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.