Myself, God and People
February 28^th, 2010

            Faith—a substantial assertion based upon an actual, viable hope, which is presently not seen because it is beyond our work load. 

But faith in what?  Not things.  Folks, things come and go.  Things are the true definition of transient. 

The three recipients of our faith are myself, God and people.  And as you can imagine, the order of that is not only important, but the source of great debate.

I am sympathetic to a religious system that believes the order should be God, me and then others.  In other words, (1) God saves sinners; (2) I am a sinner; (3) people need God.  I comprehend that chain of reasoning.  Looking at our world—and even a quick review of the Bible—might even lend itself toward that philosophy. 

It would be a very popular belief that man is basically evil, just like on the other side, there are those who believe that man is basically good.  The two of them argue all day long.  Each side cites its cases and points with great eloquence and conviction.  Hats off to them.

As usual, I find myself looking at it from a different perspective.  Although the religionist believes that everything must commence with God, having lived fifty-eight years, I realize that my image of God really is a mirrored reflection of what I think about myself.  If I hate myself, I will preach a God who hates.  If I am insecure in myself, I will teach about a God who’s suspicious.  And if I’m conceited in myself, I will tout the virtues of an all-powerful, arrogant God.

I have told you this before and I will tell you again—God created us in His image, and we basically return the favor by creating Him in ours.  So the first part of my faith—in what—is: 

1.  I am redeemable.  Not all good and not all bad, but a perplexing, vexing and often amusing mingling of the two, at inordinately weird times.  But at my core is a seed of Eden and the potential for fulfilling the vision that God had when he created humankind.  If I didn’t believe I was redeemable, it wouldn’t matter how many times you told me I was bad.  All you would do is depress me instead of impress me with the need for repentance.  And if I didn’t believe I was redeemable, all of your efforts to cajole me would be sullied by the evidence of my occasional bouts with bewilderment.  I can survive and excel because I believe I am redeemable, which channels my faith and energizes it towards the second point, which is:

2.  God is my redeemer.  I don’t know who your redeemer is.  It’s your business.  But God is my redeemer, because I figure it this way:  If He created me he probably knows why the good parts work so well and the other parts have broken down.  So if I believe I’m redeemable—not all good and not all bad—and I accept that God is my redeemer, it leads me to number 3, which is:

3.  People can be redeemed.  Every philosophy that begins with “people are all bad” or “people are all good” always ends up with a negative view or a disappointed view of our fellow-man.  I expect people to be jerks sometimes—because I’m one.  I expect people to be insecure—because I am.  I expect people to rise to the occasion when others would think they would fall apart, because I have.  And I expect people to be redeemed—because it’s happening to me.

My problem with doctrines that put their faith in God first or their faith in people first is that they both end up disillusioned and somehow angry at the whole process.  Too bad.  I don’t know much about life and eternity, but I know this:  if you leave this planet thinking that it sucked, how do you ever believe that it can get better?

So that’s where I am.  Faith in what?  I have to find my faith in myself first to be redeemable, so that I can put my faith in God as my redeemer, ending up believing that those folks I meet are able also to be redeemed.

Someone asked me the other day, “How do you want to find yourself when you die?”  I said, “That’s easy.  Clean and hopeful.”

That’s all anybody can ask. 

Actually, that’s all that faith demands.

Multiplication---not Magic
February 27^th, 2010

            Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.  Hebrews 11:1.

            The problem with the word “faith” is that it has become both a verb and a noun, with no distinction made between the two.  In other words, we’ve got to “have faith” in things and “this is a doctrine of my faith.” 

But I know this about faith—it is a substantial assertion—substantial in the sense that it has to be based upon some personal reality in our lives, and an assertion in the sense that it is something we are pursuing.

            I also know this:  this substantial assertion is multiplication—not magic. 

When Jesus fed the five thousand, he started with bread and fish.  Andrew did not bring a little boy who had a ball of twine and a couple of toys to feed the five thousand.  Faith begins when we set out to multiply what we already have instead of insisting on receiving something that we never possessed.  Example:  if you can’t sing, or even carry a tune, I wouldn’t put my faith in becoming a well-known vocalist.  There has to be something of substance so you have the right to make an assertion.

            And then, secondly, it needs to be an actual hope.  One of my pet peeves is that people play the “God game.”  They speak all the right things; they recite all the right verses; they promptly attend worship services.  And then they go out and live their lives as if there were no principles, no God watching and they are practically on their own.  Listen, and listen to me carefully:  if for one second I believed there were no spiritual force in the universe that designed and created us, I would certainly not go through the terrific tedium of trying to understand that force and live my life according to the tenets. 

            Actual hope—not things we pretend we wish would happen, but things we desire—no, perhaps need—to transpire to fulfill our dreams.  We need to pursue things that benefit the bounty of the beauty we already possess.

            And the final part of faith is that presently, it’s unseen.  I love this part.  People think this is where the miracle comes in, when actually it is a final test of our resolve and our honesty, because faith is completely unnecessary, wasted and unrighteous if a good dose of work would achieve the purpose.  Sometimes we pray because we’re too lazy to accomplish.  If it can be seen, and it can be done, and it can be envisioned and put on the boards for accomplishment—then it’s not faith and it’s not necessary to approach if from an aspect of unattainability.  Faith is presently unseen.  If it is achievable, it’s just blessed good works.

            So we’re just taking a minute here to find out what faith is.  (1) It is a substantial assertion—a multiplication of what we already have instead of magically having something appear that was never there before.  (2) It is an actual hope, benefiting the bounty of the present beauty—not something we wish for, but something that is the cog that will cause the wheel to move more freely.  (3) And finally, it’s presently unseen.  It is beyond our work load.  It is beyond our vision.  It is beyond our capability, yet within the spectrum of our need.

            And most of all, it isn’t a game.  It isn’t dress-up-and-play-church and put on Mommy and Daddy clothes and masquerade as believers, and then turn around, go home, take off the disguise, put on our sneakers and go out and play in the mud however we want to.  It is the real understanding that God—who sees in secret—will reward us openly.

            Thank you for letting me explain a little bit about faith.  Now where should we put our faith?  Faith in what?  Or is it who?  Let’s hit that tomorrow.

Wholly is Holy
February 26^th, 2010

Wholly—to pursue to a state of completeness.

Holy—a purity normally generated by piety.

Did you know that the word holy in the Hebrew literally means the same as wholly? 

To be complete.

It is our English language and traditions that have come along and redefined holy to have religious overtones, spiritual implications and moral boundaries.  In other words, when Jesus turned to the woman with the issue of blood and said, “Your faith has made you whole,” he was telling her that her belief in her plan for completion was accounted unto her as a sense of wholeness with God.

I bring this up because I often wonder why the “holy” are not “wholly.”  Much as I may love them and honor their faith, the religious people I meet are inwardly some of the most dissatisfied human beings I encounter, making them outwardly insecure and dangerously judgmental.  Belief that is supposed to produce wholeness in us—in our emotion, spirit, mind and strength, which is the true evidence of being holy—should be more effective in its approach and ramifications.

Why is it possible for people to be “holy” without ever experiencing a status of personal wholeness?  Because “do unto others as you would have them do unto you”—the landmark of the Christian faith and cornerstone of Jesonian thinking—is only possible when you have no axe to grind with your fellow humans because you have found personal satisfaction in your own being.  If you’re ticked off with your own life, you certainly are not going to extend grace and mercy to others.  If you feel confined in a prison of morality and religious rigors, you definitely are going to project that bondage and fear onto other people you meet.

What is the evidence of true spirituality?  Here it is.  True spirituality is completely invisible except for the glowing evidence—testimony of a satisfied person.  We know that something wonderful is happening between God and man when man is at peace with himself and those around him.

