Does Reciprocity of “Give-and-Take” Exist In Relationships Anymore?

A Question

I’ve reflected on this particular topic for some time now, asking the discernable “sixty-four dollar” question as it relates to others as I “people watch” all around me, while also rather sheepishly asking it of “yours truly”.  For after all, what is good for the goose as they say, must also be good for the gander.  And as far as it goes, up until now, I felt that I had at least somewhat passed that particular test.

For instance, when someone called me and needed something, if I had what they needed, nothing was spared. If I was called upon to give advice; or to simply listen; to be a shoulder they could cry upon; or they needed a place to stay; or if called upon to look at something that was most important to them, I would dare not relinquish it.  I did so simply because after 27 years of devouring the scriptures with both my mind, heart, and equal brokenness, I cannot walk away from the mirror of those well-rehearsed lines and not recognize that I indeed “am” my brother and sister’s keeper.  I “am” somehow to be the hands and feet of Jesus in some form or fashion, and both my schedule and my prayer closet should flex for allowance of that oftentimes inconvenient, yet gospel-like intrusion into my life.  And, should we need a reciprocated mutuality of this same comfort upon ourselves, should we not also be able to count upon it?

Narcissism and Facebook

Well before we hold our breath in the endless waiting line, perhaps our answer comes to us front and center in the current climate of chronic narcissism and now habitual attention deficit disorder?  For me, it’s plain and simple, or black and white, even as I often fall short; and yet, it seems for most of us now, this obvious nudge to go beyond our now routine superficiality of paper-thin convictions and relationships has become an inconvenient truth threatening to hold us back from “living our lives”.  I believe Facebook, of which I am a reluctant patron of, is part and parcel of the problem.  We scroll through old friends and mostly mere acquaintances unremittingly, periodically adding them to our “friends” list, perhaps not realizing it’s “friends with(out) the benefits.  We presume our “likes” and “tags” show in fact that we are comrades of sorts, even as we scurry on to our next diversion keeping us at a comfortable “stone’s throw” from real communication, interaction and love bestowed on our “so-called” virtual friends, many of whom should fall into a quite different category of “brothers and sisters” if their posts claiming their love for Jesus is descriptive of who they actually are.  But Facebook need not bear the full culpability, as I fear this casual “hit it and quit it” relational interaction seeps from these flickering pixels seamlessly into the flesh and blood world of our daily grind equally I’m afraid.

Privatization

For instance, our homes have long become our private castles, hiding us away from the pain and suffering that exists just outside our door, all the while scampering out occasionally for food, drink and never-ending entertainment; and then rushing back into our doors safe and secure again inside the womb of indifference, as we then settle down in front of a speaking idol that beams out constant nonsensical garbage certain to fuel our desensitization all the more.  And as we interact with our peers in our work-day week, once we leave on Friday, the unwritten rule, outside of an occasional joining up for a frolicsome rendezvous, is that the weekends have become our sacred parish of “us four and no more”, as our self-made stained glass windows expediently keep out those that come with any hint of a bag full of predicaments and a worn out welcome to boot.

What About the Church?

And as I ponder this even more, I wonder as it relates to the faith I claim to possess, and that the church proposes to offer assistance with, how we are doing in this same arena?  Are we, as supposed guides of the blind, pushing back on this privatization of our lives that keeps our shoe leather of caring comfortably at bay?   Oh, we use words like “family”, surely understanding that Jesus alluded many times to the fact that His family would be even greater and ever more loving than our own nuclear family.  Yet oftentimes, when we are no longer the shiny new visitor, or the over-committed and tithing acolyte, we find that perhaps we are still “a day late and a dollar short” of feeling safe and loved by a collective family, who at a moment’s notice will go out of their way to leave their light on for you.

And as I muse about this 800-pound conundrum in the church’s and my own room, the question I have recently asked myself is this: Have we now come to a time that our Christianity means mostly nothing outside of the mere trappings of church life full of weekly “sermonettes by preacherettes to us as christianettes”? Or to put it more pithily, I wonder if we truly inculcate the values of Christianity into our daily lives and relationships where the rubber actually meets the road, and beyond the veneer of regular church attendance, an occasional check in a large golden bowl, and constant swaying to the everlasting catalogue of predictable muzak?

The Rub

For sure, the lack of real mutual “give and take” of real community lacking in our daily lives and in the place we call church is often spoken of, and no shortage of ink has been spilled in the description of it, and perhaps I won’t offer anything new here today.  Although it does seem that the lack thereof is slowly killing us in ways we have yet to give attentive runway to in our own topsy-turvy lives; and at least for me, the devil is for sure found in our individual details. Yet I just can’t help but quietly wonder if we’ve not been so busy “going” to church, that somehow; just maybe, we forgot that we are actually supposed to “be” one.

Selah

Sunday School, Malibu Beach and The Meaning of Life: A Tribute to the Late, Great “Slick Rick” Turner

It was on my 54thbirthday that I got the dreaded call.  It was a call that I had imagined I would have gotten at least a month of Sundays ago, yet in classic “Slick Rick” style, he cheated death’s door long past his appointed time.  And in that sense, Chuck Norris quotes really have nothing on Rick, as in “(Rick) doesn’t cheat death, he wins fair and square”.  In fact, if you were to look at a picture of “The Man” in the dictionary, it was Rick and not Chuck that was grinning with that “shit eating” smile he had from ear to ear.  He was the Fonz, James Dean, and a little smidgeon of Jack Nicholson all rolled into one package; and for anyone who knew him, to be near him was for sure to be in “the fun zone”.

The Day I met Slick Rick

It was somewhere around 1972 I supposed when I first met “Slick Rick” as I affectionately called him.  He was sitting in the back row of Mrs. Lyles Sunday School class, the one person I felt surely sat in for Jesus as He was off perhaps saving some other planet.  But there was something about Rick’s demeanor and in his eyes that somehow immediately endeared me to him.  He seemed, at least to me, to have that “Andy Dufrane” approach to life.  He walked as if he hadn’t a care in the world, and he could take what seemed like the worst situation, and in a millisecond, turn it into a laughable matter or a lesson in the power of positive thinking that would have given Norman Vincent Peale and Joel Osteen a run for their money.  I guess you could safely say that from that day forward, I knew I needed to enter the Ricky Turner School of Life class, and I was all too eager to get started.

Then as fate would have it, or as best as my “teenage wasteland” years could remember, it wasn’t until the tail end of Middle School in 1977 that we became “thick as thieves” shall we say.  But to be sure, he was the leader of the outlaw band and I was the understudy, and as far as I knew it then, quite appropriately so. Consequently, the fact that our collective parents were not too thrilled with this new-found bond we had forged was an understatement.  They both presumed that each of us were essentially bad for each other, including the Juvenile department of the Sumter County Police department as they wrote it into law; even though unbeknownst to them, both Slick Rick and I were kind of “Madea-like” in that we could do bad actually all by ourselvesJ.  Case in point was the fact that we were both in and out of principal’s offices; reform schools; military academy’s; last chance academy’s and of course the county jail; and ironically, we both seemed to get there on our own!  Now to say we were troubled in many facets was blatantly obvious, but at the time, we thought we were “living the dream”; some kind of rock and roll fantasy of our own construction, minus at this particular time most of the sex that went with the drugs and rock and roll, and of course the lack of gangsta money that was merely a temporary and minor technicality.

He Brings the Party

To say “Slick Rick” brought the party with him at all times, was to essentially say “The Pope is Catholic”.  No duh. And never was there a dull moment when Slick Rick entered the room, even though he had a father wound the size of Texas beneath his very Matthew McConaughey-like persona.  In fact, I’m pretty sure it was Rick and not Matthew who coined the term “Alright, Alright, Alright”, and “That’s what I love about these high school girls, man. I get older, they stay the same age”, but I could be mistakenJ.  And boy did he help us out in the Jack Daniels department.  With a full beard and mustache at the age of 14, our weekends were much more noteworthy for sure, and afternoons after school (or not) were often spent with a good pint and a coca cola underneath one of Sumter’s many bridges, or in the woods somewhere in Crosswell with a few bong hits, some Old English 800 and a bag of white doughnuts, sharing dreams and plans such as how we wanted to have girls, girls, and well…more girls.  Now that’s what dreams are made of don’t you think?

