A Staring Match With God

God has a sense of humor, and sometimes it is at my expense. I’m goofy by design. Things come out of my mouth before I have the time to realize how silly they sound. I worked in construction a while back and discovered how uncoordinated I truly am. I’d be off day dreaming about standing on mountains and running through valleys, then realize I’d installed a cabinet door up-side down or mis-measured the lengths for a door frame, after building the frame. Not only did God let out a little laugh, my work crew did too.

There is a darker side to God’s humor though. One I am all too familiar with. It comes out in the form of discipline towards my hardened heart when He is calling me back to intimacy after I’ve wondered off to pursue less passionate lovers and less satisfying pleasures.

God is constantly working on the hearts of his people. Sometimes breaking, sometimes mending. Sometimes molding and sometimes holding. Personally, He’s breaking me… again. Pride has slipped in, bitterness has taken root and the pain that has caused these things has led to numbness. God’s work in me is repetitious and comes in cycles. I cannot count the number of spiritual heart surgeries I’ve had, but its been a few. I’m not really a fan of them, but every time He’s finished I’m thankful. Its like an extension on life. We sometimes call it grace and it is very sufficient, even if it is painful.

I think it is cool that God is jealous after me like this. It is intimidating though, and I resist it. Yet somehow I find myself in a boxing ring. I’m all alone, sitting in a folding chair in the center of the ring. All the lights are out, save one dim yellow bulb hanging overhead that casts a pale glow all around. There is an empty chair across from me. I hear footsteps in the dark as a silent God approaches. I am anything but calm. My insides tremble violently, but I don’t show it. I just breathe slowly and smoothly. God steps into the ring, but I look away, as if I don’t notice Him. He sits in the chair facing me and waits. And waits. And waits.

Then it begins. I turn my head slowly and catch His eyes. I stare at Him, unflinchingly, as He stares into me. Cold and calculating, I have prepared for this, to resist to the death. Unmoved by the piercing gaze of heaven. Surely He cannot love me, will not love me this much.

Unmeasured time passes while an invisible, unnoticed audience of heaven holds their breath in anticipation, though they already know the outcome. They’ve seen it all before. The watching and the waiting are only penance to witness this glorious struggle.

They are as not to me, however. I’m focused on fortifying my wall of will against the battering ram of God’s gaze, tender and patient though it is. He speaks to me in His silence, softly and firmly, “You are mine.” I remain stoic and steadfast. “You’re more than you think, you are mine.” Tired of His approach I lean back from being hunched over, elbows on my knees. I cross my arms but never lose His unbreakable stare. How long will he continue on with this.

Then something happens. Maybe because of my shift in position, something gets caught in my throat. I clear it out and remain resolute in my aim, to out-will the love of God. More time passes, though I barely blink at the breaking of the Lord. Again His silence speaks, “You are more because of me and you are mine.” I sigh a little, breathing out an air of indigence into the face of undeterred grace.

Yet God presses on. Now He leans forward, elbows to His knees, with an increased intensity and startling boldness. Unsettled by His move I waver a little, unsure of how not to respond. The mounting tension begins to affect me and it is harder to hold on to my futile resistance. He speaks again, only this time audibly with ferocious veracity and fierce determination, “You are my child whom I have made, I have crafted, I have called. Unmoved is my resolve and ever will it be, my boundless and endless love for the one I have called my own.” He stands to His feet with his exploding words ringing in my ears, “You, son of God, are mine and I love you.” Shattered are my defenses and broken is my heart. I fall uncontrollably to the floor of the ring, pushing my chair back, out of the light. Tears pour from my eyes that can no longer gaze into His, but I undoubtedly see His heart and am completely undone by its gaze. I’m moved to utter collapse by the powerful love of a gracious God, who picks me up and restores my contrite soul.

This is the God I know, the God I serve, the God I love. I’m often shocked by His majesty and even more dismayed by His unending love for me and concern for the condition of my heart even in the face of my rejection and blasphemy. If I had one prayer tonight it would be the words of a poet, John Donne:

Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to'another due,
Labor to'admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly'I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me,'untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you'enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Who Is God, Actually?

A.K.A... the most insightful thing I've ever written, ever.

Note: I have to thank my buddy Chad for helping me find scripture that has lead to these conclusions and his father Chip for posing the question to me in the first place.

“Is the Holy Spirit a person,” I was asked tonight. It is an interesting question if you think about it. Go past your immediate response and consider the options. First we must define what it means to be a person. To me, in context with being a human being, a person is defined by a three-fold combination of body (our physical selves), soul (our mind, will, and emotions), and spirit (that metaphysical quality that is beyond the mind’s full comprehension because it is not a part of it). My faith obviously dictates this belief. Our being made in God’s image (see Gen 1:26) is reflected, in part, by our three part identity. Just as God himself is a combination of three entities (the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit), he made us to function as a whole composed three separate, yet dependant members.

Of course this philosophy of humanness raises many questions, some of which I don’t have answers for. Such as, “is an individual handicapped by mental retardation or comatose not considered a human person?” A legitimate concern for another time, as my purpose is to discuss the character of God, not of man.

If our three-part being is a reflection of our Creator, then mustn’t our Creator also be of three parts? Scripture is clear in its explanation of God as a three-part being. And it is no more evident and beautifully revealed than in Matt. 3:16-17:

When He had been baptized, Jesus came up immediately from the water; and behold, the heavens were opened to Him, and He saw the Spirit of God descending like a dove and alighting upon Him. And suddenly a voice came from heaven, saying, “This is My beloved Son, in whom I am well pleased.

Return to Genesis 1:26. God is hinting at this truth from the very beginning. Notice how, when Moses writes about us being created in God’s image, the Lord declares, “Let Us make man in Our image.” The first time I ever read that verse my mind went racing. What is this Us about?! Who is this Our? I thought Christianity was monotheistic. There is only one God, right?

This is why the question of the Holy Spirit as a person becomes so important. If the Holy Spirit is a person, then Jesus is a person and so then the Heavenly Father. That’s three persons, not one. And that is not how the Bible describes God. The concept of God as 3-in-1 is essential to our faith, possibly its most fundamental concept. If this were not true, the whole concept (that’s a bad term here) of Christianity would unravel.

In the early days of the Church, in order to reverently present the image of God, painters used icons and symbols to express the concept of the trinity. An angel from heaven (representative of the Father) would be looking down upon the Christ-child Jesus who is reaching for a dove (the Holy Spirit). We’ve all seen the image of the three equal-sized circles interlocking with each other. Early disciples understood the relevance of this concept of a triune God, and we would fare well to do likewise.

Let’s talk about this triune God. We associate different aspects of our God with each part of God, and that is because each part serves a different function. Often we view the Father in Heaven as a mighty disciplinarian. He is who we think of when we hear, “Fear the Lord your God!” This part of God is active throughout the Old Testament; leading, judging, and guiding the people of Israel. We encounter this part of God with Moses at the burning bush and, in the new testament, Paul on the road to Damascus. Then there is the Holy Spirit. Its grand entrance (literally) can be found in Acts 2:1-4. The disciples are empowered by the Holy Spirit to do with work of the Lord. Christ referred to the Holy Spirit as the great comforter and empowerer. Then there is Jesus Christ himself, existing before the dawn of time (Prov. 8:22-31), coming to Earth as a baby, living, dieing, then raising again. But they are all a part of one ultimate supreme being, the 3-in-1, as it were.

I remember being a kid and thinking how dangerously silly God was for coming to earth as a baby. I pictured Him jumping down from heaven, into Mary’s womb, and then popping out as close to Christmas as He could, all the while leaving the great heavenly war against the Devil practically unattended, save Michael and Gabriel, who could hardly be expected to handle everything on their own (especially since I ordered them to watch over me as I slept every night). I was always afraid that things were going to run amuck in the heavenlies while Jesus was waiting to grow up in human form for He only knows what reason. It didn’t make since to me and now I understand why. When Mom told me Jesus, the Holy Spirit and Big Papa were all the same person my little kid brain couldn’t processes the whole idea if the 3-in-1.

Next to consider is the fact that each part of God is equally important. This creates a balance to God that allows righteousness, forgiveness and freedom to become the central qualities in the lives of believers. The righteousness of the Father is upheld by the forgiveness afforded by the Son to pave the way for freedom and power in the Holy Spirit. Think again of the three interlocking circles to better make my point. Scripture is full of Jesus exalting His Father. And He is endlessly explaining to the disciples that He must leave so the Spirit can come. The Father’s heart for his Son is sung throughout scripture and the Holy Spirit is the great glorifier of the Lord. This is beautiful to me. Not just as a concept but as an actuality. It is the greatest expression of unity imaginable (if you can even wrap your mind around it) and reveals the origin of God’s love. The unity among His members is its source, which is why that unity can never be broken and most always be remembered.