We are holy when we are wholly convinced that life is a fruitful experience rather than a travesty of injustice waiting for a righteous conclusion in the great beyond.  How can we achieve this?  Three suggestions:

1.                            If you don’t like something, say so.  It’s going to show up somewhere else anyway—your facial expression, your body language, or even through your body itself with sickness and disease.

2.                            Practice being wrong.  It’s going to happen enough in your life that you should know how you will carry yourself, what you will say and how you will proceed when it occurs.

3.                            Extend those same two courtesies to everyone you meet.  Let them say what they feel and let them have the luxury of being wrong as long as they maintain a repentant attitude.

Jesus said we should forgive people 490 times in a single day if they come truly repentant.  Why?  Because just yesterday, we needed to use 489 units of forgiveness ourselves to transfuse life into our being.  We become holy when we’re wholly involved in the process of sharing, learning and extending mercy in equivalent portions to others. 

Without this, we’re just a bunch of religious fanatics sitting around waiting for the next overwrought cause—sinking our teeth into the bone and flesh of innocent bystanders.

So it is our faith that makes us whole (holy).  My problem?  Faith is such an abstract term and concept.  What IS our faith?  Sounds like tomorrow.

"Make sure the God you tout can deliver for all"
February 25^th, 2010

Humility is so much easier when you discover your own stupidities.  If you delay until other folks stumble upon your dopiness, and then allow them to give their opinions, it is virtually impossible to muster a good dose of the humble.

I wish people realized that.  I often run across really nice folks who convince themselves that they can elude discovery and cover up their inadequacies only to be revealed by lesser fellows, and then they become defensive and nasty.  Too bad.

I think that’s what I like about writing a daily essay.  I can tell you how really crappy I’ve been—and am on occasion, which gives me the upper hand to change my circumstances without too many of your suggestions. 

I remember when I was twenty-two years old … you know, I think it was twenty-one.  Anyway, all of you are familiar with the age.  The religious charismatic movement was all the rage in the country, and Jim and Tammy Baker of the PTL Club were scoring audiences in the millions.  I was temporarily a fan. 

Jim told a story once about how he needed some money to support his ministry and to launch a new project for the Lord, so he wrote a check on a Friday with no funds in the bank, and miraculously, by Monday, God had provided.

Honestly, this just impressed the hell out of me.  Wouldn’t it you?  After all, I was just starting a small music ministry, and God loved me just as much as he loved Jim Baker, right?  So I wrote my miracle check on Friday—also with no money in the bank.  The only problem was, God did not provide over the weekend.  So figuring that it was just a matter of days, maybe hours, before my Gospel-Good-Ship-Lollipop funds would arrive, I wrote another check from one of my other bank accounts, and put it in the first bank account to cover the initial check. 

Well, a few days passed.  And still, no manna from heaven.  No bread from the skies.  I had to cover the check I wrote at the second bank, or it would bounce.  So I cashed a check at my first bank and deposited it to cover the second one.  But being twenty-one years of age, I’d pick up a hamburger, some candy, a razor or something between bank stops, so the checks needed to be larger each time. 

Before I knew it—and that is not just a phrase, but very true—yes, before I knew it, I had over $3,000 of money I was transferring from one bank to another, and had opened up a third bank account so I would have more pliability. 

One day, explaining my magical exchange of funds to a friend, I was informed me that it was illegal—called kiting.  Let me not be pious here.  It did seem a little too easy to be legal.  But I wasn’t sure.  Meanwhile, apparently my shipment of miracle funds was being delayed by some misfortune or perhaps a lazy angel, because no additional money was coming from anywhere or anyone. 

I woke up one morning feeling horrible.  You must understand, the banks thought I was a genius and had come into great sums of money and treated me with the utmost respect.  I suppose in today’s computerized banking system, some red flag would go up.  But this was 1973, and carrier pigeons were still one of the favored forms of communication.

Meanwhile, back to waking up feeling horrible, I realized I had to make a decision.  If the magical check worked for Jim Baker, that was great.  It wasn’t working for me.  So I decided to stop doing my deposit shifting.  I walked into my local IGA grocery store, which, by the way, was where I was cashing most of the checks to get the money to put into my bank accounts, and I told the manager there that within two or three days he would have about $3,000 worth of checks come back to him “Insufficient Funds” from me.  He nearly passed out backwards into about three bushels of tomatoes.    At first he didn’t believe me.  But then, true to my word—or untrue, depending on how you look at it—he began to get all these bounced checks. 

He never prosecuted me.  He didn’t even persecute me.  He just worked with me.  It took me one year, but I paid off every cent, including the check charges.  It was a painful process, and I went from being Big-Daddy-Big-Dollars in my little home town, to being the dishonest jerk.  But it was easy to be humble about it because I discovered my own stupidity. 

So the next time you have a great idea about something God is going to do for everybody simply because a blessing popped your way, be careful passing the story along without many clarifications.  There are an awful lot of impressionable, faithful and hungry souls out there who will grab at any morsel of hope to improve their situation.

Just make sure that what you share with them is God and not ego.  And just make sure that the God you tout can deliver for all.

Five per cent
February 24^th, 2010

Five per cent of the people who attempt it actually achieve their goal.  That means that ninety-five per cent of folks fail. 

Please forgive me, but in a bizarre way, that is extraordinarily comforting.  For after all, we are basically a gregarious species.  Wouldn’t you rather be with ninety-four other friends, joking about your failure, than with four other rigid individuals who sit around and discuss the tenets of their victory?

There’s strength in numbers.  We really do believe that.  God, in America , we’re obsessed with it.  We take polls on everything.  We take polls on taking polls.  And what is the final analysis of every poll?  The notion that more than fifty per cent of those asked the question feel one way or another on an issue lends great credibility to the assertion that the idea is right.

Yes, do I really want to be part of the five per cent who achieve the prize, or is it better to lay back and have great fellowship with the ninety-five percent of slackers? 

We love company.  And it’s not just “misery” that enjoys the companionship.  It’s human beings.  We become very frightened when we’re the only car on the road.  Is the road closed and we just don’t know it?  Is there a tornado warning that we missed somewhere along the line?

In 1491, about five per cent of the population believed that the world was round.  Ninety-five per cent of the people on this planet were convinced that the world was flat.  They had parties, mocking those individuals who believed in a circular orb.  Joke:  “Better be careful!  You might slide off!” 

The ninety-five per cent were wrong. 

If you were born in 1776 in the Americas , you would have lived your entire life never knowing that King George was once the ruler of the land, and also firmly believing that slavery was a normal, acceptable practice.  If you didn’t believe in slavery in your lifetime, you would have been in the five per cent against that norm—and would have lived your entire life span in the minority, without any evidence that your conviction was righteous.

Five per cent achieve their goal.  Ninety-five per cent don’t.  Jesus put it this way:  “Many are called but few are chosen.”  Isn’t that cruel?  Don’t we want to be part of a movement that at least has the potential for achieving a plurality?  Don’t we want to be in the thirty or thirty-five per cent area instead of five per cent?

Five per cent of the people were against segregation.  Five per cent of the people saw the danger of Adolph Hitler in 1933.  Five per cent of the people believed rock and roll was here to stay.  Five per cent of the people contended that the Union should stay intact and that we should not become two countries—North and South.  Five per cent of the people did not cry, “Crucify him!”

I don’t know whether I can do it or not.  I do not know whether my resolve, intelligence, perseverance and just purity of thought will allow me to join with four other people against ninety-five.  And maybe it’s not even against them—just contrary to the popular blow of the breeze.  Can I be five out of a hundred?  Do I want to be festive in the smallest possible party room?  Am I special enough to endure the ridicule, or worse, the social hibernation that often accompanies the power of conviction?