Lessons in “Game”

You could say I didn’t have much going for me back then beyond being a dark-haired blue eye boy with really nice hair.  I was a druggie who wore preppy clothes and could run with both crowds, but always more comfortable with the hippies, which made me kind of stick out in both good and bad ways.  But one thing I lacked was what we call “game”.  But never fear, “Slick Rick” was more than happy to take me under his tutelage in that department, and I learned it with sheer wonder just from watching his mere words make women swoon, or leave the room. What a legend he was to this young, impressionable, girl-crazed mind!  In fact, he could talk more shit than a Japanese radio, but somehow it came out like “You complete me” in a sort of cool as Hell Barry White voice.  This particular life lesson was instrumental in brightening my ability to “get the girl”, to which I owe him greatly, and my ability to this day to make my wife laugh and talk eloquent smack to anyone who dares listen, I’m pretty sure I owe to my entrance into the Ricky Turner School of Cool, and for that I’m forever grateful.  So in essence, when we would go out, you had this Pretty boy with nice hair, and this James Dean/Jack Nicholson dude who leaked when he walked, “I’m bad to the bone”. I mean what more could a naïve hot girl want, so we thoughtJ?.  This is of course why choosing between us was hard on young maidens, so occasionally they decided it was a package dealJ.  Don’t read into that too much.  The truth is, we made a great combo of innocent trouble (unless you talked to the police or our parents of course), and a whole lot of frickin fun, while the meaning of life and both of our lackluster realities were still just a stone’s throw down the road.  Yet somehow, Rick and I were beginning to realize that the relationship might somehow outlast the freakin weekend (R Kelly).

Going to California

And then came 1982.  I was fresh out of the Teen Challenge program for wayward lads (do the Math), but the Jesus I had found was losing its grip as life continued to offer up promises of more and more fool’s gold in the guise of a short dress, or a promise of a weekend of drug-induced forgetfulness or the win-win combo.  And then on one particular day, I got the invitation to the excursion that was pivotal in my first entrance into becoming a man with thick skin, and mine and Rick’s graduation into a bond that went deeper than Friday nights at the Ice Cream Shoppe.

It seemed as though Rick had discovered his Dad’s magic credit card that he wouldn’t miss for too long he supposed, and invited me to take a trip to California.  I thought about it for about two seconds, as I then packed my bags, and off we went 3000 miles out into the great unknown.  As we traveled down the road, I was introduced to Rick’s new found love of Ronnie James Dio, as the Holy Diver album played and played until we had both memorized every riff and every line.  I was still stuck on AC/DC and Tom Petty, but Rick had discovered the new Heavy Metal, and man to watch his excitement as he sang it as we traded driving time along the Ventura highway was a sight to behold.

Upon arrival, we were educated to a different kind of Hollywood than we had seen in the movies, and became acutely aware of what Don Henley meant when he crooned the words to Sunset Grill.  So in between the working girls that walked on by and the basket people that walked around and mumbled, we drove past Beverly Hills and experienced sights and sounds in this brave new world, that before only our teenage naivety had dreamed about. But as the money ran out, the stark reality was that of two homeless guys sleeping in an old car in the neighborhoods of Hollywood, waking up in the morning to noble prospects of tin cans of SPAM and whatever else we could muster up from a quick visit to the Salvation Army. We faced incredible odds for several weeks, which became climatic to young minds when we were down to our last 6 bucks.  And then, as an episode of sheer teenage brilliance, we concluded that the only logical thing to do was to spend it on Jack Daniels and coke of course; as we drove out our last fumes of gas down to Malibu Beach to park our asses on an unsuspecting rock and drink and possibly dieJ.

As we got there, and as Rick climbed up the rock on the beach where we would sit for a while to drink away our final sorrows, I then wrapped the two half pints in a t-shirt and handed it to Rick. Then, with what was sheer alcohol abuse to be sure, those two precious bottles slipped through his hands as that picturesque brown elixir dissipated across the rocks and into the white sandy beach, as the notorious “nowhere men” thought life was pretty much over.  It was that day that I guess I graduated from the Ricky Turner School of Life class and acquired the mental toughness that he seemed to possess in his very essence from birth, as we pulled up our big boy pants and hustled our way back home, with new “street creds” as a survivalist’s badge of honor etched into our wounded hearts.  As we got home, Rick would go one way, and I would go another, our paths intertwining again for several years as we then became roommates and acquired new friends and lovers, many of which were perhaps secretly giving us some family-like glue we were both sorely missing (Taco Uno Gang).  And though the drinks did not absolve our sins, we were after all just looking for something to believe in, yet increasingly coming to the conclusion that perhaps “nothing” was all there really was after all.

Love, Marriage and The Man From Galilee

It was some years later after love and marriage and kids to boot, that our paths were interwoven again.  This time, there was the hint of maturity in the thirty-something air, yet the “young at heart” was always the secret tonic that made us older, thicker and a little wiser thieves this time around.  I would then give my heart to Christ after a lifetime of running from this new found meaning to which I once knew about, but had long since forgotten, and I answered a call as Rick quietly watched from afar.  Perhaps you could say, as in all friendships, for a while there was a role reversal, and Rick somehow entered into the Mark Prince School of Who Knows What,and he simply watched for a while, and then surmised that perhaps I had found something to make sense of it all–with still very visible warts and all.  He longed for it, but at that time, he was still restless.

Through my years of college and seminary and a few brief pastoral ministry flops, Rick would nonetheless come to embrace the same Hound of Heaven that we had both ran from our whole lives, yet the demons of the past were still in the back row, biding their time, secretly waiting for the next right opportunity.  He too then entered the Teen Challenge program, trying to put together what had gotten so broken, with hopes of a new shot at what the myriad of malignant spirits had stolen from his new familial life.  They would not go quietly, and Rick knew it.  Yet Rick’s flirt with the divine after watching my new resurrected life all at once became one of full immersion.  In fact, just the other day my wife read to me letters saturated in the reckless heart of someone who was much more than “shaved, saved and sorry”, but as one who desperately went after God like a dog looking for his lost bone, with dreams of helping others just like himself, so that perhaps the two of us could become a different kind of dynamic duo–with God now at the helm calling the shots.

God Disappointments and Back to the Phone Call

But like most of us on the God journey, my dear friend was faced with God disappointments that eventually caused him to relinquish the good fight of faith.  He would also then witness my own persecution by the church, add some to it, and then exit out the back door of “Churchianity” where his lurking fiends were all too willing and ready to reintroduce themselves, even though he already knew their name.  We would not talk for many years until we were reintroduced on Facebook, but the glue was just not the same anymore.  He had much love for me, my wife and family, and I for him and his, but the bond we once had did not weather the storm the way I had supposed.  I had secretly longed to reunite with my brother, but we had drifted apart in so many ways, and thus the sweet “thick as thieves” reunion would never happen. Perhaps I bear part of the blame since I was now supposed to be teaching the class.

Fast forward to August 12th, 2018, just a short few weeks ago on my 54th birthday, and I got that aforementioned dreaded call.  I guess you could say I was both surprised, not surprised, and also secretly relieved that this man who had all the gifts of someone who could have ruled the world, but who was now quietly at peace and enjoying much needed rest.   I know how he felt in some ways.  Any of us who have made mistakes and live with regrets do. For as we age, the things we “coulda, shoulda, woulda” done, start to attach themselves like appendages to our daily thoughts, never too eager to let us rise above, or to neglect to use as a constant reminder to us that we couldn’t beat it anyway.  And beneath that smiling “Slick Rick” shell of man, was a little boy who I know desperately longed to “reboot”, even as he continued to escape periodically the best way he knew how.

Strike Up the Band

You know I’m not a Calvinist theologically speaking, but many facets of their doctrine are hard to deny.  One such doctrine is the profound belief in what is called “The Perseverance of the Saints”.  Some think it means, if you truly walk with God, then “nothing can pluck you out of His hand” if you will. Or to put it another way, once you are His you are always His.  I for one believe that profoundly.  Now some like to qualify that in a lot of ways, but my take on it is this: That God can no more deny His children who once proudly called Him their Father, than we can our own wayward children, who often times cause us more pain and hurt that has no statute of limitations on it cutting like a knife every single time. So, in light of this great Father’s ocean of love, I can somehow visualize Rick coming home last August 12th finally at Peace, and in the arms of His blessed Father, who always loved Him so very much, and who has now killed the fatted calf in celebration–with Rick looking over and finding an empty seat right behind the drums reserved just for him in the heavenly worship band.  Rick always wanted to be a drummer in a kick-ass band, and on August 12th, 2018, I’d be willing to bet “dollars to doughnuts” that he finally got His wish!

