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I would like to note that on my most recent trip to a writer's conference, I presented this to a critique group. I'll never forget the look on the leaders face when I told her I was pitching a deleted scene because I thought it was a bad idea. Every last person in that critique group told me later during the conference that they loved the idea.
Anyway, here's the sample chapter.
And of course, terribly sorry.
Chapter (Sample)
INT. LIVINGROOM SET – EVENING
The buxom strawberry blonde turns a page on the script, then turns it back. She raises an eyebrow, and looks at the director. Her mouth speaks the words her vacant eyes and absent expression broadcast.
“I don’t get it.”
“I’m with Strawberry on this one, sir,” her male co-star says. He’s balding a little bit with a patch of hair between two expansive parts. He’s not quite as tall as she is. He thumbs his suspenders.
“I mean, this is even pretty weird for you, Mr. Wylde.”
The director looks back at them both. His eyes are enormous behind the thick glasses.
The male actor raises his eyebrows the way people do when they realize they’ve made a faux pas.
“Mr. Lumpkin, I mean. Sorry sir.”
Infamous director, J. Artemis Lumpkin, looks the way Alfred Hitchcock would look if he were several pounds lighter, painfully nearsighted, and endowed with wild hair that would have made Albert Einstein jealous.
He points at the script and, with a slow, muddled, British accent that furthers his resemblance to the great director, he says, “It was Mr. Winston’s idea.”
He says this as though it settles the matter.
The man looks at his copy of the script. He flips a few pages, then closes the booklet bound by brass brads and covered in light blue cardstock. “But the dialogue…”
J. Artemis Lumpkin nods. “Remarkable, isn’t it?”
The man looks aghast. “At least.”
“Mr. Wylde,” a woman says, out of the shot.
Everyone turns to her.
Angle on a woman with horn rimmed glasses and makeup brushes. Her face is contorted by a burning question, a question heating her steps.
“Mr. Lumpkin. Sorry.” She points to the camera crew. “The guys tell me you’re planning on doing this entire thing in a single take.”
This was news to the actors.
“What?”
“That is correct,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says.
The strawberry blonde drops her jaw.
“You’re kidding,” her male counterpart says.
The director looks taken aback. “Of course not. I’m J. Artemis Lumpkin.”
The two men stare at each other for a few moments. Finally the director says, “Excuse me.”
He turns to the camera operator. “Mr. Johnson. Are we ready to start shooting?”
“In more ways than one,” he says.
“Excellent. Places everyone. Places.”
The strawberry blonde and her male counterpart exchange worried glances.
He mouths the words ‘good luck,’ before taking his place outside the front door.
She takes her place with a book behind the couch. She stashes her script, checks her sultry wraparound dress.
“Speed,” the soundman says.
“We’re rolling, sir,” the cameraman says.
“Mr. Lumpkin, I must insist…”
“It will be fine, Ms. Baylor. Just do the best you can, and the rest will take care of itself.”
“But…”
J. Artemis Lumpkin turns to the set before him, to Strawberry Muffy, to the closed door, and says, “Action.”
Angle on the monitor, showing the strawberry blonde. She’s looking through the pages of her book. The title on the cover reads, Cannibalism 101.
She hears the knock at the door and perks up. Her hand melodramatically cups over her ear.
“Blah,” she says, following Mr. Winston’s riveting dialogue. “Blah blah blah blah.”
She puts the book behind one of the cushions on the couch, then bounces her way across the room. She checks her appearance in the front mirror, then opens the door.
The man stands in the frame, smiling. He’s carrying a suitcase with the word “Salesman,” on the side.
“Blah blah,” he says, smiling. “Blah blah blah blah blah blah blah.” He gestures his open hand across the bottom of the suitcase. “Blah blah, blah blah blah blah blah blah?”
Strawberry Muffy puts her hand to her chest and gives a scandalous, coquettish gasp.
From off camera, the microphones faintly pick up J. Artemis Lumpkin as he says, “I think there’s a speck on the lens.”
Strawberry Muffy says, “Blah, blah blah!”
The salesman nods, backs away and says as he prepares to leave, “Blah blah. Blah, blah blah.”
“Oh, no, don’t stop filming. I think I can take care of it.”
“Blah, blah?” Strawberry Muffy tucks her head down in a pout. Her hands go to undo the buttons securing the halves of her dress. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah?”