Of course the way to destruction is broad.  Somebody in a car in front of us says, “I’m on my way to a party.  Follow me.”  All we hear is, “Party” and “Follow.”  We never realize that we’re about to drive off the edge of the cliff.

Can I be the five per cent that is standing for the new direction, lifting the banner for meaningfulness?  It’s awfully tempting to be in the majority.  Shoot, it’s downright easy.  And I do understand why America is obsessed with taking polls and finding out the sniff of the whiff.  But sometimes the minority is not only right, but God sent. 

Can I be in the five per cent?  I guess I’m shallow enough that I would need to know who the four other people are.  

Mike
February 23^rd, 2010

His name was Mike.  I would never have met Mike except every once in a while, my life takes a particular twist or turn because of the nature of my occupation, demanding a particular service at a particular time. 

On this day, it was a recording studio.  My film-making son and daughter-in-law in New York had finished a movie and needed some music for the soundtrack, so I had taken a morning a few days ago and written the music.  Because I was on the road, I needed a studio to record it in.  So my wife, Dollie, called around and found Mike’s place.

I drove off into the traffic of Houston , Texas , with my directions in hand and arrived at the location.  It is what some people refer to as the “bad side of town.”  I, myself, don’t use that terminology because wealthier snoots than I might consider my abode to be on the bad side of town.   Such is the nature of the beast we call human.  But I think it’s safe to say that Mike’s community was not experiencing an outgrowth of affluence.

I had never met Mike before, so I got out of my car and he warmly greeted us, welcoming us into his home, where he had his equipment and studio.  In a couple of sentences, Mike explained that his previous studio had been broken into, so he had to move into this house to continue his work.  I think he was a little embarrassed with the surroundings.  It didn’t bother me.  Let me be honest with you—I’ve eaten a hamburger in a fancy restaurant, a McDonalds, a Backyard Barbeque and from the side window of a Roach Coach in a parking lot.  It’s still a hamburger.

But then something interesting happened.  Out of the clear, blue sky, he said that the devil was the reason his studio was broken into.  And immediately—like a big bolt of lightning flashing through my head—I realized the source of the popularity of this fellow named Satan.  Being the kind of creatures we are, we love to relieve ourselves of responsibility and quickly find a name on which to place the blame.  And who could be better than Satan, who, after all, nobody really likes (except some girls in Paramus , New Jersey , attending high school and wearing Goth make-up).    It isn’t like anyone is going to defend him if we blame him for our latest misfortune.

Another example: a lady at the front desk of our motel said that because there might be snow in Houston , Texas , tonight, it was a sign of the Book of Revelation and the end of the world.  Wow.  Crazy me—I thought it was just winter and every once in a while, it snows.  It does happen, you know.  Maybe not very often, but every once in a while, Mother Nature just throws us a curveball to let us know that she’s still Big Mama.

Meanwhile, back at the studio—I really liked Mike.  We bonded quickly.  The project was successful and he shared with me about his grown children and how well they were doing.  And in those moments he was a proud papa, an aspiring craftsman, and a bit of an entrepreneur.  It’s just so sad that he renders himself insipid and impotent by bringing up the name of the symbol of all incarnate evil in relationship to a robbery performed by neighborhood hoodlums who think they deserve more than they’re willing to work for.

There are a lot of Mikes in the world.  There are a lot of front-desk ladies.  And I can’t help but think what happier people they would be if they weren’t always trying to find a “devil” in their situations, or even in a blue dress.  (Sorry—a pop culture reference, there.)

We left Mike’s studio, project completed, probably never to see him again.  But I hope he knows how much we enjoyed our time with him, his openness and his kindness.  I also hope that Mike knows that God is much stronger than all evil.  

I also hope that people like Mike will one day choose to get the “devil out of the devil.”

'Makin do"
February 22^nd, 2010

Three colliding philosophies, struggling to occupy the same Earth space, disagreeable with one another—shoot, downright ornery. You know the first two real well, although you may never have thought of it this way.  The “not enough” philosophy and the “too much” philosophy—ALWAYS at each other’s throats. 

There are folks who grow up believing that there’s not enough of anything—not enough money, not enough time, not enough love, not enough war, not enough God, not enough fun.  Ingrained in their being is the notion that no matter how good things may get, they could have been better if we’d had just a little bit more.  So every victory party is raided and cut short by the late arrival of a complaining spirit that wishes things could have been a bit more plentiful.  When they eat, there’s not enough food.  When they pray, there are not enough words.  The “not enough” folk.

Certainly they’re diametrically opposed to the “too much” brigade, which believes if we could just trim back all the unnecessary factors in life, and, for that matter, a few choice people, the world would be a better place.  Too much sin.  Too much government.  Too much time on people’s hands.  Too much cussing on TV.  Too much of everything they can think of in the moment which explains why their world does not orbit perfectly around themselves.  The “too much” brigade.

Now, when I was a kid, we used to laugh at these people.  The “not enough’ers” could be joked out of their sour moods—to think better thoughts.  And the “too much-ites” could be coaxed into an appreciation for the provisions provided.  But now they’ve turned into political parties, religious movements, organizations and determined little marchers on their crusade to prove their point, sometimes, it seems, at all costs—certainly to the detriment of progress.

I began this essay, though, by saying there were three philosophies.  My Grandpa Ford had a way of thinking which I am sure is not unique to him, or even to our region of the country.  He referred to it as “make do.”  For instance, he’d open up his refrigerator, look in, shake his head, and then he’d laugh, start pulling stuff out and say, “Oh, if we put our mind to it, we can take these eggs, little piece of ham, some tomatoes, and well—we’ll just make do.”

And we did.  And it was delicious.  We never noticed the lack or ever were overwhelmed by a fear of too much coming in to smother us to death.  We just made do. 

Sometimes I think that’s what Jesus did when the disciples sheepishly brought him five loaves and two fishes to feed the five thousand.  Can you imagine what a pain in the ass he would have been if he had turned to them and said, “This is not enough”?  Or if he had looked at the crowd and said, “It’s just too much.”  Instead he made do.  He took what he had, blessed it, worked with it and made it do something.

We certainly need a third party in this country if for no other reason, to finally have some group of individuals who might actually do something instead of complaining about how it’s “not enough” or it’s “too much.”  Maybe it doesn’t need to be a party—just some good, intelligent beings who will laugh at the “not enough'ers” and chide the “too much-ites” and just go out there and make do.

But you might say, “What if there ISN’T enough?  Or there IS too much of something?  Isn’t it our responsibility to point these things out so life will get better?”

  I guess, folks, I’ve never seen life get better by pointing things out.  I’ve only seen life improve when we take the things we’ve got and get to the point of finding a way to make it work out.

Who are you in this equation?  “Not enough?”  Always wishing for more and feeling cheated?  “Too much?” Fussing about a society that you have very little power to change? 

Or are you like my Grandpa Ford?  Are you making do?  Because I can tell you right now, there’s only one of these philosophies that will ever cause you to smile.  And without a smile, we all start looking like the grumpy relatives we used to hate.

Prayer to me is...
February 21^st, 2010

I was thinking about prayer.  Perhaps that’s an oxymoron.  Yes, maybe the more you think about prayer, the less it’s actually prayer.  Prayer is more of an experience—the ultimate leap of faith; something we do—or something we stop doing—so better can be accomplished.

It’s a little bit of all those, isn’t it?  I like the meditation part.  It’s good for me.  I don’t naturally meditate.  But every once in a while, when I slow down long enough to think about something other than the next minute’s entanglement, well, it’s like putting an ice-pack on my fevered emotions.  It cools things down.

