’s unspoken invitation for people to share that part of their soul too shameful to voice. And they come. Women emboldened to share how they got trapped in the industry of pornography. Men, sharing their most embarrassing moments. All because an author had the guts (no pun intended) to write a story about the dangers of jerking off.

As a Christian author, I take this as a personal challenge. What if, by writing a story of deeply personal embarrassment, I could help another person find the courage to confront their own issues? What if every Christian author on the planet stopped writing safe, outward-preachy fiction, and started giving voice to their own fears, insecurities, shortcomings, addictions…? Would it help people along the path to finding personal freedom in their true identity—their identity in Christ? Is our closely-guarded, polished image actually keeping people in their own private little prisons because no one in the church culture wants to talk about their shit?

God has a way of turning that sort of thing into fertilizer, but not when His people refuse to lay it on the altar.

Sometime in the near future I hope to write a novel entitled “Burlesque” and have it deal with the theme of sexual abuse. I hope I have the courage to write the lines that embarrass me. I hope I’ll have the courage to offend, to shock, to liberate. I hope to have the courage to write it the way Chuck would.

If nothing else, it would be fun to cause a few porcelain, uppity, religious types to pass out.

The Vision of Hatchet Twain

2008-09-15T06:54:00.000-07:00

Tales from the Cross is based out of the Hatchet Twain Carnival Company for a variety of reasons. First, and most obvious, I needed somewhere to stash an 800 year old werewolf who tells stories. Either I built him a traveling sideshow, or I stuck him in an underground lair, like an abandoned sewer for example.

Understandably, Juraeth voted for the carnival.

But then I started noticing that a carnival and the church have a lot in common. Both are ultimately just passing though, both are off-set from the real world, yet they invite the outside world to experience their reality.

Both have the stigma of being after people’s money.

As Juraeth has a passion for living parables, and he was moving into a carnival anyway, why not build a carnival designed to be a living parable for the church? And not just any church either, but the early church as mentioned in Acts 2:42—which tells us that each new believer committed themselves to the Apostle’s teaching, to each other, to common meals, and to prayer. The chapter goes on to say that God moved in such an assembly. I want to go to a church like that, and to have a carnival that embodies this ideal seemed like a great idea. But, of course, what self respecting lost soul would wander onto the lot of the Acts Two Carnival Company?

A few minutes later, I’d riddled out the pseudonym, Hatchet Twain, so that my passion for the Acts 2 church could remain hidden in plain sight.

I mention this because ever since I started building the show, it’s wanted to be something more. I’ve even entertained the thought of starting my own church based on the Hatchet Twain Carnival Company, proudly boasting, “We’re all freaks here.” (Created in the image of God; corrupted in the image of sin. The word “Freak” does come to mind.) As I contemplated this issue, God told me that Hatchet Twain was not to be the foundation of a new church, but an awakening of the old one.

Over the last year or so, my passion for the church has intensified, as has my anger. I haven’t been to too many other churches lately, but mine seems built for Cleaverville where young, single-income families bring their 2.3 children to mingle with other families of the same demographic. Working in a Christian company, I hear different complaints about other congregations. Singles often get singled out as though not being married is an issue for the prayer chain. (Again, Cleaverville.) I’ve seen more than my share of praise bands behaving like American Idol wannabe’s instead of leading the worshippers to the throne of Grace. Sorry, folks, but there is a difference between singing Christian songs and worshiping Christ. I digress, as this is another blog entry all together.

Need I even mention the politics of ministries jockeying for stage time?

Recently, my wife and I had a friend over for dinner, a single woman who doesn’t fit in the Cleaverville mold and sees too many others in her same position. Her passion is more for the church to step in and teach these young adults what they would have learned if the school system hadn’t axed home economics; finances, cooking, laundry. She also wanted to do a seminar on things like finding out who you are…

Like my vision, her vision called for a total overhaul of the church as we know it—a clue that God might be up to something. We agreed to pray about combining the two and perhaps starting an assembly of ten people wiling to commit to each other’s lives. Where is this going? Don’t know. But if God is moving, I want in.

I also want to add that in the vision of Hatchet Twain, I would like to see the different congregations start to intermingle so that they behave more like a single body than competing business. Imagine what would happen if thousands of fellowships became the Church of Denver, still meeting in separate places, but functioning as one. If anyone has a clue on how to proceed in making this a reality, I’m all ears!!!

Blah Blah Blah

2008-09-14T13:25:00.000-07:00

In church this morning the pastor preached out of 1 Samuel 3, the first verse saying that in that time words from the Lord were few and far between. Why is that? Well, if you look at the previous chapters it suggests that no one was listening. But at this point the Lord spoke and offered me another insight.

I'll be honest; loquacious people annoy me. I don't want to interrupt them with my two cents worth, but that's the only way I can cut through the blah blah blah. More annoying still is that what I have to say might shed new light on their issue and help them work it through. It's happened before. So I risk it.