At that, she opens her dress giving the salesman a clear view of what we presume to be her pendulous breasts.
But at that same moment, Albert Einstein hair precedes the appearance of magnified eyes behind thick glasses. The director’s open mouth moves in, fogging up the lens.
“Blah,” the salesman says. He sounds happy. “Blah, blah blah blah blah blah.”
The screen goes black as the director wipes the lens clean with his tie.
The door closes.
“Blah, blah,” Strawberry Muffy moans.
“Blah,” the salesman says in a pleasurable grunt.
Enormous eyes inspect the lens.
“Yes, that should about do it.”
He walks out of the shot to the left, revealing Strawberry Muffy and the salesman. Her back is to the camera. The salesman seems to have forgotten his suitcase, having his hands in another matter.
“Blah blah,” she says, pulling away and reuniting the halves of her dress before turning back to face the camera.
She walks back toward the couch.
“Blah blah,” she says in a come-hither voice. “Blah blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah, blah blah.”
Her eyes widen. She starts counting on her fingers. She regains her sultry air and adds, “Blah.”
“Blah blah,” the salesman says, removing his coat, loosening his tie.
“Blah blah blah blah?” she says, preparing a comfortable spot for him on the couch. With a coy glance over her shoulder, she walks away. Shoulders tight. An extra wiggle in her hips.
The salesman watches her go with unwavering attention. “Blah blah,” he says, as though he means every word.
He takes his prepared place on the couch and spreads out. One might think he’s just pulled the lever on the right slot machine.
His hand falls against the soft end pillow, and his face furrows.
He pulls the pillow away, to reveal the book.
He draws the book closer and reads the title.
His eyes widen.
His mouth falls open.
His face seems to flush.
“Blah blah blah?”
“BLAH!” Strawberry Muffy says, charging in with a rolling pin poised over her head.
He looks up.
The pin comes down.
The blow knocks him to the floor.
He crawls to the end of the couch.
She meets him there and readies another blow.
The shot zooms in on the murderess, her victim, and the edge of a special effects person rushing into position. He looks toward the camera and backs out of the shot.
The roller comes down on the salesman’s head as Strawberry Muffy shouts, “Blah!”
She raises it again for another strike.
The special effects person’s hand appears in the shot. It’s holding a brush dipped in fake blood.
Red droplets spatter Strawberry Muffy’s dress several beats too late.
Strike.
“Blah!”
Delayed spatter.
Strike.
“Blah!”
Delayed spatter.
She raises the weapon over her head and laughs victoriously over her murdered victim.
“Blah, blah, blah blah blah blah!”
Delayed spatter finds her dress, her face, her open mouth.
Her chortle changes to a cough, the way one would when they swallow a bug. She begins wiping off her tongue.
“Sorry! Sorry!” the effects person says somewhere out of the shot. “I got a little carried away!
Sorry!”
Strawberry Muffy tries to spit as much of the blood from her mouth as she can.
“Blah,” she says.
There’s nothing sexy or overtly attractive in her gait as she walks back to the kitchen. The camera pans right, following her to the swinging door.
She disappears through it.
The camera pans left, back to the corpse, back to the makeup artist rapidly applying a grayish hue to his skin.
The actor waves his hands toward the camera.
“Not yet. Not yet.”
The makeup artist rapidly applies a few last touches and runs out of the shot.
His skin is pink in some parts, light gray in others, dark gray in others.
He gets to his feet and, accepting the reality of his situation, slips into the character of a zombie.
He extends his arms out in front of him and staggers in an unsteady, reanimated gait.
“Blah.”
He staggers around to the far side of the couch.
The camera pans right to where Strawberry Muffy reenters the set through the swinging kitchen door. In one hand, she’s holding her open book. In the other, she’s holding a meat cleaver.
“Blah, blah blah, blah blah,” she says reading to herself.
The zombie salesman reaches for her. “Blah.”
She looks up from her book, and screams, “BLAH!!!”
One zombie hand wraps itself around her throat. The other takes hold of the wrist of the hand holding the cleaver.
She resists in vain for a few moments, but in the end, he brings her to the floor behind the couch.
The zombie raises the meat cleaver over his head, and strikes.
Blood spatters the wall by the kitchen door.
He strikes again.