I had a late-night conversation with a friend.  After I hung up, I felt compelled to pray for him.  Compelled—why?  And if I told him I prayed for him, would he understand?  Or would he wonder why?  Or does he already know why?

Sometimes the best prayers are not when we ask for stuff.  I like prayers of thanksgiving.  I’ve giggled and teared my way through many of those.  Sometimes it’s just nice to speak aloud to the universe that you suspect you are not the central theme of every plot.  I especially like prayers of compassion.  I probably don’t use them enough.  It was a prayer of compassion when Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”  Sometimes I think to say one of those right before I honk my horn at somebody who has cut me off in traffic.  Most times not.  But they’re still really great prayers.  A powerful prayer is a prayer for wisdom.  The reason that prayer is so magnificent is that it is a petition of inclusion. 

I think about the prayers I’ve said over the years—the ones I believed were answered, and the ones I must reluctantly must admit I felt were ignored.  You know, the ones that were answered had one central theme to them, and the ones I sensed were passed over had an absence of the same ingredient.  The prayers that were answered universally asked God to join me in my pursuit for the better way.  The prayers that were shuffled to the rear always were pleas for God to take control, leaving me guiltless and unattached to any responsibility.  After all, even in the Lord’s Prayer, the condition is “Forgive us as we forgive.”

Maybe that’s the true magic of prayer—or maybe it’s not magical at all.  There’s a guy on TV who says that prayer is silly people talking to their imaginary friend.  Who knows?  But in this day and age of isolation and betrayal, even imaginary friends should be cherished.  At least, I think so.

There we are—back to thinking.  Some people think prayers should be long.  They use the word “tarry,” which, loosely translated, means “one eye bowed and one eye looking at the clock, wondering how long is long enough.”

Some people like short prayers, figuring that God already knows what we’re thinking anyway.  Maybe He does, and maybe the people we love know we love them.  But words are still necessary, aren’t they?

Every culture has some form of meditation or prayer, for every once in a while, the word “wow” has to come out of our mouths—both in appreciation and exasperation.  We’re never dangerous until we believe that we are completely self-contained.

Yeah, I like prayer.  I don’t want anybody telling me how to pray, though.  Public prayer sometimes bothers me because it’s more of a speech contest than a heavenly reaching, or at least it feels that way.  Jesus said it’s best to go into your closet.  Maybe that’s where the conservatives and liberals can agree—it may be the only time we all could come out of the closet and be better off.  Anyway, enough silliness.  After all, prayer can’t be silly.  Or can it?  I certainly have prayed silly prayers, that in retrospect, I was glad were not answered to my favor.

Prayer is really simple to me.  It has three distinct phases.  1)  I decide it’s time to consult somebody besides me; 2) I take a few moments to find out where “me” is in the process; and 3) I include the Father in the next parts of the journey.

Yes, that’s prayer to me.  But it sure is a lot to think about.  Or maybe not.

1.5 seconds
February 20^th, 2010

1.5 seconds.  One-thousand-one-and . . .

Just about that long.  Very brief, if you think about it.  Of course, one-and-a-half seconds doesn’t give you much time to think. 

It’s the length of time it takes to reach back and turn off a light.  Grab a hat for your head.  Pick up a wallet you almost forgot.  Peek out the window at the weather for the day.  Grab an umbrella, just in case.  Open the refrigerator and nab a water bottle.  Take a quick, deep breath as you step out into the morning air.  An extra moment to adjust your seat belt.  Or . . . just one-and-a-half seconds of checking your rear-view mirror before you pull away.

Very quick.  Seemingly insignificant. 

But yesterday, during my stay in Houston , Texas , I was driving on a secondary road, coming up to a stop light which was bright green, when suddenly, whizzing before me at about sixty miles an hour, was a black truck.  Please understand, I did not see the black truck and stop suddenly and jerk to a halt.  There was no time to stop.  This individual had run a bright red light for whatever reason, and had I been one-and-a-half seconds earlier, I would have been in his pathway instead of just barely missing him as he barreled through to his destination.  There would have been nothing I could have done, because even with my 1.5 seconds of grace, there was still nothing to accomplish.  No place to go.  No—that one-and-a-half seconds just allowed him to clear the intersection so we didn’t collide.

So I went through my usual process that I encounter during such mishaps.  A gasp, followed by a burning anger, immediately accompanied by some choice words that pop to my head, then a quick cool-down by the delightful realization that I was all right.  All right—by one-and-a-half seconds.  It wouldn’t have been my fault.  It would have been a tragedy marked by people questioning the purpose and God’s proximity to protecting me.  But it didn’t happen.  By one-and-a-half seconds.

So I got to thinking about it.  What delayed me by one-and-a-half seconds yesterday morning—to enable me to escape a serious collision and continue my drive on to a restaurant for dining, instead of a rush to a hospital for treatment?  What did I decide to stop to do for one-and-a-half seconds that bought me some precious time to gaze at potential tragedy instead of graze up against it?

And I came to a conclusion.  Perhaps what we all end up eventually doing, in our massive hurry to get to some place too quickly—we leave one detail undone because we’re “just too busy.”  We don’t go back and turn off the light—even though we insist we believe in being green.  We don’t check the weather, so we end up without the umbrella.  We don’t look back and see the wallet we’ve left behind, so we arrive at the store, frustrated, without our money.  We have eschewed the idea of being anal and have labeled “attention to detail” as a vice rather than a virtue—leaving us rushing towards tragedy.

Yes, I believe maybe that’s the key—taking the extra moment to do things right rather than leaving them undone and rushing out the door in a frantic frenzy to face a day that has already established a pace and direction beyond our comprehension.

Why not just stop and do it right—and get there a little bit later?  Start a little bit earlier to make sure the slight delay doesn’t make you tardy.  Why not buck the present system—which, by the way, is not doing very well on its own juices—and be that person who pays attention to things that need to be done before stumbling into the next activity.  Maybe that’s the whole key.  Maybe what we call “accidents” are really pre-planned, careless adventures, where some detail was left undone, which places us in the middle of a melee instead of a blessed few seconds later.

Perhaps if we would just focus on the details of the present project, we would actually be arriving and surviving in the right time-framework instead of a few moments ahead of time, taking our breath away.

It got me thinking.  Because that morning, when my black truck was on a suicide mission, I had stepped back in and picked up a notebook I thought I might need for some ideas during our luncheon meeting.  It took about two seconds.  It was just long enough for me to have a notebook, to be fresh and alert, and to avoid the black truck.  Superstitious?  Contrary to that.  It’s superstitious for me to believe that God spared me from being hit by the black truck or that the person who would have been hit by the black truck was just being called home to his heavenly reward. 

There may not be a lot we can do in our lives to focus them and funnel blessing our way, but details are something that require our attention and if we will just perform them faithfully, they might be able to buy us that extra 1.5 seconds . . .  and keep us out of harm’s way.  

" Is it  REALLY good?"
February 19^th, 2010

He probably rehearsed all morning.  After all, no one wants to look stupid, especially in front of important people.  An important person.  A superstar of the times, perhaps.  You want to say the right thing.  You want to say it the right way.  You want to mingle sincerity with a bit of cleverness, accentuated by a burst of intelligence.  How many different phrasings did he practice?  But now the time has arrived; he is at the front of the line.  All eyes are diverted toward him and it is his time to speak.  This is it.

“Good Master, what must I do to be saved?”

It was a great phrasing, he thought.  Maybe there was a little crackle in his voice, and it wasn’t delivered with the gusto he had hoped, but all the ingredients were there.  Respect—after all, he called him “Master.”  “Saved”—a desire to achieve greater spiritual quality without admitting too much inadequacy.  And of course, the word “good”—the verbal panacea to cover a multitude of situations.  “Good.”  It is the broadcloth pulled up to the chin of humanity to warm us in the chilly night of our mundanity.