Yet, I'm one sentence into my insight and the blah blah blah kicks in again.

This happened a few weeks ago when I was talking with a guy in our parking lot who had a plethora of questions. I'd say I talked to him about Jesus, but I couldn't. He wouldn't be quite long enough to hear the answers. So he walked away not knowing where Cain got his wife, or where the "far away land" was that he went to, or what it was called, or... or... or...

I had the answers ready and waiting for the guy to take a breath.

But instead, blah blah blah.

In this same way, God told me that He doesn't like talking over people. He can; his voice formed the earth after all, and the psalmist says it shakes the mountains. But He chooses to use a still small voice, one that will only be heard by those who stop spouting religious prayers and rhetoric long enough to listen.

Samuel listened, and as a result the Lord stood before him and the two shared a lifelong dialogue. It's amazing what happens when we simply stop talking.

Can you repeat the question?

2008-09-13T09:57:00.000-07:00

When I ran a puppet team at my local church, I used to ask my puppeteers what God has been doing in their lives. Ask me that question today, and I would answer with a smile, “Forty-two.”

For those who don’t know, in the Douglas Adams novel, Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, a super computer named Deep Thought is asked for the ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything. Several million years later, Deep Thought gave the answer, “Forty-Two.”
Aghast, the creators of Deep Thought demanded, “What’s the question?”
Deep Thought didn’t know, and told them to build another computer to find out, and that computer turned out to be the planet Earth.

What has God been teaching me lately? He’s been teaching me that on this one point at least, Douglas Adams got it right.

As Christians, we have a book full of answers. I’ve even seen it condensed into bumper sticker format proudly proclaiming, “Jesus is the Answer!”

True. But what’s the question? Some Christians might consider this trivial, but don’t the questions give the answers meaning? What good is forty-two without, “What is six times seven?”

This was driven home for me a few weeks ago as I wrestled with issues of sexual abuse for a novel I’m planning to write entitled, “Burlesque.” After trying to wrap my head around the emotions, motivations, and issues of the various characters, I found myself exactly where I started—with the same hypothesis I had set out to prove or disprove, but forgotten about. I laughed at my own stupidity, for this particular journey nearly drove me mad. “God,” I said, “one of these days I’ll learn to simply trust the answers you give me.”

“This journey wasn’t about the answers,” He said in that gentle way of His. “It was about the questions.”

And what a powerful point that is! We can’t fully grasp the answer until we’ve grappled with the question, because only then, after testing those answers, can we fully embrace them and claim them as our own. Isn’t this what adolescent rebellion is all about? A challenging of the answers given to us by our parents? Even when they were right, we often need to discover these truths for ourselves.

Were I to assemble rules to live by, they would appear as follows and in this order of importance:
1. “Question Everything!”
2. “The Bible is absolutely true.”
3. “The best questions are spawned by the answers.”

Some Christians might argue that rule #2 should be rule #1, but I disagree. How can we know in our heart of hearts that the Bible is true unless we’re allowed to question it from time to time?

Am I suggesting we sin to test the scriptures? Not at all. Sin is dangerous, which is why God said to avoid it in the first place. Sinning the prove the Bible true is like drinking poison to prove it will kill you. It gets an “A” for effectiveness, but a definite “F” in the Thought Through category. Besides, aren’t there plenty of examples around us to prove that sex outside of marriage is a bad idea? Or that habitual liars lead messy and unnecessarily complicated lives?
I love watching movies like, “Saved!” and “Dogma” for the sole purpose of challenging my faith. Without this, how can I trust the scriptures to be true? Yes, at first we need to accept this by faith. But the more those questions prove the answers true, how much stronger will our faith be?

Let us not neglect rule #3. In “Saved!” for example, the characters asked, “Why would God make us all so different only to condemn us for it later?” It’s an excellent question, but it’s also fundamentally flawed. Part of those differences didn’t come from God’s creation, but from sin’s corruption. I’m not picking on gay’s here; we’ve all been affected by the Curse, and we’re all required to lay down an intimate part of our soul to walk with Jesus. Many in that movie needed to lay down their religious righteousness, which was just as intensely personal as a sexual orientation.

I know there came a point in my life when I had to do that.

What would the better question have been? Don’t know. But isn’t that part of the adventure? In adherence to rule #3, let’s begin with an answer. Someone far wiser than me once said, “Jesus loves us enough to accept us as we are, and too much to leave us there.”

I guess I look at it this way. To simply accept the answers and go no further is fine, if that's the way God wired you. Some people simply couldn't handle a Jesus who was anything more than a puring cat on their lap. The beauty of Jesus is that He'll met us where we are.

But discipleship--true discipleship as I understand it in the scriptures--means getting off the comfy couch of our save little cultured world and chasing a lion, knowing that lion will be molding us into His image; not the other way around. In grappling with the tough questions, we're grappling with Christ. This is the way we get to know Him. And what could possibly be cooler than that?