Blood spatters the zombie’s partially gray face.
He raises the cleaver over his prey and holds in a dramatic pose. “Blah,” he says, preparing to strike.
Blood spatters his face in more copious amounts than before. This time the brush hits him in the face as well.
“Hey!” he says, yelling at the special effects guy off camera.
The camera pans over to see him, holding his hands over his mouth. A small bucket of fake blood sits by the side.
“Oops! Sorry, man. Sorry. It’s my first day.”
Angle on Strawberry Muffy sitting up from behind the couch. “I think I got some of that in my mouth again.” She looks at the camera. “Wait. Did he say cut? Sorry. Blah blah blah blah blah…”
Her costar knocks her in the side of the head with the bloody brush.
“Blah!” she says, affronted.
“And cut,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, standing to his feet.
Angle on Ms. Baylor readjusting her horn rimmed glasses as she says, “Mr. Lumpkin, please tell me we’re going to re-do that scene but in smaller segments.”
His wide eyes stare at her for a moment. He looks to the side, cocks his head back.
“I don’t see why we should, Ms. Baylor.”
“You don’t…” the zombie salesman stands to his feet, his face aghast. “How could you not see that we need another take?”
“Well,” J. Artemis Lumpkin says, “it is a deleted scene.”
Angle on Ms. Baylor’s astonished expression.
Angle on the zombie salesman standing stock still, his jaw dropped, his eyes wide, his face and clothes covered in fake blood.
Angle on Strawberry Muffy, confused as usual.
“I don’t get it.”
CUT TO:
To download the rest of the book, visit Amazon.com and look for Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Unpublishable--published!
I went on Amazon.com today to see if my new ebook was available yet, and to my great delight, it was. So, now I'm faced with the daunting challenge of marketing the thing, so it doesn't get lost in the mass of published work lurking at Amazon.com. The synopsis my publisher posted concerns me a bit. I'm working on getting it changed to:
"When exploitation horror film director, Guy Wylde, gets tired of wasting his potential on making porn, and when his producer and brother, Larry Wylde, refuses to let him quit, he begins to sabotage his own career in an attempt to get himself fired. The subsequent z-movies—including such atrocities as Attack of the Sofa Squid, The Duct Tape Mummy, and Utterly Pointless Massacre Part 9—develop a cult following. Yet, despite the profits, Larry wishes Guy would abandon his Holy Crusade against their chosen genre. When the conflict climaxes with a horde of Zombie fans marching on the studio demanding to eat Larry’s brains, the end result is murder."
I dunno. I think it's better. But what do I know. I'm just the author.
Anyway, if you're reading this, and you have a Kindle or other e-reader, please pay a visit to Amazon.com and buy a copy of my new ebook, Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.
Also, Facebook users can join my N. Paul Williams fan page. Not terribly exciting yet, but I'm working on it.
"When exploitation horror film director, Guy Wylde, gets tired of wasting his potential on making porn, and when his producer and brother, Larry Wylde, refuses to let him quit, he begins to sabotage his own career in an attempt to get himself fired. The subsequent z-movies—including such atrocities as Attack of the Sofa Squid, The Duct Tape Mummy, and Utterly Pointless Massacre Part 9—develop a cult following. Yet, despite the profits, Larry wishes Guy would abandon his Holy Crusade against their chosen genre. When the conflict climaxes with a horde of Zombie fans marching on the studio demanding to eat Larry’s brains, the end result is murder."
I dunno. I think it's better. But what do I know. I'm just the author.
Anyway, if you're reading this, and you have a Kindle or other e-reader, please pay a visit to Amazon.com and buy a copy of my new ebook, Unpublishable: The Book Isn't Always Better.
Also, Facebook users can join my N. Paul Williams fan page. Not terribly exciting yet, but I'm working on it.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas Parties
I’m not a big fan of Christmas to begin with. It’s the time of year when the pretence of the church is accepted and adopted by secular society. No longer can people like me escape the shallow pandering and platitudes which work to water down the Christian Faith by escaping into the general population. No. It hounds us through November and December with “Happy Holidays,” and “Season’s Greeting,” and the occasional, courageous, “Merry Christmas.” Peace on earth, but not necessarily to those on whom His favor rests.