I love you brother!

Selah

 

“Self-Preservation: A Gaping Chink in the Armor to Spiritual Formation in American Christianity”

The Search for Happiness

Well for someone who had as their goal to “write one blog a week in 2018”, I have no doubt given “I suck” new meaning in terms of goal setting.  In fact, it’s been almost two months now.  And though I have a myriad of excuses the size of all my x’s who currently live in Texas, the truth of the matter is that ADHD in this above middle-aged man is the “real deal Holyfield”J.  And the irony is that as I’ve deduced lately, like most Americans, my distraction is of my own making, and not something I can blame on a “syndrome” or a culturally created “sickness”; but rather the ravenous quest built up in my DNA since my more original “sucking” at my Mother’s breast for the pursuit of some “pipe dream” called “the pursuit of happiness”.  In fact, Ruth Whippman reminds us in her best seller America the Anxious: How to Calm Down, Stop Worrying, and Find Happiness that though “Americans as a whole invest more time and money and emotional energy in the explicit pursuit of happiness than any other nation on earth”, the results of that investment has not delivered the goods in that it has instead made us the “less happiest place in the developed world”.  Yet, no one seems to be in line to request their money back!

Five Minutes of Fame

And as you look around, the results of our learning from the limitless poor investments has not taught us much I’m afraid. Today for instance, as you look around, everyone is looking for their “five minutes of fame”.  Facebook, Twitter and YouTube has made us all into stars now who otherwise would have had no chance, allowing us to “go live” in the most risqué of life’s otherwise “behind closed doors moments” by recording for us everything from our bedroom privacies; pregnant teenage Mom’s holding their child while simultaneously getting the hell beat of them on the street for only God knows what (our shock and awe I suppose); to no endless repertoire of self-authoritative opinions derived from mere regurgitation of the media spin doctors we feed on from dusk till dawn. And though the exception to the rule is some stars are truly born who otherwise would not have been given a passing glance, the vast majority are an endless upchuck of “much ado about nothing” forced into our watching eyes and mini-screens.  Who will be the next American Idol, YouTube sensation, Twitter n Chief, or Facebook phenomenon?  Only time and a whole lot of endless blushing and barfing knows!

And though the pursuit of happiness in and of itself is not a bad thing, “if” we know where it comes from and the place it should actually hold somewhere down the line in our lives; the real issue for us is our unremitting “fear of death”, which is in stark antithesis to our lofty American pursuit.  As a result, self-preservation rules the day in all of us, and has not bypassed this modern man to boot, constantly scurrying about wondering what to do about it.

The Culprit: Self Preservation

For instance, we’ve got health insurance; life insurance; flood insurance; fire insurance; pet insurance; and now identity-theft insurance, as well as any number of nuances of extra insurance as a caveat to whatever the aforementioned insurance doesn’t cover in the endless fine print.  And of course, everyone now knows that most of the food we eat and the water we drink is toxic; just one more proposed threat to our “survival of the fittest”.  As a result, other fortune hunters and equally do-gooders have created a new health and wellness industry that promises better health, more energy, a better sex life, a solution to the germaphobes in us all, and overall adds more insulation to our otherwise cushy American life.  In the aftermath, when you tally it all up, there is little left for the “giving back” part of life that supposedly delivers the real happiness according to our antiquated Savior, and not enough time in a day to barely write the skimpy check after the “necessary” precautions have been taken into consideration for our own escape from the stuff, and the people of the world crumbling all around us.

What this has done to Christianity in America and in me should be no secret for anyone who pauses for a millisecond to pay attention, or who hasn’t been sleeping under a rock with Rip Van Winkle. Spiritual formation and discipline in the areas of contentment, sacrifice and humility have already “died on the vine”, and the prospect of storing treasures in a blissful and remote heaven we’re so far removed from rarely makes it into the discussion in the majority of our homes, and now sadly (even more a travesty), in most churches that claim to be teaching us (for a small fee) how it’s all supposed to be done.

Seniors Lead the Way?

I do recall once upon a time, if anyone was listening, hearing the prospect at least, that the old men could teach the younger men, and the older women could teach the younger women how to exemplar Christ, but not to worry anymore.  The old have now by and large become even worse about their own self-preservation and the desire to live till that can’t see straight, just as long as endless surgeries and pharmaceuticals can preserve them, right up until the precipice of the injection of the final embalming fluid.  And they have become the germaphobes extraordinaire these days quite frankly.  In fact, as an ecumenist who takes it upon himself to visit and worship with the kaleidoscope of churches under the Christian rainbow, I’ve noticed lately a trend in the high churches I had not before experienced. It seems that even to them, the eucharist is not that “big a deal” I suppose, for the elderly take the bread and bypass the cup, and then whisk back to their seat, shortly after they “nod” at the “blessing of peace” to others, rather than shake someone’s “germ-ridden hands”.  After all, who the Hell knows where those hands have been for goodness sakes, and even God would want us to be cognizant of this wouldn’t he?.  And so it would seem I guess, that they too no longer believe it’s the actual body and blood of the Lord that we need to imbibe.  Transubstantiawho? In fact, I’m now waiting for the “gluten free” bread line to enter the buffet line of church options.  Hell, there’s an idea!  Maybe we could start a eucharistic gluten free church?  Oh, and bring in the organic wine without all those damn added sulfites too for goodness sakes.  Throw out the Common Cup and bring in the plastic protestant-evangelical cup thingies why don’t we?  Opportunity knocks!  But I now digress.

In Search of the Spirit

The truth of the matter is, that self-preservation has infiltrated the one last beacon of hope (the universal church), while the self-proclaimed “frozen chosen” all across the Christian landscape in America hasn’t much left at the end of the church ledger sheet to tip the poor and send those called to proclaim the good news to the rest of the world as to what makes for real happiness and joy in both this life and the next.  And unless the Spirit comes and engulfs all of us by surreptitiousness, none of our money, reason or logic will budge the thinking and shoes of the vast majority of those who still as of yet aren’t paying us even a smidgeon of attention.  And the crux of the matter to be sure is, that enduring hardship as a good soldier sounds like something synonymous to old fashioned rubbish even to the Christian masses, and thus the chink in the Christian’s decrepit armor takes center stage!  Ho Hum.

But at least lately, as I look at myself in the mirror, I doubt that until I’m willing to die in some form or fashion again, or volunteer occasionally to become our Lord’s court jester, that a world and a church now going head-first after whatever spirit of the age is willing to lift up its dress and show its new world to us, that anyone will pay much bloody attention. Sniff, sniff.

Selah

As It Turns Out, Freedom Is Not Actually Free: On Flags, Freedom, and Racism in America

Dedicated to Paul, John and The brother from Another Mother

I typically shy away from hot button issues, first of all because they are “hot”, and secondly, because I mostly only wanted to write about The Narrow Path and the few that find it; and how the one leading us on that path is oftentimes found immeasurably missing in America.  Nonetheless, a friend of mine encouraged me to reconsider after reading my blog from last year titled: https://marknealprince.com/2017/06/09/trump-vs-everyfrickingbody-our-new-mascot-for-sticking-it-to-the-man/  He’s a black man (don’t you hate that we have to make that distinction), who is my brother from another mother, but who happened to think that particular blog struck a cord and was funny, and that I should reconsider writing more along those lines.  So here goes an experiment.  Who knows where the wind will take us, but at the very least, you will get a piece of my mind on the matter for whatever it’s worth.

Oh, and last but not least, this blog is a tribute to my two new friends (Paul and John), who reminded me just yesterday that gentleman can disagree agreeably, and that white boys can talk about the race issue too, and have something equally to say to add to the conversation as long as we are willing also to actively listen.  This is of course something that I did not realize I could do in the public square given my particular shade of melanin.  Thanks Paul and John for the reminder, and for the olive branch to take part.