And here is where the trouble starts. Just like me as a little kid, a lot of folks’ brains haven’t grown up to where they can understand this essential quality of who God is. Whenever we hear the terms Holy Spirit, Jesus Christ, or Heavenly Father, we separate these parts of who God is into individual identities. We conceptualize the different parts of our God without bearing in mind the other two. This is a dangerous game to play. We focus on Christ too often with out considering the Father. We teach about the Spirit while forgetting Christ. And, worst yet, we consider the Father without the Son or the Spirit! Why is this a problem? Anytime we take a part of God out of context with the whole we run the risk of drifting too far to the right or to the left theologically and practically with the way we live out or faith day-to-day. We fall guilty of overemphasizing one aspect of God and over looking another. Instead of a holistic faith we end up with shabby religion and TBN, prosperity gospels and bigitrous attitudes towards those that are different from us. Apply the thought throughout history and it becomes all too clear. The Catholic church just seems corrupt from the every beginning so they don’t count. But think about the Puritans. They focused on the righteousness of God and forgot about the love of Jesus. Conversely, hippy-Christians forgot about His righteousness. Then there are the Charismatics that are so obsessed with the Holy Spirit they are sometimes like, “Jesus Who?” Scariest of all are the Baptist (or we could even say “the moral majority”), who slightly resemble the Puritans, enacting the judgment of God upon heathen persons themselves only more oblivious to what they profess to believe in. Disbanding the trinity in our thinking neuters the gospel because it makes it impossible for the full purpose and work of God to flow through our lives.

I see this in my life everyday. I claim to understand what Jesus was all about and how we should be loving everybody and forgivin’ folks and all that kind of stuff. But sometimes I forget the place of the Father’s discipline and the need for righteousness. Thus, I end up screwing the whole thing up because I get mad at other Christians for not shifting their focus to centralize on Christ like I do. The Holy Spirit I just don’t get so I leave Him out of the picture completely. So I walk around most of the time powerless and without freedom. See how this works (err… doesn’t work)?

My senior quote was Isaiah 6:8, “And I heard the voice of the Lord, saying: ‘Whom shall I send, And who will go for US.'” God knows Isaiah is listening, isn’t it funny that in calling His servant He reminds him that God is a trinity? There is another truth to be uncovered here also; to do God’s work effectively we must do it while considering the Father, the Son, and the Spirit because you’re going to need all three of them to chip in if you want to be successful. The next time some starts to spout off about one of the parts (I wish I knew a better word) of God, ask them how it relates to the other two. It will be revolutionizing at best, eye opening at worst.

But back to the original question, “is the Holy Spirit a person?” Good question…

Midnight Star Gazing & Being on Oprah

I have a creak in my neck. That’s because I just spent the past 45 minutes staring up into the clear night sky looking at that big bright harvest ball and the tiny holes in the floor of heaven. It’s a funny thing, the moon, just hanging up there chillin’, so oblivious to all of us down here running around like chickens at the slaughter. I bet it is really cold on the moon, no gases to trap in the heat from the sun. I bet it’s a bit lonely too. I tried really hard to find the man on the moon, but he’s an elusive little sucker. If I was the man on the moon (lets call him MOM for short) I would have jumped off and out into space a long time ago, and hoped to be lucky enough to find someone else mucking about in outer space.

But the creak in my neck reminds me that I am stuck on planet Earth, along with the rest of humanity (save maybe a few Russians, our boys over at NASA and, of course, MOM). It’s not too bad most of the time. We have things like movie theaters and 24 hr fast food drive thrus to keep me occupied (and don’t forget Wal-Mart!).

There are times I get tired of the monotony though, the mundane. That is why I’d like to be rich. The rich have no excuse for being bored. They have the money to do whatever they want! I’m poor, sort of. Not in the “I’m dieing of malnutrition and lack of water” sort of way, but more in the “I fall into the lower middle class” sort of way. That’s why I can spend forty five minutes staring up into space when its 45 degrees outside. We poor people have to find ways to entertain ourselves, and the rich sure as heck aren’t going to do it for us. They are too busy not being bored with their fancy dinner parties and romantic get-a-ways. I’m going to be rich some day, for writing nonsensical crap like this. But I’ll be fine with that because I won’t be bored anymore.

If I become rich enough, I might even make a trip into space to meet MOM. I’m sure he’ll want a change in scenery and want to come back to Earth with me, and I’ll probably let him. It’d be the polite thing to do. He’d probably be really popular here on Earth, being the man on the moon and all. Everybody is always talking about him anyway, whenever the moon is brought into conversation. And plus, I’d become really famous for bringing MOM back with me. I’d be on the five o’clock news and Oprah. The reporters would ask me about how I found him and ask MOM about how exciting it is to be on Earth after all those years on the moon. Oprah would sit me and MOM down on her comfy couch and laugh as we shared our stories. Near the end of the show, after MOM shows Oprah how to make really good cheese and Oprah gives it to the audience as that shows gift give-a-way, she’d make some really profound comment on our whole experience together, MOM and I. Viewers at home would cry a little and say things like, “Oh! Isn’t that wonderful,” and “Can you believe that actually happened?!”

Yes, that is what I’d do if I were rich. That is what I would do so that I wouldn’t get bored.

There is one other thing I do when I get bored… sleep. I’m slightly bored right now (can you tell?), so I think that is what I am going to do.

God says, “You Don’t Have To Lie Anymore,” but in not so many words

When I was a kid I thought some lies were worth telling. One time, during recess in the third grade, a guy paid me seventy-five cents to tell the ugliest girl in class she was pretty and say, "syke!". Then I used the change to buy a Flintstones push-up ice cream. I slurped up the orange sherbet goodness while the teacher explained to Sally about how insides count and how her insides were beautiful. Then there was this time I broke one of Mama’s Precious Moments figurines and blamed it on my little sister. I sat in front of the TV watching Batman while my sister bawled her eyes out and screamed bloody murder as my mom dealt out death and judgment in the other room. Talk about your precious moments.

I’ve told a lot of lies to get out of trouble in life. There was not an incident in my childhood I couldn’t lie or cheat my way through. That’s how I made my decisions on whether or not to misbehave. I’d ask myself, “If I get caught, can I lie my way out of this?” If the answer was no, then I didn’t do it. I became more skilled in my craft as I got older and began to judge my accomplishments based on how complex and successful the lies I told were. Often my lies were so elaborate and convoluted I wouldn’t remember what the truth was in the first place, and keeping track of who I had told what lie was a juggling feat for the pros.

I try not to lie anymore. I’m pretty good at it, most of the time. Now I do it mostly for little things like, “Yes Dad, I remembered to pick up the milk,” as I make a U-turn at the next intersection or, “Sure Mom, that dress looks great,” on the way to church on Sunday morning.

I guess eventually the shame got to me. People thought I was such a trustworthy young fella. The truth is I was ruthlessly cunning. I could have taught the Devil a thing or two about being deceitful. But the shame got so bad that I couldn't bear it anymore, so I decided to give up my lying ways, for the most part. I remember feeling so bad one night that I ran into my mom and dad’s room long after bed time, woke them up in a frightful frenzy and confessed all the lies I could think of. The whole time tears rolled off my cheeks as I divulged in trembling sobs who truthfully broke Mama’s pretty thing, where the remote control actually was and what really happened to Tony the Turtle. I laid in the bed between Mom and Dad and cried myself to sleep. That was probably the best night’s rest I’ve ever had. Now that I think about it, Mom and Dad never punished me for the lies I confessed that night. They never condemned my shameful action. They just held me and hugged me and told me they loved me. The next morning they didn’t mention the night before. Somehow I go the feeling that they didn’t want me to tell lies again, but they didn’t have to say it. I just knew. Deep down inside I knew.

Last night I had a similar experience with God. For so long I’ve lied to Him about why I do the things I do, why I am the person that I am. I’ve made excuse for why I’m so judgmental towards people and why I can’t seem to keep my mind off how pretty He made Suzie Q. and Jane D. (those aren’t actual ladies). I’ve explained away my wicked nature in twisted justifications and inaccurate truths. And some of my lies were pretty convincing. I bet you know the kind I’m talking about. I bet your’s are no less convincing to you.

But there is a problem with our lies to God. Unlike our parents, God always knows the truth. We cannot and are not fooling Him. The only person we’re deceiving with our lies are ourselves. And just like when I was a little kid, the shame of the lies I’ve told God have overwhelmed me. So heavy was the guilt that I couldn’t even bear to face Him. It hurt me to talk to Him, to ask Him questions, to pretend that the exchanges we were having were open and honest. So last night I came running to Him (in the figurative sort of way) and confessed all the lies I could think of, the whole time tears pouring off my cheeks (literally). God just held me and hugged me and told me He loved me, and I just laid there in bed until I had cried myself to sleep. It was the best night’s rest I’ve had in a while. This morning, when I got up and talked with God, all my guilt was gone. I didn’t feel like I was hiding anything anymore, all my shame was gone. And God didn’t bring up the night before. Somehow I’ve got the feeling He doesn’t want me to make excuses for my sins any longer, but He didn’t have to say it. I just knew. Deep down inside I knew.

Are We There Yet?