Yet, the thing that really gets me this year is the birthday party. Disciples of Jesus talk about celebrating Jesus, but the church services we attend feel as drab and traditional as any other Sunday. The Choir does their Cantata. The Congregation sits patiently waiting for the continental breakfast in the Fellowship Hall. We talk about the joy of the season, but too few of us are smiling. A pastor on the radio did a broadcast from his church in England where the liturgy talked—in language no human being would use—about “accepting with joy the gift of Christ in anticipation for the day he would return as our judge…” His tone sounded line one reading something grand that didn’t speak to the heart. The congregation, when they responded in unison to a reading, didn’t sound completely awake.
And you know what it reminded me of? The parties in those old classic slasher films. The parties where everyone pretends to be having a good time because the script calls for it. They guy with the guitar leading songs around the campfire. The girls holding a beer and singing along. They’re all smiling, because they’re being paid to smile. The parties were always lame, lame enough that a serial killer jumping out of the nearby woods wouldn’t ruin the party as much as liven things up.
It kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles of the local churches with a hockey mask and machete yelling, “Hey, guess what! The world is seriously messed up and on its way down the tubes to hell. It’s so messed up that whenever anyone tries to impede the progress of said world down the crapper, some outspoken activist stands up and insists they have the right to be flushed!”
I’d pause here for dramatic effect, then say, “But God loved us so much that He sent His only Son down into those tubes so we could have the option of swimming against the flow. And when that gift arrived, it wasn’t announced to the great, well dressed, churchy types. It was announced to the lowest form of life available—shepherds, who were regarded the same way we view the homeless drug addicts and prostitutes. Jesus was announced to the shit of the world, because He came to save the world from its own manure pile.”
Again, I would pause. Most believers aren’t accustomed to hearing the word shit in church. In fact, most of them would be more offended that I said shit, than they would be that people are going to hell unimpeded.
Then, I would say, “You guys can sit here and party like there’s a serial killer in the woods if you want to. Smile at the lame music, drink the beer of self-righteousness, and then act surprised when the guy covered in other people’s blood shows up. But I’d rather celebrate as though the greatest King ever came to humble men in humble means; an act that the bogeyman can’t handle. Why party like there’s no tomorrow when we can rejoice in being given a future?”
You’re right. Dumb idea. But as I think about the kind of Birthday party my Savior would throw for Himself—or prefer to have thrown—I’m left with the opinion that traditional Christmas isn’t it. He wasn’t about popularity. He wasn’t about pretence. Christmas bling is anathema to Christ.
Don’t get me wrong. I do wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I just wish the celebration of something so amazing was a party worth attending.
Yet, the thing that really gets me this year is the birthday party. Disciples of Jesus talk about celebrating Jesus, but the church services we attend feel as drab and traditional as any other Sunday. The Choir does their Cantata. The Congregation sits patiently waiting for the continental breakfast in the Fellowship Hall. We talk about the joy of the season, but too few of us are smiling. A pastor on the radio did a broadcast from his church in England where the liturgy talked—in language no human being would use—about “accepting with joy the gift of Christ in anticipation for the day he would return as our judge…” His tone sounded line one reading something grand that didn’t speak to the heart. The congregation, when they responded in unison to a reading, didn’t sound completely awake.
And you know what it reminded me of? The parties in those old classic slasher films. The parties where everyone pretends to be having a good time because the script calls for it. They guy with the guitar leading songs around the campfire. The girls holding a beer and singing along. They’re all smiling, because they’re being paid to smile. The parties were always lame, lame enough that a serial killer jumping out of the nearby woods wouldn’t ruin the party as much as liven things up.
It kind of makes me want to run up and down the aisles of the local churches with a hockey mask and machete yelling, “Hey, guess what! The world is seriously messed up and on its way down the tubes to hell. It’s so messed up that whenever anyone tries to impede the progress of said world down the crapper, some outspoken activist stands up and insists they have the right to be flushed!”
I’d pause here for dramatic effect, then say, “But God loved us so much that He sent His only Son down into those tubes so we could have the option of swimming against the flow. And when that gift arrived, it wasn’t announced to the great, well dressed, churchy types. It was announced to the lowest form of life available—shepherds, who were regarded the same way we view the homeless drug addicts and prostitutes. Jesus was announced to the shit of the world, because He came to save the world from its own manure pile.”