First of all, my other friend I mentioned truly is a brother from another mother, and he has come to the conclusion that I would make a great black guy, or that perhaps I actually am one and just haven’t come out of the closet yet.  However, I must say that my friend and l and I differ politically, about as far as the Cleveland Browns are from a Super bowl win.  He lives in the Bronx, and probably secretly attends Farrakhan rallies, believes all black conservatives are “Uncle Tom’s”, and though I didn’t know it until I experienced it recently, has a hard time holding back his anger due to some of the racism he has both seen and experienced growing up in this country.  After emphatic listening, I still then chide him on the fact that the left already has his vote without any effort, just for the hair on his neck to raise up a little bitJ.  And after we piss each other off real good, we part with “I Love You Man” and we pray for each other.  And for the record, if I were in a foxhole, he’s exactly who I would want with me without reservation.  You see the thing is, it’s the Christian flag that binds us together and not an American one, yet it has some faint similarities at least in theory that we should talk about.

My Battle Against Racism

I’ve never experienced the kind of racism that many blacks have by a long shot, but I have experienced it nonetheless.  You see I wasn’t raised a racist.  My family didn’t talk about it.  We never heard or used colorful language to describe black people, and quite frankly, in my heart of hearts I’ve always despised those who take part in it. Likewise in my own family, I never spoke of it, never talked about it, walked away from family and friends who participated in it, and starved it’s folly from ever gaining a foothold of any kind! And so primarily the racism I experience is one of looking at my black brothers and sisters with my “I love black people” heart, and them refusing to engage me with eye contact, talking behind my back, and refusing to let me get too close. That’s about the extent of the racism as I have experienced it, and I’m not looking for a trophy, a history month, or my own channel as a result.  But it’s racism just the same.  A fact many of us I believe fail to miss.

In fact, I often talk to my friend and I ask him why we all have to draw identity flags in the first place. Why can’t we as Christians just be for “people” and not black or white?  It seems that’s the first step to fighting it to me.  We stop racism by not being a racist ourselves.  A novel idea I suppose.  He says I just don’t understand, but then as I seek to understand, though I get it, as a Christian with a broken halo I really do believe this is where the rubber meets the road.  I would even be so bold as to say as I have shared with my brother, the fact that years ago when racism was “systemic” (a loaded word for sure), it’s a damn miracle black people didn’t rise up and decrease the surplus white population!  Thank God, they found a leader who knew better and had the secret love sauce, and I pray his message continues to resonate, because I believe it has been long forgotten.  And the fact that black people have used restraint for the most part is a testament to them, yet I really believe it is by and large due to the God that they serve, whom they know is the only one who can cure the sickness that is the individual human heart. You see racism isn’t just found in America.  It’s found in humanity, and it has been so since man first put his foot on the floor.

NFL and the Flag

As I got into a somewhat political conversation on Facebook yesterday (never advisable), I was reminded by some of my new black friends that the racism issue is somehow behind this whole NFL and the flag thing, something I guess us white boys miss.  Though admittedly I think it shouldn’t be about that, I guess I’m starting to see why.  However, there is one thing I’ve learned in my almost 54 years of life sometimes the frickin hard way, and it is that people reject what they don’t understand.  And thus the genius of communication always lies in making sure people have been communicated to properly about what all the fuss is about. Until then, we’re just throwing pearls to swine.

And so my personal perspective is that kneeling on a field doesn’t actually protest anything that accomplishes whatever end game is envisioned.  It’s kind of like trying to get someone to do something you want and then you start talking about his or her mama!  The gloves then come off, and there’s not much anybody can do but pick up the broken men pieces.  Case in point.  Wearing a t-shirt saying, “I can’t breathe” is easy.  Kneeling is also easy and sexy, but it does nothing but tick off the very (majority) of people (right or wrong), who equate Americanism not too awfully shy of the Holy Grail, and of whose flags and blood of their black and white fathers also runs deep into the sinew of their bones.  As a result, I think the strategy misses the mark, and I also refuse to buy into the “systemic” narrative as an overarching belief system. What I do believe however is that there are people who are racist (shocker), and there are systems than can have racism as an overarching demon as it’s marionette, pulling long term belief system strings that now run on autopilot.  When and where those systems are exposed, after peeling back the layers of that complex onion (a rarity), it is at the apex of the matter that protests and communicative voices have their most dramatic effect.  And believe it or not, that core is found in our very constitution that cries out, even when not always practiced, that “All men are endowed by their creator with certain unalienable rights”and that “among these are life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness”.  Now to deny that America has been grossly hypocritical in holding up that standard at times would be uncritical (in a Republic, not a democracy), yet it is still those very laws that a wise Atlanta bred and born turned Alabama preacher once used to push a new narrative to replace an old one. And he was descriptive of the biblical dictum, as one who was “wise as a serpent, and gentle as a dove”.  Where may I ask are his descendants?

Now to Really Piss You Off

On a very sensitive note, if I really wanted to piss my friend off, all I needed to say (however guarded and thoughtful) was that I didn’t think Obama was a really great President.  I said I believed that he is a good man, one of the greatest orators of our time, is a faithful husband and father, but quite frankly was a liberal ideologue that did not deliver “hope and change”.  In fact, I believe that by his tone deafness or subtle racist innuendo, he pushed the narrative away from what seemed to white people at least, to be a country having for a couple of decades gone in the right direction, back to where racism was again all up in our grill. He would then get on to me and say, “Mark, what is it about you white boys?  Can’t we have just one damn black President and be proud, when yall have had so many crackers”?  And to that I’d say, “Well, we’ve had a ton of terrible white ones, why can’t you have one bad black one”?  And perhaps we need to be reminded again that the same people that voted Donald Trump into office, were those that voted for the hope and the change twice!  That seemed to tell us that at least individual people and a good majority of the collective whole were starting to look past that dark period of our history and actually vote as thinking people on issues instead of skin color.  However, I’ve been informed that this is now no longer the case across the board.  Perhaps I’ve been sleeping under a rock, or so it seems.

Freedom Is Not Actually Free

The truth of the matter is, that freedom is not actually free; something I’m afraid that we have long disregarded.  It wasn’t free for Martin Luther, for MLK, or for Rosa Parks.  Our founders knew this as well as they risked their own lives from threat of the crown should they have failed.  And so they gave us a Republic and not a democracy, with limited government accept to protect its citizenry, and to uphold laws that would ensure their initial vision, where all men would be given the freedom to equally be able to live as they so wished without oligarchies, dictators or the sole will of majority rule.  And though the experiment was not perfect by a country mile, as an anomaly that it was in terms of nations, it created correctives and checks and balances so that the people would sense when it ran amuck (assuming the people are good), and would challenge the laws that were to be upheld to reform itself, and as such as a nation always reforming.  But in a Republic, we cannot legislate people into being non-racists, as much as you and I might wish that we could.  In fact, this can only be accomplished at around the same time that pigs start to fly, or when politicians want anything more than another vote!  Because you see, individual sin-sick hearts are free also to be bigots, yet all the while you and I are free to ignore and not concede to their intolerance, and equally to collectively call it out when we see it; while in the meantime “refusing” to be the racists looking in our mirrors reflection.

This is a tribute to Paul and John who also believe in my right to disagree, and to my brother from another Mother; and to those who died for our freedom to equally protest the motive and sacrifice they made.  But it is more so a tribute to all my black brothers and sisters, to let you know some of us crackers are really listening, and we hate racist bastards right along with you. But if it’s OK, we’d really like to talk about it with you, and not at you.

Selah

“Honey, Just Tell Them We’re Home-Churched”

Back to Basics

I guess today it’s high time I get back to why I started writing this blog in the first place. You know, getting back to the narrow path and the Jesus I see missing in America and all; which by default also means the one missing in the American Church…oh yeah, and I guess in me too. But anyway, let’s get on with that why don’t we.