He said it.  He was waiting.  And then came the response.

“Why do you call me ‘good?’  There is none good but God.”

The young man was disappointed with the response from his hero.  He didn’t realize his little speech was going to be critiqued for content.  He meant well.  After all, “good” is a word that covers everything.  It is the universal “God bless you” to the sneeze of effort.  It is our way of seeking approval from others for what we do, by placing a checkmark next to their accomplishments. 

Now, we even say, “It’s all good.”  Really?  And if there is no bad—if there is no mediocre—if there is no less-than-fulfilling—if there is no, “Nice try, Charlie, but no cigar”—when will we ever see excellence again?

By the way, Jesus told that young man that he only lacked one thing.  Since he was rich, young and he was a ruler, Jesus told him to sell everything he had and give it to the poor, and to come and follow him.  The young man walked away sadly, is what the Bible says—because he was very rich.

See, that’s what happens when you want everything to be good, and you’re not willing to find great.  That’s the toll life takes on those who insist upon declaring each effort “good,” instead of pursuing excellence.  So if Jesus is right and God is the only good force at work, it really does change—or at least should change—our entire vernacular.

Yes, good has become one of the most dangerous words in our society.  It is a replacement for personal critique.  It is the salve we put on the wound of inefficiency.  And it is the personal head-scratch of approval we give to all the failed attempts to fetch and retrieve that should just be proclaimed to be . . . a dog.

How do we know when something is REALLY good?  Three questions:

1.      Did it accomplish its goal?

2.      Did it improve the situation?

3.      Was it what we really wanted?

If the answer to any of those is no, then we need to go back to the drawing board—if we actually ever took the time to set one up.  “Good” is what we say when we don’t know what to say.  “Good” is the compliment we give when we hope to receive one in return.  And “good” is the agreement we offer so we don’t have to become involved to produce something better.

If God is the only “good,” then when we actually arrive at “good,” we should find God, right?  I sit here thinking about how many times in my life I have really found God in a moment of inspiration or creativity.  So that’s what “good” is like, huh? 

I guess we need to be careful not to lower the bar, lest we become drunken on self-deception.

Plan B
February 18^th, 2010

            I would be a terrible Jew, because Judaism leaves me cold—more or less a blending of historical fireside tales with a few bumps and inklings of philosophy. 

 Also I would find myself baffled by the Muslims—a feuding brother of Judaism who took the most pungent parts of the Old Testament philosophy and formed it into a culture allowing for domination.

            Buddhism?  Not for me.  I know there is no such thing in human beings as a spiraling consciousness, especially when suppressing emotions.  Doggone it, emotions are one of the best parts of us.

            On the other hand, I would be a horrible atheist.  Am I alone in saying that enjoying my life is important to me, but believing that life has no sustaining beyond my last breath is a bit debilitating?

            There are a lot of other religions.  Honestly, I haven’t studied all of them—because religion, by sound and definition, leaves me cold.

            Which brings me to Christianity.  I guess if it weren’t for Jesus, I would be a very adept agnostic, able to argue down any religiously burdened individual who dared cross my path—not through hostility, but through the gentleness and simplicity of reason.  But the entrance of Jesus into my life complicated my plans for personal rule.  It’s the whole suggestion of projecting my passions out to others that continues to cause me to be a believer in His life. 

            Other religions threaten the golden rule, but then douse the fire of the principles with watered-down tenets and regulations.  “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”   It’s everything—planet friendly.

Well, that would be the end of my story if it weren’t for this doggone thing called the “doctrine of the atonement.”  And this is that time of year when it has cropped up again.    I’m told that Jesus is the final sacrifice for our sins.  Yet with my numerous readings of the Bible, I comprehend that God at no time honored and respected the practice of blood sacrifice.  And when it was finally enacted in the Jewish tradition, the lamb that was slain was slaughtered quickly, with one stroke of the knife across the throat, to bleed out in mere moments as the symbol of absolution.

            So why did God’s son have to endure hours and hours of brutal torture and experience an execution not suited for man or beast?  Is our character really so abhorrent to God that the ugliness of the crucifixion had to demonstrate the depth of our perversions and the heights of His disdain?  Are we really such hopeless, damnable individuals, unworthy of being in God’s presence that a physical demonstration of the revulsion had to be acted out on a hill in a backward country?

            Now if you’re telling me that Jesus lived his thirty-three years of life pursuing excellence and sharing his Gospel with mankind, with the hopes that receptivity might be found, and then God, honoring His decision of freewill for all, stepped away and permitted the ignorant and the arrogant to initiate an assassination, which God, in His infinite wisdom and cleverness, has interpreted to be redemption for us all by raising His son from the dead—then that I can understand.  Human beings have always murdered the truth to only later honor the victim with a day off from work.

            What is it?  If you try to separate Jesus from his miracles, you have a message that is trying to shout above all the other clarions in the wilderness.  If you remove the message from the miracles, you create a mystical religion that exists only to fulfill previous prophet’s dreams. 

            I need the message.  And I need the miracles—to lift the man onto the shoulders of time so he can be more easily seen.  But the atonement—or actually, the doctrine of atonement—is what troubles me.  If God had always honored sacrifice and lied to his prophets about His true feelings and decided from the foundation of the world to kill His son, then what switcheroo is going to be placed on me at the last judgment?  If I can’t trust His words, how can I follow God?  If He isn’t the God of love and light who has the power to adjust to human stupidity by turning our attempts at reason, which really are damnable acts of pride, into clever implements of our salvation, what good is He to us?

            I know all the stories about the atonement.  I know all the scriptures.  I know all the reasons.  I know there are even people who believe that God turned away from His son on the cross and forsook Him because the Almighty is unable to look upon sin.  I can look on sin.  I see it every day—in both life and the mirror.  What kind of wimp is He?  How insipid and flagrantly anemic does He appear to be if He is unable to look on the weaker moments of the children He says He loves?

            No, there’s a problem here, folks.  And it’s made worse by the fact that Christians don’t become better human beings contemplating the massacre and desecration of God’s son.  We just become stagnant.

            And if life is not about discovering a better path of self-awareness and understanding, then why would I want to go to a heaven that will continue the same mundane conclusions?

            No, I don’t get it.  I believe Jesus gave his life.  I believe he laid it down, having other choices available to him.  I guess you’d just have to say that I contend and know deep in my soul—it was Plan B.

"Persons of Fat"
February 17^th, 2010

            Kevin Smith got bumped off a Southwest Airlines flight because he was too fat for the seat. 

The only reason you and I know this is because Kevin Smith makes movies.  If he were just an average fat Joe or Jane, we would be oblivious to the problem.  Or is it a problem?  Or is it just a situation?

            The airlines provide seventeen inches of butt room for every person who sits on their flights.  I have never heard anyone on an airplane comment on how “roomy things are.”  I have never seen three normal people sitting side by side on an airplane in any state of comfort whatsoever.  So if we’re starting on the basis of universal uncomfortability, is there any sense in criticizing someone who wants twenty or twenty-two inches of butt room when everybody else on the plane would welcome such an innovation also? 

I guess it’s the classic battle between “need” and “want.”  If you want twenty-two inches of butt room, you’re just advancing a preference.  If you need twenty-two inches of butt room in your seat, you are a misfit and open to some form of public ridicule.