Again, I would pause. Most believers aren’t accustomed to hearing the word shit in church. In fact, most of them would be more offended that I said shit, than they would be that people are going to hell unimpeded.
Then, I would say, “You guys can sit here and party like there’s a serial killer in the woods if you want to. Smile at the lame music, drink the beer of self-righteousness, and then act surprised when the guy covered in other people’s blood shows up. But I’d rather celebrate as though the greatest King ever came to humble men in humble means; an act that the bogeyman can’t handle. Why party like there’s no tomorrow when we can rejoice in being given a future?”
You’re right. Dumb idea. But as I think about the kind of Birthday party my Savior would throw for Himself—or prefer to have thrown—I’m left with the opinion that traditional Christmas isn’t it. He wasn’t about popularity. He wasn’t about pretence. Christmas bling is anathema to Christ.
Don’t get me wrong. I do wish everyone a Merry Christmas. I just wish the celebration of something so amazing was a party worth attending.
Friday, August 28, 2009
Blame it on Jack
The beautiful thing about being an author is that one can take their less popular, politically incorrect ideals and put them in the mouth of someone else—to be blamed later. With that in mind, I would like to blame the following on Jack Hacker.
August 9
Some Jackass politician talked about the progressiveness of our country today. Said what a great thing it was that we, as a nation, would elect a black man into the White House. Said Dr Martin Luther King Jr. would be proud.
Bull. Dr. King had a dream of equality, of a world without racism. In that world, no one would notice that we have a black President. No one would care. He’s a man who happens to have dark skin; a condition accounted for by 0.0025% of his genetic code. That’s less than one percent. Less than one tenth of a percent. Less than a hundredth of a percent. That’s not enough to alter his race from anything but human; not like it did between the gorillas, orangutans, and chimpanzees in Planet of the Apes. The only thing that sets him apart is his heritage. That’s not big deal, or at least, it shouldn’t be.
Told someone in a campaign shirt that I didn’t care for his man’s politics. They called me a racist. I guess he noticed the color of his man’s skin. I guess heritage is a big deal, something to be proud of, something to be obnoxious about. Perhaps I should give up my crazy ideals and celebrate my Arian heritage they way some revel in their African roots. Perhaps I should join my local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Petition my congressman for a White History Month.
Of course, some racists might protest my newly embraced racism. But I could sue them for reverse discrimination—hell, can’t even say it with a straight face. Nothing reverse about it.
No, Dr. King wouldn’t be proud. We haven’t progressed at all since the day we splattered his brilliance all over a Memphis hotel. Instead, we’ve settled for packaging the same shit in a different toilet. I guess just flushing and starting over is too much of a hassle.
Sorry, Dr. King.
We haven’t flushed racism in this country.
We just swore it into office.
August 9
Some Jackass politician talked about the progressiveness of our country today. Said what a great thing it was that we, as a nation, would elect a black man into the White House. Said Dr Martin Luther King Jr. would be proud.
Bull. Dr. King had a dream of equality, of a world without racism. In that world, no one would notice that we have a black President. No one would care. He’s a man who happens to have dark skin; a condition accounted for by 0.0025% of his genetic code. That’s less than one percent. Less than one tenth of a percent. Less than a hundredth of a percent. That’s not enough to alter his race from anything but human; not like it did between the gorillas, orangutans, and chimpanzees in Planet of the Apes. The only thing that sets him apart is his heritage. That’s not big deal, or at least, it shouldn’t be.
Told someone in a campaign shirt that I didn’t care for his man’s politics. They called me a racist. I guess he noticed the color of his man’s skin. I guess heritage is a big deal, something to be proud of, something to be obnoxious about. Perhaps I should give up my crazy ideals and celebrate my Arian heritage they way some revel in their African roots. Perhaps I should join my local chapter of the Ku Klux Klan. Petition my congressman for a White History Month.
Of course, some racists might protest my newly embraced racism. But I could sue them for reverse discrimination—hell, can’t even say it with a straight face. Nothing reverse about it.
No, Dr. King wouldn’t be proud. We haven’t progressed at all since the day we splattered his brilliance all over a Memphis hotel. Instead, we’ve settled for packaging the same shit in a different toilet. I guess just flushing and starting over is too much of a hassle.
Sorry, Dr. King.
We haven’t flushed racism in this country.