Home-Schooled

First, let me explain a little bit about my title here, just to set you up for my forthcoming psychosis in prose.  I guess you could say my wife was one of the early pioneers of the “Home-School” movement, at least in the sense of one who felt legitimately called to do so some 25 years ago, with me as her supportive, yet also reluctant sidekick.  This of course was back when friends and family alike looked at us like we had lost our freaking minds, and perhaps were building a cult of other homeschoolers and their whacked out Mom’s and Dad’s on an abandoned ranch somewhere secretly plotting the apocalypse!  Yet in everyday settings there were the “deer in the headlights” looks we would get when we’d be at a local store or somewhere during the day, when both younger and older people alike would take it upon themselves to be our judge and jury with questions behind a “shit-eating” look on their face such as, “Why aren’t your kids in school”?  It was then that my wife and I would cut up behind the scenes at times and role-play back and forth about whose response would be the best to such shenanigans. My favorite was, “We don’t need no stinking school man”,or something like, “School is for losers”or something like that.  And I must say, the shock value was worth all the popcorn and candy you could muster up for the show.  In the end however, we settled for the proverbial nail scratch down the chalkboard with the words, “They’re Home-Schooled”.  And of course as you could imagine, there’s nothing like the truth to just throw people off and make them bat-ass crazy, which would cause them to then shortly thereafter commence with questions such as, “Well, what do they do for testing”, or “What about their socialization skills”,or my favorite was when some wise ass would try and trick them with a math question or something like that.  It was all I could do to bite my tongue, but I bet they wouldn’t ask too much about the socialization one these days now would they?  After all, just ask any local SRO officer.

Nonetheless, fast forward to today, and by God’s grace and in spite of all the demons that surrounded us from both educators and our beloved friends and family, two are now done with college, one is finishing, and the fourth one will be headed that way in two short years, and all of them are just as deep in debt to satisfy everyone who desired we fit into their moldJ.

Home-Churched

But I guess you figured that there’s kind of a correlation behind this rebel no one thinks has a cause relating being “Home-Schooled” to being “Home-Churched”.  Well I thought you’d never ask!  In fact, another running joke of ours is along those lines. For as most of you know, I have had my own quiet little battle with the church, which is why I write a blog where I can say “shit” and “damn” and get away with it, because nobody’s hiring me anyway.  LOL.  And yet the truth is, it really hasn’t been a battle, but just a lot of questions; the very thing church’s and churchmen don’t like, when it would be much better, if like those early naysayers of the status quo of what school was to look like, if we would have just simply “fell in line”.

But there is no question that we have had our time with finding our place since we finally stepped out of the role of being behind the scenes churchmen ourselves, and nursing our kids slowly but surely back from being a “PK” (preacher’s kid), back to faith again, while giving equal attention to ourselves in this regard.  But the truth is, after nursing our wounds from BCS (Bad Church Syndrome), we really do love the “idea” of the church. We really do.  In fact, that’s why most Sundays we visit to try and find where we fit in, and then typically settle down for a year or so, and then look at each other, and exit again, still I guess in Bonoesque fashion not having found what we’re looking for.  And as you can imagine, the same questioners, naysayers, and self-proclaimed prophets have their role to play.

Most quite frankly just say we’re “church hoppers” and wishy-washy, and wouldn’t know what we wanted if it smacked us upside the head.  Others say things like, “There is no perfect church, but we have a perfect Lord”,or other goodies like, “There is no perfect church, and besides, once you and I entered it wouldn’t be perfect anymore”…yawn.  And then other more astute practitioners of BCS can philosophize a little better about our disorder, and relate it to being a product of the sixties and early seventies rebellion, and the resultant non-committal nature and allegiance of any institution for goodness sakes.  And others simply continue to build their predictable house of cards to remind us that the one’s on the outside are the one’s with the real problem.  And I’ll have to say, these maxims have worked their way through my complex mind and heart more times than they could possibly know, and I keep coming out on the other side with the same questions.  And so when people ask me where I go to church, and I look at my wife, she simply says, “Honey, just tell them we’re Home-Churched”.

Liquid Drano

And I will have to say that the struggle is real man, let me tell you.  Though two of my four sons show me up pretty good, and both are committed church acolytes at their institution of choice, the so-called teacher of the class is playing hooky sometimes. And I’m afraid that I have enough Protestant guilt built up to last for a good long while for doing so.  And I keep deliberating over the same types of things I guess as to my reason for this.  Things like the lack of real community that you can truly sense, rather than a marketing approach that makes you feel like you’ve been bent over without the necessary foreplay.  Or sometimes it’s the total lack of a message from someone who supposedly spends more time in the word of God and prayer than the rest of us each week, who might actually serve up a steak and baked potato for us to chew on and wrestle with, somehow anointed with a thing called “The Spirit” that drives us to our knees and action. Or perhaps it’s the predictable cliché of “two songs/greeting/awkward handshakes/one song/communion/offering/sermon/two songs/dismissal” (The Restless Church) that just wears me slap out, wondering why I didn’t just go to the beach to read my bible and pray there instead.  And then again, it could be due to the ever-predictable form of godliness we portray with refined reason and logic, yet negligible of the visible power thereof to really make a difference, and actually do at least some of the things that Jesus did.  Or even more so, maybe it’s the fact that I can’t seem to get past all the money it takes for all those buildings and pastors of specialty for each demographic, with little to no money left over for taking the gospel to the ends of the earth and feeding the poor and needy, or visiting the orphans and widows in their distress. Meanwhile, back at the ranch, church pundits remind us of the 10% we owe to the Lord as a possible reason why the church is in it’s present state of decline.  Yet somehow the Math doesn’t really add up, which proves you probably really don’t need Algebra to figure this thing outJ.

Perhaps they’re right, and I’m wrong.  For sure, though none of my x-church practitioners would ever comment on my blog or admit that perhaps myself and other renegade prophets could really be on to something worth wrestling with.  After all, like the corporate world of sharks, the ecclesiastical butt kissing line is a long and winding road as well.  And though I am not against the church in any way shape or form, I am increasingly weary of the same predictable answers to legitimate questions of people who are honestly trying to find their way back in.  The truth of the matter is, some say there’s a swamp in Washington that needs to be drained, but I’m just wondering if perhaps a little liquid Drano is needed in Christendom as well.  Meanwhile, the beach is very inviting.

 

Selah

 

Still Holding On Loosely To Some Fool’s Gold

The Move

It was early October, when although watching the Weather Channel beforehand would have been enlightening to say the least, the Prince family actually loaded up the truck and moved just south of the “Red-Neck Riviera” to the lovely Surfside by the sea.  Yes, that’s right.  We moved smack dab in the midst of the terrible flood of 2015 that took Columbia and much of the country by surprise.  A time at which also marked a new beginning for the 6 of us minus 2 now, just 7 years in the aftermath of the economic Tidal Wave that first engulfed me, and later was to teach me lessons tattooed forever in the very fiber of my being.

Fool’s Gold

The lesson had something to do with the allure of fools gold I suppose.  In fact, in my Full Focus Planner, it’s at least penned as my number 1 “habit goal” for my life at age 53.  It reads, “Settle once and for all the allure of the world’s fools gold”.  I know, I know, you’re probably not that impressed.  But it does look good on paper.  I can show you if you like.  And for me at least, being enamored with fools gold seems to capture what I’m actually trying “not” to be about; given my lesson I supposedly learned and all.

In fact, evidently years ago it was something called “iron pyrites”, having to do with a gold-like mineral that of course is found to be absolutely worthless, thus given the name fools gold.  Many “would be” treasure hunters evidently found this out the hard way after expending all kinds of energy and capital trying to find it, and came up with the bottom of a worthless barrel.  Interestingly however, though the bible warns us that the pursuit of money is synonymous to a “fools gold” of sorts, the fact is, money is real; and it gets you a lot of stuff, and respect, and a whole lot of false friends to boot.  It also functions very much like a god however, and indeed exerts power both for us and in us in exceedingly formidable ways.  And like Gollum, to part with “my precious”is no easy task, and it’s no secret as to why.  Because as the late Zig Ziglar famously said, “though money it isn’t everything, at least in this life, it ranks right up there with good old oxygen”!

But of course you can’t really know any of these things quite honestly until you actually make some of the green stuff yourself.  And though the rich look down on the poor for what they don’t have, and the poor look down on the rich for what they do have, the truth of the matter is that you don’t know its fools gold until you’ve played the fool that a lot of us play sometimes. Just ask any lottery winner!

A Day Late, and A Dollar Short

As I said earlier, I moved here in the aftershock of my economic quake that happened in my life. And as I’ve written briefly about before, my wife and I did so for a number of reasons.  Some of it had to do with giving a little distance between us and our now blossoming young adult sons who were finally “grown and gone” (in theory at least).  It also had to do with extended family ties that no longer were binding; owning nothing of equitable merit; and a job that allows me to live anywhere in the Carolinas. All of this equaled to a risky proposition, but one we gladly took up nonetheless in order to lunge forward, and spread our wings and fly, fly away.  The oasis by the sea also had a nice ring to it as you can imagine, and I vowed that once I got here I would finally begin writing, something to which before I had only given lip service to.