            The thing Southwest Airlines does not realize is the great service or opportunity provided by having Persons of Fat (my new term) on their plane.  Because Persons of Fat offer five obvious and immediate benefits to you, their fellow-passengers:

1. Because they might have a desire to ask for THREE packages of peanuts, you won’t feel nearly as gluttonous for requesting a second.
2. How about this one?  Sitting next to them can only make you look smaller—and svelte.
3. Here’s an obvious one.  In the case of a rough landing, being near a Person of Fat offers you a soft landing spot—or at least more pleasant bounceabilty.
4. Their presence on the airline causes the executives to consider making seats suitable for real butts instead of believing it’s a charter flight for models on their way to the Paris runway.
5. And of course, in the case of the misfortune of a crash landing which places everybody in a life boat close to a deserted island, having a fat person along who is able to live more suitably on a diet of coconuts and distilled algae for a longer period of time provides a witness when the rescue team arrives to tell your loved ones your closing thoughts and words before your scrawny butt died.

You see?   Right off the top of my head—five untapped concepts of a positive nature for having Persons of Fat aboard your plane.  I bet Kevin Smith didn’t think of any of those. 

      But seriously (and by the way, in this day and age of absolutely ludicrous unfoldings in our society, it is difficult to do).  But seriously, we all have problems.  Persons of Fat have a very obvious and blubberous cross to bear.  Do we owe them anything?  Do we have the right to treat them with disdain because of their handicap?  Are we being prejudiced by chiding and mocking them for their obesity? 

      I’ll let you decide that.  But being a Person of Fat throughout all my years, I will tell you this:  emotionally, mentally and probably even spiritually, it’s made me stronger.  I have had to learn how to lead with other qualities than my appearance.  I have needed to powder and fragrance myself to avoid the stereotypes that exist in people’s minds.  And I have worked on my talent to make sure I’m of benefit to the tribe since I probably won’t become the messenger running warnings up the hill to the chieftain.

      But in the realm of my physical, it has and does take its toll.  And the more weight I lose, the better I feel.  And when I put a few pounds back on, I begin to feel like crap again.  Any Person of Fat who denies that is—well—in denial.

      So am I better off?  No.  I’m like everybody else.  I’m just off, trying to get better.

"Indivisible"
February 16^th, 2010

                “Under God.”

            People are certainly worked up over those two words.  Some folks are concerned that other individuals are trying to take those two words out of our Pledge of Allegiance—One nation under God.

            We sure are interesting specimens, aren’t we?  I think “under God” is a nice inclusion, myself.  It’s the next word that troubles me.  “Indivisible”—which, by the way, defined means “unable to be divided.”

            So what happens if we believe we’re “one nation under God” but we are divisible?  We are able to be segmented, separated, disenfranchised and enraged at one another?  I mean, what good did it do us to be “under God” if we can no longer tolerate being with each other?

            Is it just God-speak?  Political fodder?  Campaign slogans? 

Because no one is complaining about the fact that our nation actually is quite divisible.  No one seems to be ranting and raving over the notion that the same people who demand  “one nation under God” are quite satisfied to be segregated from their fellow-Americans on so many other issues and in so many other ways.  You see, if we’re NOT indivisible, the last part of that pledge becomes a piece of corn-pone baloney—“with liberty and justice for all.”

            So am I to understand this correctly?  We will know that our nation is really under God when we do not allow our populous to become divided over stumbling blocks, but instead, give every man, woman and child the personal space—liberty, if you will—to do whatever they deem necessary as long as it doesn’t harm themselves or others, and then ensure we have a legal system that protects those rights and makes them fair for all individuals.  We will know our nation is “under God,” not because it’s a clause inserted into the Pledge of Allegiance, but rather, because we are becoming indivisible.

            Why don’t you and I help?  I, for one, refuse to participate in “handles” that people can grab onto to jerk one another from side to side and yank each other from consideration.

	Conservative—gone from my vocabulary.
	Liberal—blown away.
	Religious—a term of the past.
	Male and female—I refuse to join into the separation of the sexes for the purposes of commerce or comedy.

            Lutheran.  Methodist.  Baptist.  Unitarian.  Buddhist.  Muslim.  Black.  White.  African-American.  German-American.  Anything-American.  Republican.  Democrat.  Independent. 

Any word that creates a distinguishable difference between people without making them seem more distinguished as human beings has become spittle in my mouth.  I will not identify myself or anyone I am associated with by a handle that allows them to be mis-handled by their fellow-humans and manipulated into a box where they’re placed for suffocation. 

            Indivisible is the key word to confirm that we’re under God.  And indivisibility will be further accentuated and proven when there IS liberty and justice for all.  Don’t come at me from a religious angle to make a social point.  And don’t come at me from a social direction to disparage the power of religion and belief.  We need God to remind us that He is no respecter of persons and therefore, we need never become haughty and separate ourselves from other people with our piety.  And we need that commonality to remind us that we must extend liberty and justice for all.

            Don’t get hyped up on one phrase and miss the meaning of the sentence.  If you do, you might find yourself honoring a God who has long since departed from your presence.

"speak up"
February 15^th, 2010

            “Speak up!”

            That’s what she said to me.  It was a dear lady I met yesterday at my performance, who was explaining to me her philosophy of life.  She had lived for eighty-three years, and seventy-two of them had been spent singing in church choirs, while also within that span raising children, which had now rendered her twenty grandchildren and, if I remember correctly, nine great-grand-children, ranging in age from six months to forty-one years.  She said she had taught all of these young ones they were important and that their voices needed to be heard—and they didn’t need to be right to speak up.

            It’s an amazing thing that even though eighty-three years may show up in some creaks and crevices on the face, the eyes and countenance can still gleam with the mischief and majesty of a little girl.  She was alive.  She shared about how she believed that she and her husband had a mission—to raise good human beings and make their children the kind of folks that causes the earth to be better instead of just cluttered.  She said she believed there had been times when she was sick and didn’t think she could sing in the church choir, but she asked God to give her voice because she had a hankering to impart the message—and the voice was there. 

She believed it was a miracle.  Cynics would call it chance—or maybe her learning to “sing over the top” of a cold.  But you see, the problem with being a cynic is, you may end up having all the answers, but no friends to share it with.

            This lady had lots of friends.  This lady had lots of hope.  This lady believed the church was not a place to sit around and be quiet, but rather, a house of celebration. 

Why would we want to serve a God who just seems to get older as we do and more grouchy to match?  When we were younger, we believed God was a lot more tolerant than we do now.  I’ve got some news for you—God doesn’t get old.  We do.  God doesn’t get grumpy about children and too much noise.  We do.  God doesn’t want silence in His church.  We do.  God doesn’t want meditation and somberness to be the norm when we’re in His presence.  We do.

            This lady had some things figured out.  She believed in speaking up. 

            I just wonder what would have happened in our country if people had spoken up sooner about slavery, about war, about women’s rights and even about the dangers of over-religiosity. 

Would we be better off?  We certainly would have been warned.  And let’s be candid.  The job of a prophet is not to guarantee that people will act upon what they’ve heard.  It’s just to make sure it was said.

            What a delightful woman I met yesterday, who had lived eighty-three years and was still “juiced” with the anticipation of doing some more.

            “Speak up!”  After all, it can’t be any stupider than what we’re already hearing.

My Ladies
February 14^th, 2010

                Valentine’ Day.

            It is a twenty-four hour period which the masses and media commemorate and coddle as a time to express your love to another person—how much they mean to you.

            But February 14^th is more than that to me.  It’s a day when I carefully remember the fourteen women who have transformed my human experience and granted me the gracious essence of their beings to enhance my ever-evolving maleness.

            First there was my mother, Mary, who permitted my birth and then nursed me through a gauntlet of childhood illnesses that seemed determined to snuff me out before I even began. 

            Then a wife named Dollie, who for forty years has remained faithful, while joining with me to produce some fine sons—w ho both mirror the vision and offer enough flavor of their own to keep things tasty.