We just swore it into office.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Tolerance in Action
A few days ago I saw an interview with the recently fired Miss California. Despite what the pageant office said about her missing appearances in lieu of other “unsanctioned” events, she made a case for the obvious. Her stand against gay marriage cost her the crown.
It’s always nice to see tolerance in action.
Don’t get me wrong. My heart goes out to the homosexual community. I understand that a rejection of the sin is often misconstrued as a slap in the face of the sinner. I understand that most people can’t separate who they are from what they do. I understand that it’s only because of Jesus that I’m able to see this distinction in myself and in others.
I understand that most people who read this won’t understand, and that’s all right.
What isn’t all right is the hypocrisy in the doctrine of tolerance. This problem isn’t the fault of people, but a flaw in the doctrine itself. It’s elementary. For tolerance to work, everyone must follow it. Therefore, tolerance must be intolerant of any doctrine other than itself. Ergo, hypocrisy.
So when the rubber meets the road, people like Carrie Prejean are told to be tolerant, even though it isn’t her doctrine. Of course, when she expresses her beliefs, which are contrary to the popular ideology, is tolerance extended to this differing world view? How could it be? Tolerance insists that there are no moral absolutes, while the Christian faith insists that there are. The two stand directly opposed. The church says to tolerance, “Love one another, yes, but love God first.” Tolerance, on the other hand, says to the church, “Why don’t you hypocrites just roll over and play dead?”
The funny thing is, we’re the ones accused of hate speech.
To be fair, many Christians do preach out of a self-righteous hatred. They’re the ones who often get the publicity, unfortunately.
But people like myself and Carrie Prejean are motivated by our love for people. Some would ask, of course, “How can you slam a group of people in love?” First, and once again, we see the sin and the person as being separate. Homosexual behavior is the issue. Homosexuals are not.
Second, if the Bible—which we believe to be the ultimate truth—says that sin is harmful, and that homosexual behavior is a sin, then how could we tolerate something that so threatens someone we’re called to love? That would be like asking me to tolerate a rattlesnake in my child’s playpen. That would be like asking me to tolerate a serial rapist in my sister’s neighborhood. I could no sooner tolerate a carbon monoxide leak in the home of my best friends, than I could tolerate a seemingly harmless sin that promises to destroy people in the end. No! Love itself forbids it, and I am happy to comply.
“But isn’t it wrong to force your beliefs on other people?”
Isn’t it funny that such questions are often posed by those who advocate the absence of moral absolutes?
Isn’t it funnier still that those who preach tolerance—believing that forcing one’s belief on another is wrong—show no hesitation to apply consequences to those of us who won’t see the world from their point of view; consequences being the vital element in forcing a belief?
Carrie Prejean lost her crown because she wouldn’t adopt a belief. Consequence.
I shared my faith at a temp job once, and that evening the agency told me my assignment had ended. Consequence.
Preach tolerance like the rest of the world, or you’ll end up like the I.D. scientists in Ben Stein’s excellent movie, “Expelled.”
Here’s a question: Why should I tolerate a doctrine that seeks to destroy what I believe? Advocates of gay marriage don’t tolerate Carrie Prejean for her Biblical world view. Why should I tolerate their intolerant tolerance?
Let’s be fair. Hypocrisy isn’t a problem in the church, it’s a problem in the human race. The shortcomings of the church just get better publicity. Of course, such relentless ridicule against any other religious group would be considered a hate crime. But, we don’t follow the mainstream view of tolerance, so we must be punished, lest we force our beliefs on others, which we don’t.
Some would argue that we do. They would say that we threaten people with hell if they don’t fall on their faces before Jesus then and there. But that’s like forcing chastity on someone by saying, “If you sleep with your girlfriend tonight, Jason Voorhees will jump out of the closet and hack you both to pieces.” The couple might joke about Jason being a climactic ending to their moment of bliss, but they don’t really believe it will happen.
In the same way, hell is only a consequence if people believe. And if they believe, then the beliefs I’m forcing on them are not mine, but their own. Offering to send an unrepentant sinner to hell personally? That’s a different issue, and last I checked, not common practice, even in the gay-bashing congregation of Pastor Fred Phelps.
Christians, on the other hand, can lose their jobs for being Christians who practice what they preach. I know of nurses who’ve been told to keep their religious mouth’s shut. Freedom of speech? Freedom of religion? Any one?