Note: A conversation with a friend last night got me to thinking about how fast time goes by the older you get. We discussed how, as kids, family road trips took forever and how long a year seemed to be. It has been a year since my friend and I have seen each other on a daily basis, but it seems like mere days ago. There are similarities between a child's view of the passage of time and our relationships with God. This post is dedicated to Casey Jones for helping me understand those similarities.

I remember when I was a kid and my family still took vacations and road trips together. I would sit in the back seat of our big Dodge van and ask my parents, “Are we there yet?!” A day is forever when you’re five, and that’s how long it usually felt it took to get wherever it was we were going. My Mom would always buy coloring books, Gold Fish crackers and other road trip goodies to keep me and my sister, Sarah, occupied. Sometimes Mom’s entertainments where the most exciting and anticipated parts of the trip. She always had a way of catching my imaginative eye with a quick $10 stop by Wal-Mart on the way out of town. Inevitably though, no matter how interesting Mom’s gifts may have initially seemed, my sister and I would become restless and start the endless questioning, “Are we there yet,” and, “how much longer Daddy,” because Daddy always drove. In hindsight I see these were the times Dad didn’t mind stopping for a rest break because Mom would pull out the Dimetapp® and drug me and Sarah out of our misery. One quick cherry sip and off to dream world we would slip. I also remember when I realized that Dimetapp® wasn’t just a sweet treat and what it was actually for and how horrified I was that my parents would do something like that to me. Honestly, those were probably the best naps of my life. I would wake up feeling so refreshed and so alive. The scenery changed while I slept and the sun moved to the opposite side of the sky to cast different hues on the horizon. And usually, the wait was almost over. Grandma’s house, the Grand Canyon, or the Smokey Mountains would be just around the corner or just up ahead and I could sense the journey’s end.

I’m now twenty two years old and I often find myself asking God the same questions I asked my parents when I was younger. How much farther? Are we almost there? The adventures of faith from my younger years now seem like simple activities to keep me occupied on the journey and now I’m so restless I’m practically begging God to knock me out until the end is near. But God doesn’t work like that. He doesn’t dispense spiritual Dimetapp® to make the trip easier or go by faster. Now is when the rubber meets the road, so to speak. This is where it really counts. I want so desperately to arrive in life. I’m ready to be fully engaged in what the Lord has for me, to be actively fulfilling my purpose for being here and not just preparing for it.

I’m beginning to understand who it is the Lord created me to be. I see how my passions are connected to my giftings and why I’ve experienced the things in life I have experienced, both pleasurable and sorrowful. A vision of purpose is being birthed in me that is beautifully painful. Someone once told me that visions and dreams are like seeds and have to die before they can truly come alive. I’m starting to understand what this means. My heart held such exciting visions in the innocence of my youth, but somewhere along the road those dreams where smothered, sometimes even murdered. But that was not the journey’s end. The exciting part is just beginning. I guess I’m sort of glad God doesn’t drug me like my parents use to do. Experiencing the journey and understanding how I’ll reach my destined destination will make the arrival that much better.

As a kid I’d wake up from those drug-induced naps on road trips and wonder how did the scenery changed so dramatically while I was asleep. God wants me to experience Him on the journey He is taking me on. And I guess that’s okay with me, because I know that someday, just as I did when I was a little boy, I will get to wherever it is that I am going and God will be there with me, even though I pester Him with questions, “How much farther? Are we there yet?”

Silver Strokes

There are strokes of silver on the horizon that brush against an azure veil, pulling back to reveal a glorious dawn. The grass is damp with diamond dew. The wind is slow and gentle. Lingering fingers of a bitter cold tickle my body and I hug myself for warmth. I am all alone. Not even the birds are stirring, but it is a comforting loneliness. It is moments like these that souls are born. The ground I am standing on must be holy, because I’ve been taken to mighty Eden to be charmed by her maker. These rare moments have me wondering at the irony of God’s art. Nature doesn’t know the power of her seduction; beautiful and magnificent, but also innocent and humble. My heart surrenders to such splendor and my tongue is useless in expressing words. I’m not sure how long I’ve been standing here, but my legs are numb, and not from the cold. Something within my chest is stirring, pounding. It’s a swirling tension, like I’m holding my breath as not to disturb this glorious orchestra. God is conducting a pastoral symphony for me, His twenty-first century Adam. I listen as the first rays of the sun stroke the sleeping earth and gently whisper, “Wake up. A new day has come.”

If I could capture this moment in time
I’d display it for all the world to see
This endless melody of God's beauty
Sung by nature in harmony

If I could capture this moment in time
The depth of man would stir
And awaken a yearning for the pure
Awesomeness of God’s earthly picture

If I could capture this moment in time
The world of power would fail to be
Bowing down to God’s unimaginable majesty
That strokes across the morning’s tapestry

God captured for me a moment in time
To renew my heart for what draws nigh
A day of reckoning with one who sits on high
Painting silver strokes across a morning sky

Family Fun or False Festival?

Why is it Christians feel the need to offer Halloween alternatives? My little town was wrought with Fall Festivals tonight and I must ask myself, “Why?” We don’t like hunted houses so we offer ‘Judgment Houses’ instead, where we try and scare kids into committed relationships with Jesus. God does not need us to soften Satan’s holiday with God-coated versions of demonic activities. We are not to mix Pagan rituals (the origin of Halloween is All-Souls Eve) with the things of Christ because the truth is all it does is mutter the truth and neuter the Gospel. I say we leave well enough alone with this Pagan holiday and spend the evening in the presence of God rather than some cheap imitation that is, at it’s core, evil.

Candy seductions of chocolate and spice
Arising from places anything but nice
Ghosts and goblins and gremlins alike
Witches with brews and heads on a spike
Where did it come from and why is it here
Masquerading in cuteness, but clouded in fear
Pumpkins and scarecrows and candles ablaze
Running through corn fields cut into a maze
Lightly it comes but heavy it goes
For anyone righteous and careful who knows
The truth that lies there: dangerous and dark
Fully revealed, it is startling and stark
Nothing of innocence, demonic by birth
The devil incumbent is here on this earth!
Worship it, why? For, oh, don’t you know
Its origin is evil, fraught by the foe
Searching and lurking for ignorant fools
Who let churches of God be Satan’s great tools
‘Come one and come all
To our festival of fall”
Slyly He comes taking residence, you see
Laughing dark cackles while binding you and me
This holiday of Saints is for sinners alone
No need entertain it with; heart, flesh or bone
"Turn away from dark places," our Savior would call
Let Satan alone! Candy, festival, and all.

Somewhere North of Here

It’s a muggy night in Perry.
All the street lamps are like spotlights
On this stageless little town.
No one’s playing for this patronless audience of none.
I’m a lonely little boy in a lowly sort of place,
Nothing showy, all is sacred,
Except for the dark secret places of the heart
Where all is raw, all is rare, all is real
Like a candid photograph of the simple and honest
I’m finding my way home.
I may never get there but everyone sure does try.
Home is somewhere north of here.

Suicidal Savior?

You know how people say, “perspective is everything.”? I say that a lot. It’s almost cliché until applied to a context that flips an idea on its head.

I was sitting in my ethics class yesterday, listening to the professor discuss whether or not suicide was a morally wrong act under different ethical philosophies, when I was struck by a very odd thought. Some guy in his Air Force BDUs blurted out that suicide is always a sin; book closed, case shut. No excuses, no exceptions. Then someone challenged his comment, “what about if it is to save someone else’s life, like in a battle where a soldier throws his body on top of a grenade to save the lives of his comrades?” The room got silent as everyone looked at the guy, waiting for his response. He didn’t say anything.

The discussion went on, but I zoned out. I was mulling about inside this sick, twisted head of mine when I had the thought: Jesus committed suicide. At first I couldn’t believe I’d actually thought that. I mean, how horrible is that! I wonder where these dark thoughts in my head come from sometimes. But the thought persisted and I couldn’t make it go away. I spent the rest of the class delving in to what that could mean. What would be the repercussions to my faith if Jesus committed suicide?

Before you hang me for heresy, here me out. The Jews didn’t kill Jesus. They may have been responsible, in part, for the events leading to his crucifixion, but they did not kill him. Neither did the cross, the literal crucifixion, kill him. He gave his life up. He had a choice. At any moment He could have called upon the angels of Heaven to deliver him, or, as one man suggested, He could have called to Elijah to come save Him, to free Him from this humiliating death. But He didn’t. Instead He choose to die so that we could live. In Luke 23:46, Jesus cried out to God, “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Now think about this, the very foundation of our faith hinges on the fact that Christ conquered death. Death did not conquer Him. Some may argue that He conquered death on the third day, when He actually arose from death. But I disagree. I believe the power of Christ over death was in His having control over whether or not He died, or more accurately, when he died. Christ’s command over whether or not He died was only the first step in His conquering death. I think it culminated and Satan’s ultimate defeat occurred the moment Jesus let go of life, which was a moment of His choosing. Notice how the scriptures clearly point out that it was immediately after He committed his spirit to the Father that he died, “Having said this, He breathed His last,” Luke tells us. The Gospel of Matthew says He cried out with a loud voice and “yielded up His spirit.”