            I can’t ever forget Lu Anne and Debbie, who traveled with me for eight years with a group called Soul Purpose, practically living off the land, singing and performing on stages ranging from some obscure little trailer-church in Wyoming to the Grand Ole Opry and the PTL Club.

            There there was a trio of ladies who saw talent in me and invested their time and money to nurture that seedling to a bit of fruitfulness—Dottie Rambo, Marijohn Wilkin and Norma Boyd. 

            Has any man ever had three finer daughters-in-law, with Angy from California , Tracy , from Tennessee and Angel, from China —each distinguishable, yet united in their hearts and passions.

            Then of course, there was the truly magical introduction of a woman named Janet, who came both as partner, traveling companion and a bit of a muse to aid me in this calling of mine, which before her arrival had nearly faded from my ears.

            Two granddaughters—Lily and Isabella—who are not just important because they’re family, but bring a spark and intelligence that bodes well for the next generation of females trying to remove the blinders from a male-dominated society and enliven a planet that is dull by complacency.

            And the last one is a tribute to the Unknown Woman—the thousands I have known and have yet to meet, whose industrious spirits, willingness to adapt and independent-mindedness have generated the kind of climate change needed in this chilly environment.

            Fourteen women whom I salute on this day.

            I don’t call it Valentine’s Day.  To me, it’s Valiant-Time Day, because not only do these women have to perform their duties well, but often wading through the glue and glum of a sluggard consciousness.

            I thank them.  I thank them for helping me discover gentleness, tenderness tenacity—and for confirming that it is truly “not good for me to be alone.”

Warning Signs
February 13^th, 2010

            When is determination just stubbornness, doing a really clever impersonation of perseverance?  In like manner, when is belief merely prejudice wearing the garment of conviction?  Good questions, huh?

                I was twenty-two years old and had started a music group—much to the chagrin, dismay and disapproval of most of my friends and family, who believed that since I had already fathered two children, I should settle in and go to work for Buckeye-Mart, doing whatever they required.  I was determined not to forsake my aspirations just because circumstances seemed to be dictating a provincial path.

            I got a chance to take my little group up to Bowling Green University to do a concert, followed by a church gig the next day.  We were thrilled.  Unfortunately, we didn’t have transportation.  So I asked a friend of mine who had a gospel quartet if he would allow us to use his bus, which had been converted into a traveling motor-home-type vehicle.  He was a good friend.  I had been a good friend to him, too.

 So he invited us to come over to his house so he could show us the ropes about the bus.  I was so excited about doing the performance at the college that I really didn’t listen to anything he said.  I do vaguely remember him warning that it was all about the oil pressure gauge—that as long as the bus had fuel and oil, it would “go to the moon and back.”  I laughed at the joke but missed the point.

            Later that day, I was stepping down out of the bus and my foot landed in a huge hole.  I wrenched my ankle worse than any other time I can remember in my life.  It turned black and blue and swelled up to at least four times its normal size.  A doctor was out of the question.  I was twenty-two years old and didn’t believe that I was in need of medical attention no matter what.  I couldn’t walk.  But to me, canceling the date in Bowling Green was the abomination of desolation.  So I practiced walking, which, of course, made things worse.  I didn’t care. 

 Somehow or another, I got myself back up on that bus and we drove to Bowling Green .  I struggled down out of the bus, and even though it was only a hundred yards to the stage, it took me twenty-five minutes to get there on my lame limb, and I ended up drenched in perspiration.

            Only forty-two students showed up for the concert, but we did the best show we could, and I played the best piano possible—my left leg up on a chair.  I crawled back into the bus, and we started towards home.

            My friend was driving.  He was tired.  I wasn’t much help because I was in so much pain, was exhausted and went to sleep.  The next thing I knew, I woke up to find us stopped alongside the road, and my buddy was standing out alongside the smoking engine of a very forlorn-looking back of a bus.  The oil pressure had gone down, but since my friend, like me, had not listened to instructions, he did not know where to put the oil even if he had it, so he just kept driving home, hoping everything would be all right.  It wasn’t.

            The next day I had to call my buddy who loaned us the bus and tell him we blew the engine.  He thought I was just overwrought until he arrived and saw the damage.  To his saintly credit, he never charged me anything nor sued me for my stupidity.  We saw each other after that, but it was never the same.

            There were lots of warning signs.  First and foremost was that twenty-two-year-old people probably shouldn’t be borrowing buses.  A sprained ankle is a pretty good deterrent, too.  And of course, there was that pesky oil pressure gauge, which did its job to the lethal end. 

            But I was ablaze, sparked by my ferocious appetite caused by the lack of encouragement I received for my dream from those who said they loved me.  I thought I was being perseverant past a painful ankle, when actually I was just stubborn, trying to prove a point.

            How can you know?  Are there any warning signs for tunnel-visioned oblivion?  Can we read some sort of tea-leaves that tell us we’re about to ingest poison?

            One good sign is that if people are going to get hurt, including you, you probably should stop and give it a second thought. 

Yeah, with my youthful lack of knowledge, pending irresponsibility and busted-up ankle, well . . . I should have just gotten off the bus.  

"Are demons real?"
February 12^th, 2010

                Demons. 

God, I sure wish I had their publicist and agent, because our society seems obsessed with the notion of rampant evil, threatening our goodly domestic existence.  Movie after movie and book after book—piling on new story lines about the power of evil, which only in specific cases is barely conquered by love in the last desperate seconds.

            I had someone tell me yesterday that if I didn’t believe in Satan then I didn’t believe in God—because God made Satan.  Yes.  Evil, demons, Satan—they certainly have a powerful promo team representing them. 

But are demons real?    Is there a resonating embodiment of evil? 

Let’s start with this:  Goodness is possible.  How?  Well, goodness is a process.  When we, emotional creatures that we are, decide to deal with our feelings and filter them through our spirits for cleansing and introspection, our minds are renewed.  This is the trail that leads to goodness.  So it only stands to reason that if we’re off that trail, is and our emotions are ignored or repressed, and the spirit is not allowed to purify our feelings, then the unrenewed mind can go crazy with its own desires and lusts.  So the end result is the opposite of goodness, which is evil—or at least some facsimile thereof. 

But is there a supernatural evil, outside of the human expression of the vice?  Is there a Satan that incarnates darkness—just as we believe Jesus was the incarnation of God’s light? 

I do believe there are two kinds of evil, and one of them certainly resembles spirituality gone bad.  Because when human evil takes form, it manifests itself by hurting others.  But spiritual evil is self-destructive—attacking the host and vexing the human being with an over-religiosity.

Yes, I believe spiritual evil is best described as an overly-religious attitude that causes individuals to repress their feelings so much that they’re bent on hurting themselves.  I contend that human evil is the repression of emotions that causes the mind to go a kilter with plots of how to hurt others.

In the Bible we have a story of a man possessed by demons who tore at himself, and the same man, while under the spell of these spirits, proclaimed Jesus to be the son of God.  An interesting blending, don’t you think?  Religion, repression and self-destruction.  It says clearly that Jesus cast this demon out –and it was obvious the man was healed because he was “sitting, clothed and in his right mind.”

            I do believe there is spiritual evil, but I think it always has a religious core to it that suppresses human desire and replaces it with a self-mutilating idea of how to please God.  And I think there is human evil—which is also a repression of true emotion, but a mental imbalance that causes people to want to hurt others instead of themselves. 

So how do we know that we’re all right? 

We can actually sit.  When frantic energy rules your life, it is always because you’re failing recognize an emotional cry which is pleading to be dealt with in a realistic way.  People who are unable to sit, relax and discuss, but always have to be up and moving because they are “so full of energy” are really just avoiding an emotional upheaval.