We’ve been here 2 ½ years now, and moved recently to a spacious rented home just shy of two blocks from my refuge of endless sand and waves, and God’s still small voice.  We own a 2002 Honda, I have a company car, and my wife has done a wonderful job of taking the few material possessions on the inside, and has made this ocean sanctuary my favorite rescue mission ever–to the point at which I almost never want to leave.

As I mentioned before, I’m a sales dog.  In fact, if I sucked at pretty much everything else, this is the one thing that I was meant to do, even if that’s as good as it ever gets.  The last 10 years have been a rollercoaster ride nonetheless. I’ve still been in “sink or swim” mode quite a few times, but have had a few “good” years in terms of Benjamin’s, but not yet enough to purchase a home the smart way this time (If I’m to learn from my tattooed lessons), or to re-stockpile any measure of a portfolio that will as of yet put me back on the financial map (Whatever the Hell that is).  Yet I’m still optimistic.  I mean what else can we do with the time that we have other than seek to get better and stronger, still learn from life’s lessons, and hopefully follow the Lord on the narrow path that leads to real life so I’m told.  I still set goals, though if I had to cash it all in today, the social security money the government has probably already spent is about all I’ve got at this stage of the third quarter of my life.  As a result, I’m shopping for my doublewide retirement villa as we speak.  Realtors, no phone calls please.

But oh yeah, we were supposed to be talking about loosely holding on to fools gold.  I almost forgot.

Pay Attention Sucka

Well it started with a brief and acute reminder about that very thing this last Saturday.  My wife and I went for the first extended time at the beach in awhile due to a surprise winter that has had us spoiled Americans pretty ticked and ready for some “fun in the sun” baby.  It was such a joy to be down there again, though I spend at least 15 minutes a day there in reflection just about every time I’m in town. We drove our golf-cart down there, and that is so cool you know.  I mean after all if your going to live less than two blocks from the beach you gotta have a golf cart man!  It took us two years to save for it, and it was a joy back in August to finally stroke that $3200 check for a used one that we were so ecstatic to finally have.  So on Saturday, we parked our official beach bum statement at our favorite beach access, walked about 50 feet, and then gazed at the ocean’s splendor for about an hour or so.  We talked again about our dreams and plans, the children and others we love, and the God we are desperately trying to follow in the midst of the world’s rigamoro.

It was just a short hour, but so exhilarating.  And then we packed everything up and started to walk back to our golf cart.  And as I got closer, I realized I didn’t see it, but I nevertheless ignored that unwelcome thought until I got closer, until of course it was all over but the crying. My wife was so torn up about it. More for the fact that she knew money is hard to come by, and remembered how thrilled I was to finally get it for everyone, and for the guests that come to see us often.  But as she was rightly torn up about it for the both of us, I just sighed and let my words be few.  We walked back to our short distance home, made our trek to the police station and filed the report with the local police, and then numbed ourselves with a couple of Saturday cold beers until night came briskly by, with another day and another negative dollar waiting on the horizon.

Achieving At Least One of My Goals

I haven’t said much since then about it, because after all, it’s G.O.N.E.  But somehow, I knew immediately in my spirit, that though the Lord didn’t steal it, and I’m sure He was equally sad for me, it was His gracious reminder yet again to hold on to the things of this world loosely; for they are indeed fleeting and truly are (like us) “dust in the wind”.  And then all at once, I was quickly reminiscent of verses etched in my memory and in my soul, such as “whoever loves money, never has enough”, and others such as being free from the love of money, and the very truthful fact that it is nearly damn impossible to serve two masters, since we no doubt will love one and give nothing more than a month of Sundays here and there to the other.  And then I thought about that gosh-darn rich fool who looked at all his barns, quite satisfied with his accomplishments, his multiple streams of income and diversified portfolio; yet who like the late J. Paul Getty when asked how much money would be enough, he replied, “a little bit more”.  And that night, as the story goes, his soul was required of him.

The truth is, I’ve always held on to money and things loosely for as long as I can remember. That can be both a good and a bad thing, at least in this life.  At one point and time, I was like Erasmus, who once said, “When I have a little bit of money, I buy books, and afterwards I buy food and clothes”.  Other times, if I’ve had two dollars, it was a dollar too much when someone else has needed it.  And on other occasions, no matter how hard I’ve tried to accumulate some in my older and wiser years, in life it seems there’s always a golf-cart thief lurking somewhere beyond the dunes.

And then all at once it has occurred to me yet again, that though money has an immense power both for us and in us I’ve already mentioned, and Lord knows we need some of it.  Yet I don’t know if we’ve paid much attention lately or not, but the truth I’m told, is that wherever our treasure is, there will our heart be also.  And so at least for now, I’m thankful for that blasted stolen golf cart, and that it didn’t up and take my heart along with it.

Selah

A Medley of Needles, and the Damage Done

A Little Bit of It In Everyone

I was a whopping 8-years old when Neil Young released the song, The Needle and the Damage Done.  Though it would be a short 5 years later that I first listened introspectively to his haunting prophetic decrees; it was also then as a somewhat “dazed and confused” young man (minus the band), that I seemed almost “hell bent” on being on the other end of this woefully accurate foretelling.

A bag of Columbian Gold was my first gig, and before long I had graduated to a medley of cocktails that included everything from Quaaludes and whiskey; cocaine and LSD; to the likes of gasoline and Pam cooking spray (No, I didn’t stutter).  In essence, whatever I could afford and whatever gave me the means to escape the place in the world I never really felt I belonged in for a myriad of reasons, was indeed fair game to this all too eager participant.  They say marijuana is the gateway to other drugs, and I won’t argue either way.  What I do know is that if a druggie’s pathway is from 1stto home plate, in my mid teens, I had already rounded third and was headed for the home run! The only thing left for me at that point, was to “let her under your skin”; and by God’s grace; like Neil Young, “I watched the needle take another man” to the point at which something jarred in me a determination to never cross that very pivotal line.

So after the whole of my teenage years comprised of time in the county jail, reform school, drug and alcohol programs and county hospitals; something inside of me swallowed the bitter red pill of a very abrupt truth about where my life was headed at the age of 18; and that at the very least was a speed-bump to a fast car life headed for nowhere extremely fast!  It would then take until the age of 27 to take the “a little bit of it in everyone” out of me, but I watched enough men and women ruin their lives and eventually die, even at an early age; enough to make me intensely aware of where my life was headed should I not attempt to somehow change the course of my life.

Live by the Sword, Die by the Sword (Drug)

 I was no drug kingpin to say the least, but I knew who they were.  They had all the good drugs, and the pubescent bell-bottom groupie chicks that would do anything for another taste at their beckoned call—and far too youthful for such a grave choice to be made.  But then again, these pushers were the outlaws that every girl wanted, and somehow, for a brief moment, I thought that was also the man I wanted and needed to be. As a result, I at least attempted to give them a run for their money.  Yet as I grew older, I continued to watch my reluctant hero’s stoically continue their apothecary occupation into a new era when some of us were actually trying to grow up, and I also watched them enter and exit prison yards, as well as check in to the undertaker’s dead-end alley.

I was reminded this week, as more of my reluctant hero’s and those of which actually became my friends, are found still “knocking at(someone’s) cellar door”, still chanting “I love you baby, can I have some more”, as they and those around them now know all too well that their hourglass is distributing its remaining granules. They have now long since cut their hair, the lovely aficionados surrounding them are no more, and time is of course no longer a trump card in their favor.  And as I contemplate this glaring reality, my heart grows very sad indeed. For as someone who over the years has attempted to rescue such reluctant hero’s time and again; as of yet, I have no track record of success, but rather a sigh of a medley of needles taking another man, as I hear Neil echo “ooh, ooh, the damage done”—yet again.

The Medley of Junkies

 Of course it would be easy to simply put my past self and people like I’ve described into a label of sorts, and yet forget about the monster under our own bed.  After all, the blog is called “A Medley of Needles and the Damage Done”.  And of course the junkies’ “setting sun” comes in various stages.