Set the scene. It was around the sixth hour, which I believe was sometime in the morning (we tend to picture it in the evening). “There was a darkness over all the earth.” The way Luke writes it seems that this was an unnatural darkness, like approaching death, because directly after he says this he writes, “Then sun was darkened, and the veil in the temple was torn,” (emphasis mine). Matthew tells us that there were earthquakes so violent rocks split (Matt. 27:51). This seems like a battle in the supernatural to me, and it sounds like someone was getting a beat down, and I don’t think it was Jesus. The reverberations of this cosmic spiritual battle broke forth into the natural world the moment Jesus Christ took his own life and handed it over to death, saving me from eternal damnation.

I think that’s the beauty of it all. How awesome is it that death was conquered and Satan defeated by my Suicidal Savior?

Call me a heretic if you wish, but I believe my God is just that awesome, just that powerful.

Like it is said, perspective is everything. I like finding new perspectives on old thoughts because usually they end up validating what I supposedly believed in the first place. That’s why I like asking questions. I wonder what other seemingly paradoxical perspectives are out there, waiting to be discovered, to lead someone to deeper truth. Like, for instance, is communion cannibalism? That’s for another night.

Putting the Good in Goodies!

These ministry-oriented Halloween treats are sure to start a revival as your neighborhood children ring your doorbell in their Freddy Krueger costumes.

You can't make this stuff up people...

Public Library: Center of Learning or Center of Lust

I went to the Houston County Public Library in Perry today to do some research for an essay that’s due in my English class this Saturday. I was researching the Elizabethan poet, John Donne. He was a famous sixteenth and seventeen century poet turned preacher known for his somewhat scandalous poems on love prior conversion.

I wanted to use the internet, hoping to find some articles relevant to my topic through the Galileo search engine, an academic resource that catalogues articles and essays on a variety of topics from literature to science. When I entered the library I saw that the internet computers where in use by the usual riffraff surfing the web for objectionable material not caught by the systems outdated filtering programs.

I decided to wait for an available computer and in the mean time looked over a few other reference sources available. I didn’t really find anything. Perry’s library is stocked with an abundance of fiction novels and children’s literature, but it’s not really suited for academic research.

Finally a computer became available. I sat down next to two young black guys in over sized jackets and what I like to call head muffs (which are akin to toboggans, only for African Americans. They look a lot like pantyhose stretched over a thigh with too much cellulite. ). One looked a bit older than me, maybe 25. The other looked to be about 17 or 18. Both where listening to rap tunes boasting of overtly unrealistic female conquests of a most graphic nature (I mean honestly, who would even…).

After fooling around a few minutes with my e-mail, I got on to Galileo in search of the articles I needed. I couldn’t find any. Dang. So I did the stereotypical GMC student thing to do, I went to Yahoo! I typed in John Donne and got more than 6 million hits. Jackpot. I read a few of the preview feeds until I found one relevant to my assignment. I clicked on the link. “ACCESS DENIED: FORBIDDEN MATERIAL,” flashed across the screen. I hit the back button about ten times in half a second out of fear that someone might see my iniquitous act. I couldn’t believe it. Had I accidental hit the link to an “adult” site with “mature” content? I couldn’t remember. I scrolled back through the list of links on the Yahoo site searching for the link I clicked on. I found the familiar purple text that let me know it was the one I selected. It was the link I though I’d clicked. There was nothing standing out as a warning of inappropriate material, just some general information about John Donne. Perfectly innocent.

I tried another link. Same message. Another. Again, the same thing. I thought something was wrong with the computer. I know John Donne’s poetry was slightly erotic, and therefore quite scandalous, but that was in 1607! Slightly agitated, I was going to ask one of the black guys next to me to see if they were having a similar problem with their computer. I leaned over to the guy on my left and was shocked by what I saw: a large, round, giggling butt spread across the screen. The camera pulled back and I saw a whole line of video girls doing video girl type things (this is a G rated blog). That’s when I realized the music he was listening too was actually a music video he was watching. I quickly looked to see where his hands were, hidden within the baggy jacket. The guy on my right was doing the same thing. Both were streaming raunchy hip-hop videos from BET.com. Furious, I left the library in awe.

How could it be that they were allowed to watch such filth and garbage, yet I was denied access to the literature of one of the most famous poets in English history! In a library! Heaven forbid a public service be politically incorrect and deny African Americans their “culture,” but what about my culture? What is the world coming to? Before long we won’t be watching Charlie Brown’s Pumpkin Patch on Halloween or singing Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer at Christmas time. Instead will be watching Chucky Brawlins’ Pimpin’ Place and singing Ralphy the Red Hosed… like I said, this is a G rated blog.

But Until That Day Comes

I’m sitting at my desk, drinking ice tea and listening to Howard Shore’s score for Lord of the Rings - The Fellowship of the Ring. Last year about this time I spend $50 on the special edition soundtrack that contained the complete recordings for the extended edition of first film in Peter Jackson’s now legendary trilogy. I know some of you are thinking, “Fifty bucks! Are you crazy?!” I guess that depends. If you mean am I one of those completely obsessed fans who went to the movie’s premiere wearing pointy ears and a cape, no, I am not.  I did enjoy the movies though.

Anyway, this is what I spend most of my days doing, nothing. I sit around all day listening to music, reading and watching film and television that engages the mind. I have no job and am too lazy to put any real effort into doing school work. Sometimes I stare out of my bedroom window and wish I could just fly off into the distance and circle the sky until time unwound and I’d exist not more.

I like being outside. I use to take my dog, Spark, for walks in the woods behind my house before they were cleared for more pre-fab houses and stick homes like my own. We’d go out for hours at a time. Sparky is a half lab – half cocker spaniel mix so he’s really frisky. When he was a puppy he was solid black, save his white chest and paws that made it look like he threw sparks when he ran, hints the name Sparky. He comes when I call, so I never used a leash. I’d take him deep in the woods until we’d come across this expanse of open rolling hills. He’d run as fast as his short legs would take him chasing rabbits and birds and other petrified woodland forest creatures who dared the open fields. I wouldn’t see him for hours. Sometimes I’d lie down amid the wildflowers and sleep. I remember having this dream one time that I was playing paintball with some friends out there. The hills crossed in and out of each other making it a perfect sight for paint ball. Most of the time I went out there carring my CD player with me. I’d listen to movie scores mostly. Braveheart, Gladiator and The Legend of Bagger Vance were some of my favorites around that time. Sometimes I’d bring along some Jars of Clay or Caedmon’s Call, just to make it a religious experience. After a while I’d call out for Spark (I can’t whistle. I know, what a shame). A few minutes later I’d see a black blob lunge from the tall grass just to disappear again. I’d head back towards the house and eventually Spark would catch up with me. I’d glance down at him as if to say, “Where have you been?” He’d give me a knowing look. My guess is Sparky had a lady friend somewhere beyond the horizon. Like I said, he’s a little frisky.

The other day an older friend and mentor told me I act like I’m retired and that sooner than later I’m going to have to get off my rear and figure out what to do with my life. He’s right, but until that day comes I’m going to enjoy this pre-retirement hiatus from the real world and wonder around inside my head, among my thoughts of the peaceful outdoors and contemplative musical adventures.

Inside TV's Next Great Cult Hit...

Note: I have debated for sometime now whether or not to write a blog about the following subject. I felt I could never do it justice, never describe how truly amazing it is or how much I love it. And since the whole point of writing in the first place is to express thought in a complete way, why venture to do so when you know before hand that it cannot be done.

Normally I wouldn't do this, but here is the one exception. The following is an article in a recent edition of Entertainment Weekly. If you enjoy smart, relevant television read this article. It is lengthy, but it may very well change your television experience forever...

In English, the word ''frak'' means...absolutely nothing. But in the not-so-faraway fantasyverse of Battlestar Galactica — Sci Fi Channel's critically exalted reboot of the 1978–79 TV series about space-faring humans fleeing genocidal robots known as Cylons — ''frak'' is similar to a certain FCC-unfriendly epithet that also begins with f and ends with k. Judging from a recent visit to the show's Vancouver set, the multipurpose word will be heard frequently when Galactica returns for its third season on Oct. 6 at 9 p.m. It will be used to express angst when married military man Lee ''Apollo'' Adama (Jamie Bamber) finds himself yearning for married fighter pilot Kara ''Starbuck'' Thrace (Katee Sackhoff) and mutters ''Frak me.'' It will be used to express awe once chief mechanic Gaelin Tyrol (Aaron Douglas) discovers a secret saloon inside the titular battleship and marvels, ''Holy frak!'' And it will be used to express rage after a high-ranking officer (nope, we ain't tellin') drives a pen into the neck of tortured traitor Gaius Baltar (James Callis) and screams ''MOTHERFRAKKER!''