            Also, we’re going to be clothed.  Now that doesn’t just mean putting nice threads on our bodies.  That means being satisfied with what we presently have.  Even though we may be aspiring for more, we are doing so with a sense of contentment. You’ve heard the phrase, “avoid the appearance of evil,” but actually, it’s much more important to avoid the evil of appearance—becoming so obsessed with how we look that we lose the equilibrium to interact in a balanced way with others.

            And in our right mind.  What is our right mind?  Our right mind is when we have allowed our emotions to be honest enough that our spirits can respond and come up with new ideas instead of old, destructive habits.  How do I know I’m in my right mind?  I have a desire for newness instead of repetition.

            So is there spiritual evil?  Yes—and it is always religiously based, repressive and self-destructive.  Is there human evil?  Of course.  It, too, is an avoidance of true emotion, ignoring the spirit and letting the mind conceive of ways to hurt others.

            I didn’t want to get too philosophical with this, but I think there are so many misconceptions that an evil has begun to surround the discussion of evil.

 And THAT evil is the ignorance that produces the most deadly demon of all—fear.

 

The Moment's Manglings
 February 11^th, 2010

            That’s me WHEN . . .

            That’s me IF . . .

            You see, there’s the difference.  The difference between me and the latest person relegated to obscurity or ransacked by scandal is not the virtue I possess in my soul, but rather, the way in which opportunity arrived and the manner in which circumstances dictated conclusions.

            Let me explain.  When I was a kid, I always had this one annoying relative that would interrupt my playtime by saying, “Stop making that face!  Do you want your face to freeze like that forever?”  I think I was twenty years old before I realized that this threat was a colloquialism common to many families—not just to my blustering aunt.  But as I’ve gotten older, I have discovered that often people do get caught in their ugliest faces and remarkably—and perhaps even dastardly—become frozen in that moment forever.

            We are a buzzard society, circling the latest corpses of our fallen comrades—and then we dare to become self-righteous about the poisons or arrows that have brought them to their demise.  Isn’t it fascinating?  When each one of us more than likely was just five minutes, two decisions, and one fulfilled opportunity from being in exactly the same place, where if we were frozen in the moment, our lives would have been just as scandalous.

            People made such a fuss over Bill Clinton and Monica Lewinski.  Honest to God, I don’t know what I would do if a twenty-one-year-old woman suddenly became interested in my personal parts.  I am so glad that God has granted me the physical appearance and lack of position where that does not come into play.  Otherwise, my public face could have frozen in the moment.

            I am not so sure what I would do if I were in charge of billions of dollars in a banking system, tempted to take a bribe or ransack the accounts of innocent people.  I am so overjoyed that God has permitted me to have the blessing of a hand-to-mouth existence, so that I am not cajoled to devastate myself with the temptation to embezzle.  Otherwise, my public face could freeze in that particular moment.

            Countless people who have fallen from grace because they were inundated with a level of allure that drove them crazy with lust, power and desire are always going to be presented as the villains of our time. But honestly, that’s me when I get angry without a cause.  Am I capable of murder?  I don’t think so, but to make sure of that fact, I don’t personally own a gun.

That’s me if I were tempted beyond what I can bear.  We live in a society that makes sexuality sacred when it is common to all of us—each of us susceptible to fall, through both physical desire and rampant ego.  Yet we have the audacity to be judgmental of those who, because they were frustrated with an overabundance of opportunity, gave in to the latest fetish.

No, that’s me when.  And that’s me if.

So you will not find me lining up, watching the latest gossip mill grind up the heart, spirit, flesh and bones of my fellow-humans.  I don’t know what I would do if I were as handsome as John Edwards, running for President of the United States, with unlimited funds at my disposal, and an attractive blond woman made it clear that I could have her.

I’m so glad I don’t know.

That does not mean I pardon his decisions.  It certainly does not mean I think he should be President of the United States , or even North Carolina ’s dog catcher.  It’s just that’s me when.  And that’s me if.

Now that I understand that in my life, it is so much easier to love people.  Sliding on their shoes, their clothes, or, in some cases, even their underwear has helped me understand how susceptible we all are to the moment’s manglings. 

Maybe my aunt was right.  If you do get caught red-faced, in the middle of a scandal, maybe it will freeze there.  It really sucks. But it seems a forgiving public may have become a thing of the past.

So I’m glad I’m just a normal guy—a little homely, clumsy and out-of-the-loop, so I don’t have to ward off the demons of destruction forged in my own desecration. 

“Ooh, what a lucky man I am!”  

Mr. Weasel
February 10^th, 2010

            I was six years old—dangerously creeping my way towards that momentous seventh birthday.  I was sitting in my home watching TV on our black and white Motorola when my dad came in the door, very exasperated—approaching angry. 

Assuming that I was busy with my cartoons and unable to hear, he launched into a discourse to my mother about a great tragedy that had just occurred at our little farm we owned right outside of town—a two-acre piece of land my parents had inherited, which became both a storage area and a small parcel of ground to grow a few fruits and vegetables, and also raise some chickens.

            Well, back to my dad.  As I said, he didn’t think I was listening, forgetting that all nearly seven-year-old boys have a third ear that enables them to peruse adult conversation while still intensely involved in the plot-twists and dialogue of Bugs Bunny. 

            Anyway, it seems . . . Well, let me just quote my dad.

            “Well, Mr. Weasel’s back.  And he came into that damned chicken coop and he slit the throats of three more chickens, and just left them there, bleeding out on the ground.  He doesn’t even eat them.  I tell you, if I could get my hands on Mr. Weasel, I’d do some slittin’ of my own.”

            It was at this point that my mother, fearing that I might be using that third ear, ushered him into another room. 

It terrified me.  In my pre-adolescent mind, I was envisioning a man named Mr. Weasel, who was crawling through the weeds near the chicken coop, waiting for everyone to leave so he could go in and slaughter poultry.  I didn’t know what he used to slit their throats, but my cartoon brain quickly manufactured a huge saber in his claw-like hand, which he brandished and wielded adeptly as he slew the hapless birds.  And of course, if he could kill chickens, what could he do to a chubby little boy from Sunbury, who certainly couldn’t run very fast?

            I was petrified for weeks, unwilling to go anywhere near the coop.  Then one day, my dad brought in this ugly animal covered with bloody fur, and held it up on a pitchfork, smiling.  He said, “I got it.  I got Mr. Weasel.”

            So Mr. Weasel was an elongated rodent.

            Suddenly the story made sense.  It wasn’t a sinister villain with a black mustache and a bloody sword.  It was a creature of the woods, out to kill chickens.  I guess it was the “Mr.” that threw me.

            I bring this up because often we know WHAT people say or WHAT the story is or WHAT happened, but not so much WHY or even HOW.  And without WHY and HOW, sometimes the WHAT gets clouded with misconception.

 I also learned this teaching a Sunday School class years ago in Mobile , Alabama .  I asked the class to tell me in their own words some of the stories of Jesus or to recite a parable to me.  It was really painful—with twinges of comedy.  I was amazed—and so were they—at how much we had taken for granted that we knew stories that we actually were unable to tell with any detail or veracity.  Yet we faithfully would continue to worship and revere the life of someone we really did not comprehend.

            I don’t think I’ll ever forget Mr. Weasel—or that experiment I did in my Sunday School class, because in the great pursuit of education, we need to realize that informing people is more than passing along stories minus comprehension. 

Yes, I learned a lot from Mr. Weasel.  For after all, in the great recipe of life, a teaspoon of understanding is much more potent than a cup of knowledge.

P.S.  Happy Birthday, Russ!