My dear Father was one such junkie I suppose—God rest his beautiful soul.  He took a pill to wake up; to manage his depression; to go to bed; to wake up again; and much later, his daily concoction of capsules could have stockpiled a “mom and pop” pharmacy in a quick recession.  And you and I know junkies just like this, and many of us even look at them in the mirror each morning; and some of us refuse to look, as we have more excuses than the prescriptions we take.

Others of us resort to liquid drugs.  We stockpile our cabinets, and take our sedative(s) each evening as we settle in, rinse and repeat until we’ve had our fill, and we have a myriad of good reasons as to “why” that are all related to the same escapism of the not so glamorous junkie knocking on someone’s cellar door.  After all, life is hard—no argument there. And we’ve got a family to feed; the taxman cometh; we have teenagers (Slam dunk for the justification on this one); our marriage is not so good or falling part, and the list goes on.  But then there’s that cute little monster under our bed we also choose to ignore.

The 800-Pound (Monster) In the Room

The new Canadian thinker and overnight phenomenon Jordan Peterson tells the story in his book, 12 Rules for Life: An Antidote to Chaos, about a boy and a monster he sees in his room.  He tells his Mother about the monster, but she quickly tells him, “Honey, there are no monsters”.  The boy simply goes along with it, and yet as each day and month passes by, the monster gets bigger, and more horrid and hairier.  As the boy brings this apparent predicament up to her, each time she retorts that “There are no such things as Monsters”; until such a time, that one day the Monster has grown the size of the house to the point that it its arms and legs are actually protruding out the windows and has become part of the house, and has thus overtaken it.  Then one day, when the Father comes home, the house has gone AWOL because the Monster has left and taken the house and his wife and kid with him.  At that point, they all frantically look for the house, and when they find it, the Mother can no longer deny the “ginormity” of the Monster, and confesses to the son that she indeed sees it clear as a bell; at which point the monster then shrinks back down to a tiny cute little blob sitting in the corner.  And at least for now, he is of no harm to no one.

The moral of the story is both obvious and also approaching a grim un-comfort zone for the most of us. The fact of the matter is that there is a medley of monstrous “needles” in everyone that most of us ignore to our eventual and certain peril.  And it’s not just the self-medication strategies of numerous varieties aforementioned; but it’s also the marriage on the rocks, the wayward teen we’re ignoring, the Dun-lap belly, the decision to abandon all and follow the man from Galilee on the narrow path, and so on.

All of us have reasons as to why we pretend these things are “not” there, or that we put off calling it out until “tomorrow”, or; that we simply allow to grow to the size that it takes over our lives, emerging eventually into the junkie’s “setting sun”.  Whatever your Monster is lurking under your bed, or that has taken over a piece of your home, or perhaps your whole life-house…perhaps it’s time to give it a name before the damage is done.

Selah

 

Rainy Days and Mondays

I Don’t Do Mondays

There have been many songs, quotes, sayings and general universal disgruntlement lamenting the fate that is the “Monday” certainty in all of our lives.  And of course once Monday’s tedium comes to it’s stark reality by around 10:00 AM, we’re already drifting off into dreams of “hump day” (yeah), and then quickly on to “weekend getaways” and excursions filled with addictive overscheduling of massive doses of a blissfully long weekend, which by design is meant to delay the ever so punctual and “matter-of-factness” of, well…Monday.  In fact I’m sure most of us would vote to take Monday out of the 7-day week all together, but then of course we’d have a new nemesis by the name of “Tuesday” in short order.  This should serve to remind us that the issue we have is not Monday at all, but rather the humdrum characteristic that it has come to represent driven by our own brand of the “tyranny of the urgent” that comes with it, and of that which baptizes us rather quickly into the dreaded ordinary that comprises most of our lives.

Dreams

And the truth is, that if you add to this global phenomenon a big dose of the American Dream relentlessly interwoven into the tapestry of our lives, well then Monday is synonymous with “messing with our mojo”, or better yet, something akin to yet another brutal awakening to a dream that we surmise has somehow passed us by altogether yet again.  And the more we numb it’s “un”-accomplishment in our lives with toys; cocktails; action-packed weekends; and another self-help book sure to get us to our dream, the more Monday comes in like a freight train inviting us “all aboard” of which we are powerless to not simply fall in line.  And of course, the devil for each of us is in the myriad of Monday details.

I’m a big dreamer too, and always have been.  In fact, if ADHD meds had been available to me in my school days, I’d already have reached my American Dream, because I’d be the “poster child” for whatever drug company had the best bang for the buck!  By the time I got to middle school however, Mary Jane would take it’s place, and my entrance to class was an open invitation to “yours truly” to lay my head on the desk and drift to wherever my rock and roll dreams would take me.  Which at the age of 16, usually consisted of some Island full of beautiful girls, where I was of course the only guy, and where (you guessed it), a limitless supply of more Mary Jane; and well…more girls, etc., etc., etc.

Now fast forward then to the age of 27, when I finally quit running from the hound of heaven, my dreams started to mature somewhat.  They now were God-sized dreams, but I found out rather quickly, that Christendom has it’s own subculture of the American “Christian” Dream, which for someone on the way to seminary was filled with becoming the next Billy Graham, or the Apostle Paul if it wasn’t too much to ask; or perhaps somewhere in between.  Little did I know, that was not the path I was to take, at least for such a time as this.

There were some accomplishments though I suppose.  A high-school dropout made good on gaining a couple of degrees, but after a short period, walked away from the climb up the ecclesiastical ladder already full of hairy priestly butts above me, and into the sales world of “coffee is for closers”, where at least some aspect of an economic dream started to take shape and put my family slightly higher on the food chain.

Still Restless and Crazy After All These Years

And now, as 54 is just around the corner, I’m still dreaming a bit quite honestly.  I’m still on the food chain, but hanging on by a slight tether. And my dreams now are mostly about writing a blog everyone will want to read, or finally writing that best selling book.  Yet also perhaps more simple things like being the best disciple I can be (with a very distinct limp), loving my wife in such a way that she actually misses me when I’m gone, and being a voice of reason and spiritual insight to my sons and to any other wayward soul who longs to know the method to my slight madness.  And since they typically don’t pay respect until you die, and I’m not dead yet, I still want to be all God wants me to be; don’t want to miss an opportunity that’s truly from Him; and I strive to be my best at what I do; yet all the while, like you perhaps, I’m plagued with waking up to another Monday morning on this increasingly difficult narrow path, often still very restless indeed.

For instance, I go to church and wonder why I’m so cotton-picking bored out of my mind.   I keep looking for someone to walk out of a wheelchair, or to hear a sermon that knocks me off my feet, or encounter a brother or sister in Christ who looks and smells exactly like a Christian of old, and who then actually wants to do life with me.  But then I wake up, and I realize that God and I have more work to do, on me I suppose–something akin to my spiritual Monday if you will.  After all, training in righteousness is really super-duper hard work, especially with what the Lord has to work with and everything.  And yes there are bills to pay; April 15th; deadlines looming; kids that still need braces, and well…the damn trash still needs taken out too.

The Work Still At Hand

 And then there is that time with the Lord I spend everyday, doing my best to allow more of Him to show up and a whole lot less of me.  There’s the time spent uninterested in church still; the uneventful acts of kindness done to people who will mostly forget; and forget about me as well.  There are also the good deeds that will no doubt go unpunished if I continue to live long enough.  There is the time in prayer when God seems to be playing extremely hard to get, and the times when His still small voice is clearly saying “Here is the way, walk ye in it”.  And then there are rainy days and Mondays where rather than purposeful living, I feel as if I’m that damn hamster on that blasted wheel thingy!

And then I realize, perhaps these daily practices really are the stuff of life, and are eternally worth waking up for, even on Monday.  Because as I look out the window of this rainy-Monday world, I still believe the dreams of God fulfilled in the shoe leather of His people are exactly what the world still has just too little of I’m afraid.  I guess that means I’ve got more work to do.  After all, it is Monday.