Yep: There sure is a lot of frakkin' human drama on this sci-fi show. Sometimes there's more of it than there is actual science fiction — and that's exactly how they like it in Galactica's little corner of the cosmos. To be certain, the show has its fair share of far-out bits, like visually stunning F/X, trippy concepts (a half-Cylon/half-human baby whose blood has cancer-curing powers), and, of course, Number Six (Tricia Helfer), an immortal platinum blond Cylon partial to wearing crimson red dresses and high heels. But more than that, the show has distinguished itself as one of television's very best dramas — on a par with 24, The Wire, and Lost — because it so utterly transcends both its genre and its source material.

The original ABC series was a one-season wonder of Star Wars-era escapism that over time has attracted a nostalgic, multigenerational cult following. But this gritty new version has taken the same bleak conceit of its predecessor — the unceremonious obliteration of humanity on the peaceful planet of Caprica by cybernetic invaders — and rewired it with prickly, challenging post-9/11 relevance. No longer are the Cylons chrome-plated toasters with oscillating LED eyes — they've evolved into flesh and blood, which allows them to hide in plain sight, like, say, as a muckraking journalist (D'Anna, played by Lucy Lawless). Moreover, they're now motivated by their radical belief in one God to wipe out their creators from existence. Fortunately, the Capricans are as resilient as cockroaches.

Rest In Peace, I Will Miss You

On Monday my Auntie Joan died. She was my Nanny’s older sister. Nanny is British for grandmother, in case you are wondering. I know very little about my Auntie Joan. I know she lived in England her whole life and grew up during the Second Great War with my Nanny. I met her in person two or three times in my childhood, when she came to visit, but it has been many years since I last saw her or talk to her. Her only real presence in my life came in the form of birthday cards with quaint British country-sides pictured on the front that I received faithfully on my birthday every year for twenty one years. On my birthday this year, which was less than two weeks ago, I didn’t receive a card. I guess due to her failing health she just wasn’t able to send one, a cruel and stealthy foreshadowing of what was to come.

I have dampened images of her in my memory from what I’d imagine when my Nanny told me her childhood stories about how they’d run from British soldiers or fight to greet their Dad when he came home from work; more a figment of my imagination than a real, living, breathing person. In a sense, I knew her no more than a stranger in the park you always see walking a dog, or that person you pass on the elevator everyday at work. You know they are there, but there is nothing beyond that and you would never think you’d notice if they were not there tomorrow.

In the early waking hours before dawn Monday morning, my Mom came in my room in frantic tears calling my name. Usually I sleep through her calls, but the alarm in her tone shocked me to life. For a few fleeting moments dread coursed through my veins, until I heard her cries, “She’s gone! She’s gone. My Aunt Joanie is gone.” She sat on the edge of my bed in tears for I don’t know how long until her sobs faded to silent tears. I didn’t know what to say, words are no comfort in moments like this, so I just sat awake with her to let her know I loved her and that everything was going to be alright.

I struggled to fall back asleep. I barely knew this woman, and yet, I couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss. It was like a small part of me, a part yet discovered, died. My dreams raced with thoughts of what it would have been like to visit her and the rest of my British family, something I’ve always wanted to do. I thought about how, for twenty one years, this kind lady sent me birthday cards and how I had never sent her one back. I never called her, never wrote her, never thanked her. And I remember complaining to my Mom that the only card I got in the mail on my birthday this year was from my Nanny.

Later that day I called my Nanny to see how she was doing. She lives in New Jersey with my ailing grandfather, unable to leave him to attend the funeral. Her visa is long past expired so it wouldn’t be possible for her to be there anyway. I didn’t say much, just listened to her as she cried and told me of all the wonderful things she and, “my Joanie” as she called her, did as children and my imagined Auntie Joan reappeared. Nanny told me that when my Granddad found out about Joanie’s death, he grabbed her arm and with a forgotten boldness cried, “Don’t you leave me!” His sister died only weeks before.

By Wednesday the whole experience was gone and forgotten. My Mom would make comments every so often about how Nanny was doing or how the family was tying up lose ends in England, but I had already moved on and distanced myself from the loss. Honestly, it felt strange that I should mourn over the death of someone I barely knew, like I didn’t have a right to grieve her death when I had no concern during her life. And to have remorse would have been a selfish act.

It is now Thursday and I’m getting home very late from school. I came in my room and my mail was on my desk. Underneath some billing statements and advertisements lay an envelope with that all too familiar air-mail stamp and frail hand-writing. On the front of the card is a painting of an English cottage and a stream in front with a stone bridge crossing over its still waters. I opened it with tears in eyes and read what she wrote, “Happy Birthday, Matthew. With love and best wishes, A. Joan.”

Rest in Peace, Auntie Joan. I will miss you.

Arrhh! A Digression...

Note: I'm not really this cynical towards humanity, contrary to what some might think, but sometimes if you have hate in your heart, you have to let it out...

Today was my first day back at Georgia Military College. I had class from 4:30pm until 10:15pm and I hated every minute of it. I hated it not because I necessarily dislike school and learning, but because of the pathetic quality of education offered at this less than fine institution. To say GMC is your stereotypical community college is an understatement. If I was an overly prideful person I wouldn’t even admit I go to school here, especially after the previous educational institute I attended.

My first class was a three hour long lecture in Biology taught by a short little Indian woman. I have no problem with having an Indian professor, other than the fact I spent more time interpreting the words that came out of her mouth than I did trying to understand the concepts she was teaching. Beyond that, she was simply a horrible teacher. It was like listening to a rocket scientist talk to another rocket scientist about rocket science. Good thing I paid attention in the 10th grade… oh… wait…

To make the experience even more enlightening, there was an “African-American” woman sitting behind and to the right of me who spend the majority of the class in heavy breathing, “humph”. I hate to stereotype, but you know the kind, big bootied, big lipped, and painfully ghetto. She sat there slouched with that attitude so rich in ignorance it makes you want to hit somebody. And, in-between her humphing, she would make these overt sucking noises that I guess resulted from the parting of her behemoth lips and the suction of air into the vacuum in her mouth. I was tempted to go to the store during our ten minute break and buy her a bag of cotton balls to stuff her mouth with so she wouldn’t be embarrassed by the noise she kept making, but the one time she did it and I looked back at her, she gave me a look like she meant to make that stupid noise and when I turned around I heard it again. At the same time I felt the breeze on my neck from when she rolled her eyes at me. She pushed me out of the way when class was over so she could get to the door quicker. I bet she would have voted for Cynthia McKinney if she voted at all, but she’s too ignorant for that. It felt like high school all over again. And the thing is, I’m not even racist, everybody knows I love black women!

After Biology I went into the lobby to pull myself together. On the wall there was a huge banner that stated, "Successful Learning Starts at GMC!" I didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

My next class was Ethics. Oh ya, that was entertaining. Listening to these wanna be high school drop outs attempt to sound intelligent when debating matters of moral weight was like watching Pat Robertson on CBN talk about Jesus. They were clueless. Their arguments were so stupid they would have made Paris Hilton sound smart. And not only were the students obviously lacking in I.Q. points, but the professor sounded more like a washed up hippy than an educator. The blind leading the blind, and for this I paid nearly $1000! What a shame. I have an English class Saturday morning from 8:30am to 1:30pm with the same professor… can’t wait.

I’ll Still Worship You

Note: Below are lyrics to a song a wrote a very long time ago. It's a little cliche, nothing to special, but it means something to me. It comes from a God given moment of inspiration. I have a cool little melody that goes with it, but you'll have to do without it of course.

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

‘Cause then the sun meets the horizon / And it falls upon my skin
You breathe your breath of life / Into me once again

Your mercy of Lord / Flows from the mountains to the sea
In your presence dear God / That’s where I want to be

Your compassion rains down / On my dry and weary soul
You refresh me and you nourish me / For its in you the I grow

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

Because your blood flows down from the cross / Like a river to my soul
It refines me and reminds me / That its in you I’m made whole

When my knees hit the ground / The dust from which I came
I’ll still worship you Lord / I’ll still praise your holy name

Beautiful Mystery

Have you ever stopped to think that there must be more to Jesus Christ than what people are telling you, that maybe there is more going on in scripture than your preacher and Sunday school teacher are letting you in on?

I think about this a lot. There must be more to this whole religion thing than what most of us young southerners have been conditioned to believe. There must be something of more substance and relevance than simple tales of how to be morally righteous and formulaic expressions of how to solve life’s problems. I hesitate to say it, but more often than not I can take only about five minutes of that stuff before I head off to la-la land or start thumbing through scripture desperately praying that there is something more to be found.

Christianity has been around for a very long time and I just can’t believe that what little depth I too often find in “church” is what has sustained this faith for so long. And the more and more I look into what Jesus was all about, the more I actually read the Bible, the more I am amazed at how intriguing it all is. Did you know that, in 1 Samuel, God actually commands a demon to possess Saul? God ordered demon possession! Or, that in one of the Psalms, the author talks about rejoicing over having bashed babies heads against rocks? I bet you haven’t heard that in Sunday School!