Selah

The Time at Which Zihuatanejo Should Not Be a Man’s Preferred Destination

In 1994, the movie Shawshank Redemption became a beloved film to just about anyone who saw it, and no less so in the eyes of this man with a head chalked full of Andy Dufrane “shitty pipe dream” propensities. The movie impacted me greatly to say the least; to the extent that after watching it at least once a year since then, the admiration for the “Andy Dufrane” approach to life has become one of my favorite colloquialisms I give out to anyone who will listen. Particularly to those who have for far too long allowed the worries and past mistakes of their current existence to incapacitate them from dreaming bigger than what they can see, just beyond the dreadful Shawshank prison yard of their lives.

Andy of course is the “middle finger” to this even more debilitating form of imprisonment, and thus has resolved to know nothing of the sort. And as he talks to Red in the prison yard, his famous “get busy living, or get busy dying” discourse begins. He then ever so doggedly echoes to his only true friend in the world that he wants to go to Zihuatanejo and rent a little hotel and fix up a boat; somewhere on the vast Pacific where it is said that it “has no memory”. His deduction is that since he is not guilty of any of the crimes he was accused of committing, and of which he has now paid for dearly; it is the very “least” that life now owes to him. And as he makes his way through the cesspool of human excrement to the precipice of the realization of his newfound dream, we rejoice and even travel along in our hearts and minds to this remote destination with him, where there is no memory of his 20-years of “hell on earth”. Somehow, Andy has therefore become our archetypical hero of escape from life’s mirror of human suffering and injustice that we are also too eager to escape–and understandably so.

There are times however in this life, and particularly on the narrow path of the Christian life, where Zihuatanejo and the Pacific of “no memory” should not be our desired destination; at least at first. In fact, most people who struggle with depression find the exercise of “self-reflection” and finally sitting down with the “man in the mirror” particularly difficult, especially as they recall through years of bad choices with the entourage of scars and stripes to prove it. But as they navigate through the painful, yet more cozy cathartic process, the time finally comes to “own up” to whatever sins we “have” committed also ourselves, with a plan to actually do something about the mess that is our lives–and this of course is a “fly in the ointment” for most of us. And if we are not careful, this sometimes agonizing confrontation with the truth can become the impetus for an insatiable desire to escape with Andy and Red somewhere that will never again remind us of where we have been, and continue the endless cycle of our own version of “self-medicating” that will allow us to permanently walk away and forget– until of course the next thunderous sound of silence, with only us and the mirror in the room to tell the tale.

James, the brother of the Lord Jesus reminds us of this proclivity that each of us is prone to wander into. His word to us is to be “doers of the word, and not hearers only”, which he says is to “deceive oneself” quite frankly. In fact, he says if we are like this (and we often are), we are like a man looking ever so intently in a mirror, yet in a New-York minute, to Zihuatanejo of the Pacific we go, indeed forgetting our both enlightening and equally intimidating reflection.

I’ve found that the Lord gives us an incessant amount of days contrary to popular misconceptions to correct this path, if we will avail ourselves to His myriad of opportunities. For one, by the time a man or woman is in their 50’s, the phrase “becoming bitter or better” can be quite instructive for those enrolled in the class of the desire to “make a change” as a result of our own mirror check. Equally educational is the reality that we really are on “The Back 9” of our lives, and “measuring one’s days” as the Psalmist echoes, is in fact the “key” to “gaining a heart of wisdom”–which the world around us desperately needs for a lot more of us with grey hairs to have! And yet, if you are like me, even with this billboard of reality ever before the highway of our lives, we can numb ourselves with the night’s belly full of wine, favorite sitcom, never-ending leisure, or distractive workaholism; to the point at which the mirror no longer beckons us to take a little look see, or until we’ve simply covered it up with sticky notes of reminders that have now become eternally opaque. And so, as fate would have it, the Jerry Maguire memo never gets written, the Ebenezer Scrooge sleepless night of present, past and future mirrors drifts back off into slumberous forgetfulness, and George Bailey prefers to live in the fate of Pottersville, rather than the potential of a new and better Bedford Falls as we then “exit, stage left”.

As I awakened the other evening in a somewhat introspective state, it occurred to me that the reflection of the man in the mirror I have known for far too long is still the most wonderful salve salvation ever brought to me, despite my share of life’s contributions to the mirrors ammo. The ability to look into that beautiful mirror, and to ask for the matchless grace of the Lord Jesus for the ten-zillionth time, and to once again through the Spirit’s help, having been given the self-revelatory ability to see a man who really can and must “daily” change his ways, is indeed the partial treasure we should sell everything for to have.  And though Zihuatanejo of the Pacific has its addictively sedated appeal still, the mirror’s laser-like image is just what the Dr. ordered, and the only place where the dreams of God for our lives actually begin.

Selah

The Slow Emasculation of the American Christian Male

It was several months ago that I stumbled across a verse of scripture that I had read hundreds of times before. Yet somehow, as if all of a sudden struck with a “Fifty First Dates” knock on the head, everything became different, and I took a pause to reflect on this pearl of great price I had now found. It appeared to me as I read the following words in the book of II Samuel, highlighting the beginning journey of a man after God’s own heart now taking a very serious turn for the worst. This insightful text reads,

 In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle, David sent Joab, and his servants with him, and all Israel. And they ravaged the Ammonites and besieged Rabbah. But David remained at Jerusalem[i].

It was then that this thought leapt off the page and into the very sinew of my bones as to what really led to the beginning of the great King’s ruination, and not as we at first might conclude. For those unfamiliar, it is in the very next verses, that as he is at ease in Zion with nothing else to do but drink fine wine and eat chocolates tucked neatly under his pillow that the great King happenstances upon what no married man should ever gaze upon and then look twice without paying the piper dearly: that of a woman bathing with the glow of her endless curves glistening in the erotic moonlight, and then back into the lustful eye of a man temporarily diverted from the very purpose for which he was born.

There are of course a whole lot of lessons here to pull from, but the one I missed for far too long is laid out for us like a deer in the scope of a hunter’s rifle: When a man no longer has a battle, or something to strive for, he is as lost as a ship in the devil’s triangle, and this fantastic distraction will eventually become the tragic story of a man who has been found permanently “Dead in Absentia”. Yet the sadness lies in the fact that a prophet (Nathan) is the only one sending out an SOS, while the inattentive male now slips into irrelevant oblivion!

You see every man has something to conquer, something to do, and something to say clearly and forthrightly. Yet oftentimes, like a dog who quits chasing cars once the “family jewels” are removed, a man’s devolutionary emasculation pilgrimage happens slowly like the boiling of the frog in the kettle. Yet when it is complete; the easy chair, cold beer and Sunday football usher him into the status of a dead man walking, not easily observed until the Dr. calls much later with the dreaded news.

I know so many like this, and I’ve become somewhat of an expert in its reflection, because I too have been summoned by the subtle call of a meaningless life of endless commentating on the sidelines, away from the fear of a “Clowney-like” hit. After all, we are afraid of failure, and yet equally afraid of our possible success. We start to listen to the voices that tell us not to give it a college try, to play it safe, and to leave our appendage at the door for the wife to keep in her purse until we return. Passivity becomes comfort food for the couch potato who has now become content to play video games and watch the fight on TV, rather than find a battle of his own that requires full engagement instead of capitulating to Sunday buffets and a slow death by gamma rays.

Oh to be sure this is happening across our country like a freight train coming through our front door, yet even those of us men who call ourselves Christians have also become spiritually impotent. We chuckle as fat men with big cigars, ear hair and “no life” admire the likes of Hugh Hefner, while continually denigrating Tim Tebow and Mark Wahlberg for taking a moral stance, and amidst a culture who spent more time mourning the death of Princess Diana than Mother Theresa. We’re afraid to say we follow the carpenter and His cross in public at least, and we leave it up to our wives to take our kids to church. We even succumb to electing our wives surrogate Dads, now left alone to try and teach our young men what it means to be a man of conviction and purpose. Young men who gladly wear chivalry in their very being as a badge of honor, and who would gladly take a bullet for their wife and kids on any given day. Meanwhile, the emasculated Christian male settles down to our own endless private screening of women bathing in the buff, using all kinds of excuses for the need to do so; secretly scratching our head as to why the spark left the bedroom long, long ago–leaving our wives to the slippery slope of Fifty Shades of Grey.

The truth is men; the safety and pleasures of Jerusalem are no place for us to be when the invitation to ravage the Ammonites and besiege Rabbah is before us. This is not what Kings do!

So Men, get off the damn couch! It’s time to chase cars again!

 

[i] 2 Samuel 11:1 ESV