Sometimes I think churches are so boring these days because the people in them don’t actually read the Bible (this is an exaggeration), and if they do, they read it out of context. To me it seems like people have this indoctrinated idea of what they think the Bible should say, because of their up-bringing and religious traditions, and they try and connect parts of the Bible to fit their preconceived notions of what it should say. I know I'm guilty of this. The problem with reading the Bible like that is that it leaves out all the good stuff.

I like it when, in the Old Testament, God orders people to kill children, or when He commands demons into people. I like it because I don’t understand it. It doesn’t line up with how God is suppose to act. That is my problem with Sunday School Christianity. God fits to perfectly into the mold we’ve created for Him. Its like we’ve got Him all figured out. But I think it is a bit presumptuous to tell God how He must behave, how He must follow the doctrines and theologies we’ve set up for Him.

Truth be told, I like the mystery. I don’t like being comfortable with what I believe about God because then I get apathetic. This doesn’t mean I don’t find security in my faith, quite the opposite. There are so many questions to ask, and each time one is answered, it raises up ten more. The roots of faith grow deep when mystery is explored.

Paul, in Colossians 2:2 (The Message) says, “I want you woven into a tapestry of love, in touch with everything there is to know of God. Then you will have minds confident and at rest, focused on Christ, God’s great mystery.” (emphasis mine). No wonder so many Christians are without peace, they refuse to embrace the mystery of Jesus! They’d rather have Him mapped out and analyzed to perfection.

When we do that to Christ, box Him up in theologies and wrap Him in formulas with a nice little bow on top, we suffocate something essential to our faith, mystery. And it is this very mystery that Paul tells us we should proclaim to the world (see Colossians 4:3)!

For some reason we have been led to believe that mystery and truth are diametrically opposed to one another, that they present a paradox when partnered together. But the truth is that they coexist in a harmony that tells of the Glory of God. I’d even go a step further and say that the one couldn’t exist without the other, that they are codependent.

Its beautiful really, a beautiful mystery. I find freedom in not having answers, in not having to have answers. I feel like God explains to me just enough of what I need to know to do what it is He would have me to do, be who He would have me to be. This doesn’t mean I don’t explore the mysteries of faith. I think that is what Christianity is all about! I think Rob Bell said it best in his book, Velvet Elvis, "Christianity is about embracing the mystery, not dispelling it." This is a part of drawing closer to God.

Mystery has become the defining component of my relationship with God. I’ve stopped trying to figure Him out, and instead I’ve let Him figure me out. He starts to show you who you are when you stop telling Him who He is. I mean, He already knows both me and Him better than I even know me. I think this is where the rest and peace Paul talks about comes from. The burden of figuring it all out is gone. God’s carrying it for me now. It’s better that way too. He doesn’t drop it as much. It’s much less messy. You should give it a try.

Tea, Crumpets, and Starving Kids in Africa

Earlier this week I was in downtown Perry. I spent some time walking up and down Carol St. soaking in the comforting early fall weather that has recently fallen upon the town. The leaves haven’t turned their seductive reds, yellows and oranges yet, and it is still warm enough to wear flip-flops and a shirt during early morning and mid-day, which I was.

I went in the Go-Fish store to visit a friend who works there. Go-Fish is an interesting little store full of different art pieces made by starving persons in Africa. They sell everything from little carved frogs to five foot tall creations of animal combinations such as camonkeys (camel/monkey) and eleraffes (elephant/giraffe). Plus they have African made jewelry and some of those braided bracelet things kids call friendship bracelets among other stuff (the obligatory ‘Christian’ t-shirts, sandals/flip-flops, shell necklaces…). I guess the philosophy of the company is to employ poor little Africans to make this stuff that they sell at a ridiculous mark-up and then they give a percentage of the profits back to the starving African village that made it. I think Go-Fish may even work under a fair-trade policy. If nothing else they keep a few Africans preoccupied until the next meal time roles around when they’ll still probably go hungry or keep little kids from wondering why Mommy and Daddy haven’t come back from the bush yet, and it gives Africans an alternative to do something other than contracting AIDS, so I guess it’s a worthy effort. Evangelical Christianity at it again.

Anyway, my friend wasn’t working so I left.

I walked to the other end of Carol and sat on a bench under a shade tree. I watched a bee buzz around a flower bed as it got something to eat and wondered why God made it so difficult for the African’s to do the same.

Not long after that two elderly women walked out of the Tearoom across the street, a little place they like to gather for tea and crumpets. I imagined them sitting there together, slowly sipping tea and munching on assorted pastries, crumbs falling from the cracks on their wrinkled lips, oblivious to the starving children in Africa. After they came out into the early morning, I watched them make their way down the strip dipping into stores and emerging again a few minutes later with one more shopping bag in their hands than they went in with. Eventually they made their way into the Go-Fish.

I sat there a while long with my bee, fascinated with his seemingly random selection of flowers. I wish I could have had a conversation with him. I would have asked him about his buzzing about and why he chose the red flowers over the purple ones, because they were just as pretty. But the only thing I clearly heard him say was, “buzzzz buzzz buzz.” I wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but I didn’t ask; he looked like really busy.

The two elderly women I saw earlier were making there way back towards their car, back towards me. I just sat there. They had crossed the street on the other end and were now on the same side of the street as me. They didn’t go into anymore stores. My bet is that their credit cards maxed out on one of the over priced camonkeys that the African children made. It was funny to watch this sixty something year old woman try to carry four shopping bags and a five foot nothing camonkey down Carol St. It is an image I won’t soon forget.

I sat slouching, legs crossed and arms flung over the back of the bench. When they came within ear shot I hollered, “need a hand?”

I don’t think they heard me, so I waited until they got a bit closer and tried again. This time they heard me. “Oh, yes, please. This is very heavy.” I took the woman’s camonkey from her and followed her and her friend to their pearl white Oldsmobile. I thought about grabbing the camonkey and making a run for it, but figured I’d better not; Perry is a small town. She tried to pop the trunk with her keyless entry, but set off the alarm instead. I thought she was going to have a heart attack. It took her a good minute and a half to turn off the alarm, then she opened the trunk with the key. She moved a folded wheel chair out of the way and showed me where to put her newly acquired, odd-looking piece of art.

“You ladies look like you’ve been busy today,” I offered.

“Oh, yes. We don’t get out very often so when we do we make a day of it. I’m not as young as I use to be, but don’t tell my husband.”

I laughed lightly, trying to figure out what that meant. “Well, ya’ll have a good day and don’t over do it.”

The woman with the camonkey took out her wallet and tried to offer me some money for helping her, which I refused; though I did wonder if she had ever been a customer I served when I worked at the Swanson. She had a familiar smell about her, like talcum powder. I bet she was a red-hatter or a member of the bridge club. I walked back to my bench and watched her reverse and pull forward several times as she tried to get her behemoth Oldsmobile out of the tight parking space (I think old people should drive small cars, like a Corolla or something, not the bulkiest most awkward maneuvering machines money can buy. But what do I know). I smiled to myself and told the bee to be careful, that she might run-over his lunch. He flew away and eventually the two old ladies made it safely onto the street.

I sat there baffled for a few minutes before I got up to leave. I watched as the women drove off into oblivion. I couldn’t stop wondering at the absurdity of it all. The whole thing really had me confused. I just couldn’t reconcile the connection between these old women and the starving kids in Africa who made the camonkey that lay in their trunk.

God's Gate Keepers

Note: Some random thoughts I had one night on spiritual manifestations. May or may not be accurate...

The spiritual is manifested in the physical through man. As children of God, it is our responsibility to act as gatekeepers, allowing the things of God to pour out in the natural through the working of the Holy Spirit. We are to fight against the attempts of Satan to exercise power in the physical world, block his attempt to use man to bring glory to himself in the spiritual. Satan tries to glorify himself in the spiritual through sinful acts of man in the physical. As gatekeepers we allow the Holy Spirit to lead us to physical acts that glorify Him in the spiritual. The power the Holy Spirit has given us is to hold sway over what passes between this world and the spiritual plane. The more our soul (mind, will and emotions), which is the physical half of our current two-part being, is under the alignment of our justified spirit, the better gate keepers we are.

Prayer is our most efficient tool in fulfilling our earthly purpose, and therefore the most effective. Audibly speaking prayers especially yield us command over attempts of Satan to pass into physical manifestation and brings forth greater workings of God because it is our physical expression of the spiritual power the Holy Spirit has granted us. There is life and death in the power of the tongue.

Arthur Alligood: Awkwardly Amazing Artist

Today’s Christian bookstores and radio stations are littered with a wide variety of music. Sadly, a large percentage of that music comes across as heartless, mindless, even pointless. Shallow and thoughtless pop songs with regurgitated secular melodies play more like sugar coated nuggets of Sunday School dogma rather than art with substance and real life relevancy. Supposed praise and worship music is often without depth in its attempt to glorify the greatest artist of us all. Perhaps most saddening of all is that in this relatively new money making machine called the ‘Christian’ music industry, there is little room for true artists with prophetic voices and honest craftsmanship, those who truly seek to make responsible music for their listener and for the Lord. They remain largely unknown and are resigned to the label ‘underground artists,’ because they are often without the promotional backing and marketing of a powerful record company. Instead, they rely on promotion by word of mouth and a handful of dedicated websites that honor their artwork (see: www.grassrootsmusic.com). They minister through their music mostly at colleges, small churches and other small venues.

This past weekend I was privileged to attend one such concert at a tiny church in Warner Robins, Georgia. Located in an older part of town, the church building was hardly in her prime, left over from decades prior, a time long since past and now in her waning years. She was small, made of brick painted white with a red door at the front facing the road. The marquee out front had half its lights blown and looked like it had been that way for some time. The sanctuary itself was a dull off-white with nondescript ceiling tiles and florescent lights. There was no air-conditioning, though that was hardly noticed with the cool early fall climate. Two rows of pews covered with faded carpet led to a slightly raised platform at the front, which was flanked by a few small candles. There may have been an area for a small choir behind the pulpit. The only substantial features of the whole room were a few stained-glass windows that flanked both walls of the sanctuary, but it was late evening and the stories in the windows had lost their light, their storyteller hidden behind the horizon.

The doors to the tiny church were open that night for a visiting story teller. The windows dim and the normal pastor aside, a tall lanky fella stood with his guitar under a single florescent light. The audience before him sat in silence under the gray. And so he began to play, to tell his story.

I sat there listening, thinking, watching. Arthur Alligood was dressed in a t-shirt and jeans and wore wide-rimmed glasses. He looked like a red headed David Crowder (for those of you who know who he is). He strummed his guitar with more of a nervous tick than the graceful movements of other more well-known artists. But somehow this quick jerking motion birthed a worthy rhythmic melody to his story, which he sung with awkward facial expressions and painful grimaces.

Had I passed him on the street I would have barely noticed him, just a regular Joe. But Friday night, he had my attention though. I think it was because I realized he wasn’t trying to entertain me, to show me how cool he was or how he had everything together and what it looked like to be the perfect little Christian. Instead he sung songs on the struggles of everyday life, told stories about the difficulties that often accompany following Christ. About temptation and doubt, pain and confusion. It was an hour of confession and of fellowship as this brother shared his heart and admitted he didn’t have the answers, but proclaimed to know the one who does. His voice rang with truth and his story was real, made up of things from the dark places that don’t look good up in lights or sell well in markets of perfection.

Ironically, this collection of songs, this storybook Arthur choose to share with us, called Under the Gray, offered something the best-selling albums of pop-Christianity all to often don’t. Heart. This album, full of reluctant truths, speaks to brothers and sisters on the same journey as Alligood himself and offers comfort to those who also struggle by simply confessing that he struggles too. He had nothing fancy, nothing showy. Just his honesty that the candles seemed to acknowledge with their flickering. When he was through there was no standing ovation and loud cheering. Just a handful of thankful claps and a room full of pondering people (with just a few that were completely oblivious).

I bet God was smiling though, at Arthur’s offering to Him, thankful that someone used music for a reason other than glorifying man and make a profit.

I was smiling too. I bought his album. And I’ve listened to it a couple of times. It is for the more serious listener who wants to be challenged in their faith instead of having their shallow understanding of what this life is about exalted and their ego stroked by an emotional high. It a heavy album, some may even call it depressing. And granted the meat of the album, the songs of great substance, often take you deep into dark places. But its there you meet the great mystery of Christ, the one Paul speaks of in Colossians 4, the hope that there is something more than this messed up, sick and twisted world that we live in. Arthur is an awkwardly amazing artist who makes you comfortable with your uncomfortableness and tells you its okay that everything is not okay, that Jesus Christ will sustain you through what you don’t understand and are afraid to admit.

His album probably won’t make him rich or famous; gain him publicity or great notoriety. But it is pleasing to the One who matters and it’s pleasing to people not afraid to search for God in their struggles and find Him in their searching. If you’re searching, here is someone searching with you. Maybe he can help you find.

Places You Should Go (on the internet)...

You Should Go Here:

Wailings of a Waiter

I use to be a waiter at a local restaurant. I wasn’t very good at it though. It takes a special person to wait tables. And I’m not that kind of special. I’m too impatient and don’t respond well to being treated like a lesser person simply because my job for the next 30 minutes is to be your server. In all other instances I’m a people person, but not this one. And especially at the restaurant where I worked.

It’s sort of a fancy place, “fine southern dinning” is how they put it. The wait staff walks around in black pants and white shirts and I half expect to be asked for some grey poupon when I walk across the dinning room. Basically we get a lot of old women who come in and think the world revolves around them and a buck fifty is a good tip no-matter the price of the meal (it isn’t). I really don’t like them. They make me angry and they have the old woman funk. That’s a near toxic, if not lethal, combination of talcum powder, 1940’s perfume and moth balls (no wonder they are all dieing of cancer). When the stench hits your nostrils its sensory overload to your nervous system. What makes it worse is that they come in herds, so you don’t get it in staggered, mitigated intervals. No, they all come in at once. The moment the door opens its like being hit over the head with a two-by-four. Then, when you are taking their orders after repeating the specials to them fifty eleven hundred times you have to lean down real close so you can hear their old weathered voice and smell their rank denture adhesive as they ask you what the specials are. But then, when they want to ask for some decaf coffee you offered five minutes earlier, you can hear them holler half way across the restaurant. I shouldn’t be bothered by this ‘cause they’ll all be dead soon (because of the funk), but it still upsets me.

And if it isn’t the rotting flesh version of women you have to deal with it is their pretentious plastic contemporaries (who will also die of cancer but for different reasons). They are the ones that look like their jaws are wired into an awkward smile, their skin’s an off shade of melanin and the only part of their faces that can really move are their eyelids. They are all far less attractive than they think they are and far more demanding than even Jesus Christ has a right to be. They also believe that a dollar fifty is the appropriate tip amount, again no matter what. Their mothers have taught them well. Sometimes they bring along their businessman husbands who gladly wear them on their arm like a cherished prize; which is all most of the plastics really are (banker Bob is usually far more interested in lawyer Larry than he is in housewife Holly). The plastics have a different type of smell about them but it is no less poignant. It is the reek of arrogance mixed with the stench of Este Lauder. They are known to say grace before they begin their chatter about housewife Holly’s misfortune and other important social goings-ons (oh! the things I know about people in this town). They might even put Holly on the prayer list.

Off and on for three years now I have endured with often agonizing torture the routine of being the equivalent of a 16th century British wipping boy. Last week, I struck back. I could no longer withhold my tongue from the oppressive rule of the Talcum Tyrants and the Silicon Sorceresses who weld their power and cast their spells as nonchalantly as they attend Sunday School. Last week, I had enough.

This is what happened. It was Wednesday evening. This itself needs elaboration. In the restaurant business of the South, Wednesday evenings are notoriously slow. The aforementioned women are all at Baptist churches keeping up appearances. So I was braced for even more fruitless efforts and time wasted at the Deodera House (the name of the restaurant has been changed to protect myself). I had one table that evening. It was a party of four; three women and a man, all over fifty years of age. I should have known better, but I told myself to have faith. I’m not sure what I was putting my faith in at this point, but whatever it was I was wrong because I was about to have the most horrible experience in waiter history.

They seemed nice, at first, your typical southerners from Cordele, Georgia. They greeted me with a smile as they entered the door and I politely greeted them, though in my mind I was saying, “Welcome to The Deodera. How may I kiss your collective @$$es.” Anyway, the cordiality quickly ended. I think the chairs at The Deodera have special powers and can magically suck any kindness, love, and humanity right out of a customer the moment their rear lands in the seat (maybe if I had kissed it when they came in the door things would be different). Before I could tell them my name I was told exactly what each one wanted to drink: a half sweet half unsweet tea w/no lemon, a decaf coffee w/water, a diet coke w/ a glass of ice on the side and a water with extra lemons. This was followed by a volley of questions about serving portions of appetizers. They ordered one of each. I went to the kitchen and got their drinks, put in their appetizers and took a deep breath. This was the pattern for the rest of the evening. I waited on them hand and foot. I ran around that restaurant more that night than the previous three years combined. But, I got them everything they wanted, how they wanted it, when they wanted it. I was the epitome of a quality waiter. I would have made any conseur blush. After all, they were my only table. Their bill, after a round of appetizers, steaks, desserts and coffee was around $150. Like I said, “fine southern dinning.”

Now before I go on, I must explain that the minimum expected tip anywhere, be it Waffle House or the Sun Dial, is 15%, 18% is more courteous and 20% is generous. 12% of their $150 bill would have been $18, but they didn’t even leave that. Nope, after all my work I was left with $10. Let my clarify this. That is not even a 7% tip. Even if they were not feeling generous, which would have been okay, they should have left me $27. I got barely a third of the tip I earned (I was never any good at math until I became a waiter, now I can look at numbers and figure things out). This was beyond being impolite. This was down right disrespectful and rude.

So I had to let them know.

“Ma’m, I apologize if my service to you was below your standards or if I in any way offended you and prompted you to leave such a sorry tip, but if $10 is all you can leave, you need it a heck of a lot more than I do.”

And with that I turned and walked away (walk is a lose term here really, it was more like I bounded towards the back with a rage that even God would fear). They hadn’t just crushed my hope in humanity, they opened a sort of Pandora’s Box. They awoke my wrath and unleashed my rage upon that place. I could have spit fire (and I guess in a way I did).

I took care of my closing work for the evening and left feeling more than just disrespected and angry. I felt betrayed. There is far more at work here than just the snooty actions of a few aging tight-wads. It’s a statement of larger implications on the status of our society, but I’m not writing this to teach a lesson in sociology.

Now granted, my reaction was a bit overboard, and so I am no longer an employee of the Deodera House Restaurant (that’s a whole other story for another time). But, if you are reading this, please, please, please take a single point away from this: Its one thing to leave a bad tip if you’ve had poor service, but if your waiter (or waitress) has done a stellar job serving you, do not leave them a 7% tip. If you don’t have the money to leave a decent tip, you don’t have the money to eat out in the first place. There is no excuse. I don’t care about how it was in the 1950’s. It’s now the twenty-first century and it takes more than a buck fifty to pay for your groceries and college isn’t free, no matter what the government says. And please, “Christians,” never mistake a track for a good tip, as if your 50 cent comic book was equivalent to God’s gift of eternal life. It is not. And I already know Jesus.

Waffle House Blues: Deconstructing the Box / Restructuring My Faith

Note: This post is a continuation of the post, "Losing My Faith, The Problem With God in a Box." I would suggest reading it before continuing...

I went to see a friend and mentor about my problem of God in a box. His name is Charlie Walker. He talks real slow so people think that he thinks real slow too. Not true. We agreed to meet at the Waffle House when he called me back after I left a somewhat panicked and tear wrought message on his answering machine. I got there early to prepare myself for what was to come, whatever it was going to be. I don’t know what I expected, but I felt more like I was going to the principle’s office than meeting a friend for advice. I sat uncomfortably in my booth surrounded with eighties décor, though the building isn’t even ten years old. I imagined myself being reprimanded for what I was about to confess, my doubt in God. I folded my arms on the table and laid my head down. I would have cried, but I was too tired for that.

A few minutes later Charlie came in with his signature waddle and lighthearted smile. He is a short man in his early fifties, a little less wide than he is tall. His eyes shine with the depth wisdom affords. His presence is so disarming that my fears immediately faded. After ordering dinner and some small talk with the WaHo manager (Charlie knows everyone in this town) we got down to business.

“Tell me about your problems, Matthew,” he said slowly, slouching in the booth across from me in his typical way. He made me laugh. My walls came down and I explained to Charlie that I felt I was losing faith in God, or at least how I’ve thought of Him until this point. I told him of my frustration of wanting more, but not finding it and how seeing all these others who have found something more just furthered my frustration. I told him about the horrible day I’d had, how I’d wigged out at work and just had to leave. I felt my whole world was unwinding in a matter of hours, all because I think too much. It was like having a mid-life crisis at age twenty-one and I felt like God’s ugly step-child. He listened patiently and intently until I was finished and then he just sat there for a minute, letting the words come to him.

When the words finally came they came with the same calmness with which he’d acknowledged mine. He explained that what I was experiencing was completely natural, which I agreed, that doubt is often Satan’s tool of choice for those who choose to make thinking a habit. He told me that God is doing something in my life, that this is part of the process. I could actually see what he was talking about too, though to a lesser extent (perspective is everything). He also told me something that he has told me many times before (I guess I haven’t gotten the point yet), “you cannot base your faith on how you feel or what your mind tells you.” The truth in those words is so obvious that they almost don’t need explanation. The soul (mind, will, and emotions) is fleshly in nature, opposed to the heart of God. It’s what Satan uses to lie to God’s children. I guess this is partly why sanctification is so important; it reigns in the soul under the authority of God so that Satan cannot hold sway.

The conversation lulled a few moments as our waitress interrupted for the umpteenth time to ask us if we needed anything. She was a young girl who had obviously been hurt in her past, but was still so innocent. She was meek, almost cowerly, but sweet also. I bet she had a huge propensity to love, though it was stifled by hurt and pain. She made me sad with her tender smile and soft voice. I hadn’t said anything to Charlie about the girl, but he echoed my thoughts with a soft comment.

We sat there a while. I ate my hash browns; scattered, covered and chunked. Charlie ate his toast and eggs. This was his second meal that night. He made some comment on his jovial belly and asked if I had been exercising regularly. I hadn’t been (and it’s starting to show).

Then Charlie got serious again. What was about to come out of his mouth was probably the most significant thing I’ve ever heard him say, “Matthew,” he says your name a lot when you’re talking to him, I like that, “the biggest problem with you and your generation is you are looking for experiences with God instead of relationships with Him.” He had nailed me and he knew it. This was a truth far more profound that what I realized. God had been dropping hints at me for sometime now, but waited for this moment to come out blazing. I sat there stunted at how obvious this all was. It was like all my big God revelations until now led to this one huge truth.

I think about my relationship with God in completely wrong terms. I think about it in terms of experiences with Him instead of focusing on the day-in and day-out relationship I’m suppose to be having with Him. I get frustrated, even angry when my quiet times don’t spawn some huge life defining moment everyday. If the preacher’s sermon doesn’t act like Miracle Grow to my soul then he’s a lousy preacher. And heaven forbid that everyday life doesn’t go my way: that I’ll get cheap tips from work or my cell will get washed, that I won’t have the car when I need it or gas will jump eight cents. It must mean God’s abandoned me! What foolishness!

Grandiose experiences with the Lord are more like mile markers on the road of relationships. They are not the relationships themselves. There is nothing wrong with these experiences, its just that they are not the essence of what knowing God is really about. Relationship with God is about trusting in Him when there seems no reason to do so; to praise Him by loving Him in spite of difficult circumstances; to say to yourself, “I am God’s child and He loves me,” when everything around you is trying to say otherwise. I, of all people, should have learned this by now. I have suffered far more than I admit to those around me, and God has seen me through every bit of it.

“God is far more concerned with your character than he is with fixing all your problems instantly,” Charlie added. I want a quick fix to all life’s little and big difficulties, who doesn’t! But He has allowed these sufferings. In Romans Paul tell us that suffering produces perseverance; perseverance, character; and character, hope and that hope does not disappoint because God has poured out His love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit (Romans 5). This is one of my favorite promises in scripture. It’s a threefold chord not easily broken when you think you’re hanging on by a thread.

This led me to think about how selfish my view of God has been until now. It has all been about what God can do for me, what I can get out of God. Granted, this is what initially draws many to the faith, and that’s okay. As a matter of fact I believe God designed it that way. But there comes a point when the hearts desire changes, when it is no longer all about me, but about what I can do for the Lord. What can I do for the Lord? Nothing. He doesn’t need me. He can do anything and everything without my input or help. He doesn’t rely on me for anything (and thank God he doesn’t because if He did, nothing would ever get done). This ‘what to do for God’ could better be described as a yearning to please Him, to make Him smile as a Father would his child. There is a stark contrast between striving to do stuff for God, as if our actions could win or lose His favor, and yearning for the smile of Heaven. The evangelist/author John Piper wrote an excellent book on desiring God and how finding joy in Him is the foundation of pleasing Him and fulfilling our purpose.

But to please God we must have faith. The Bible says that without faith, it is impossible to please God. So, God is restructuring my faith so that it better pleases Him, so that I find more joy in Him, which is exactly what I wanted in the first place! How ironic is it that the frustration resulting from being unable to go deeper with God will be the very thing that God uses to draw me closer to Him?

I left Waffle House that night very exhausted and still somewhat frustrated, but I knew that God was with me, that He hadn’t abandoned me and that He loved me, even if I didn’t feel it or think it or experience it in a tangible, explainable way. And I believe that’s the way God wanted it to be, to put principle into practice.

Charlie kindly paid for dinner even after I argued with him, classic Charlie. I left our waitress a hefty tip, but felt it lacked any real substance in comparison to what God could offer her, or what she could offer Him. Once outside I hugged Charlie good night and drove home.

As chance would have it, I ended up at Charlie’s house later on the night and spent some time in prayer before God with a friend, something I haven’t done in a long time. Again God reminded me that He wasn’t finished with me, that He has hardly begun. I told my friend a little of my evening with Charlie and he confessed to me the same longing to please God in his heart. There was a sweet presence at Charlie’s house as we prayed to our Father and even if there hadn’t been it would have been alright. When I finally went home that night I felt satisfied, like I had honestly pleased my heavenly Daddy in my yearning, in my suffering to find joy in Him. I fell asleep ready to meet with Him the next day, ready for the everyday adventure of having a relationship with Him.