Skeptics, of course, are welcome to walk a mile in my shoes. Stand up in a room of tolerant coworkers and tell them that Jesus saves. Then sit back and watch tolerance in action.
It’s always nice to see tolerance in action.
Don’t get me wrong. My heart goes out to the homosexual community. I understand that a rejection of the sin is often misconstrued as a slap in the face of the sinner. I understand that most people can’t separate who they are from what they do. I understand that it’s only because of Jesus that I’m able to see this distinction in myself and in others.
I understand that most people who read this won’t understand, and that’s all right.
What isn’t all right is the hypocrisy in the doctrine of tolerance. This problem isn’t the fault of people, but a flaw in the doctrine itself. It’s elementary. For tolerance to work, everyone must follow it. Therefore, tolerance must be intolerant of any doctrine other than itself. Ergo, hypocrisy.
So when the rubber meets the road, people like Carrie Prejean are told to be tolerant, even though it isn’t her doctrine. Of course, when she expresses her beliefs, which are contrary to the popular ideology, is tolerance extended to this differing world view? How could it be? Tolerance insists that there are no moral absolutes, while the Christian faith insists that there are. The two stand directly opposed. The church says to tolerance, “Love one another, yes, but love God first.” Tolerance, on the other hand, says to the church, “Why don’t you hypocrites just roll over and play dead?”
The funny thing is, we’re the ones accused of hate speech.
To be fair, many Christians do preach out of a self-righteous hatred. They’re the ones who often get the publicity, unfortunately.
But people like myself and Carrie Prejean are motivated by our love for people. Some would ask, of course, “How can you slam a group of people in love?” First, and once again, we see the sin and the person as being separate. Homosexual behavior is the issue. Homosexuals are not.
Second, if the Bible—which we believe to be the ultimate truth—says that sin is harmful, and that homosexual behavior is a sin, then how could we tolerate something that so threatens someone we’re called to love? That would be like asking me to tolerate a rattlesnake in my child’s playpen. That would be like asking me to tolerate a serial rapist in my sister’s neighborhood. I could no sooner tolerate a carbon monoxide leak in the home of my best friends, than I could tolerate a seemingly harmless sin that promises to destroy people in the end. No! Love itself forbids it, and I am happy to comply.
“But isn’t it wrong to force your beliefs on other people?”
Isn’t it funny that such questions are often posed by those who advocate the absence of moral absolutes?
Isn’t it funnier still that those who preach tolerance—believing that forcing one’s belief on another is wrong—show no hesitation to apply consequences to those of us who won’t see the world from their point of view; consequences being the vital element in forcing a belief?
Carrie Prejean lost her crown because she wouldn’t adopt a belief. Consequence.
I shared my faith at a temp job once, and that evening the agency told me my assignment had ended. Consequence.
Preach tolerance like the rest of the world, or you’ll end up like the I.D. scientists in Ben Stein’s excellent movie, “Expelled.”
Here’s a question: Why should I tolerate a doctrine that seeks to destroy what I believe? Advocates of gay marriage don’t tolerate Carrie Prejean for her Biblical world view. Why should I tolerate their intolerant tolerance?
Let’s be fair. Hypocrisy isn’t a problem in the church, it’s a problem in the human race. The shortcomings of the church just get better publicity. Of course, such relentless ridicule against any other religious group would be considered a hate crime. But, we don’t follow the mainstream view of tolerance, so we must be punished, lest we force our beliefs on others, which we don’t.
Some would argue that we do. They would say that we threaten people with hell if they don’t fall on their faces before Jesus then and there. But that’s like forcing chastity on someone by saying, “If you sleep with your girlfriend tonight, Jason Voorhees will jump out of the closet and hack you both to pieces.” The couple might joke about Jason being a climactic ending to their moment of bliss, but they don’t really believe it will happen.
In the same way, hell is only a consequence if people believe. And if they believe, then the beliefs I’m forcing on them are not mine, but their own. Offering to send an unrepentant sinner to hell personally? That’s a different issue, and last I checked, not common practice, even in the gay-bashing congregation of Pastor Fred Phelps.
Christians, on the other hand, can lose their jobs for being Christians who practice what they preach. I know of nurses who’ve been told to keep their religious mouth’s shut. Freedom of speech? Freedom of religion? Any one?
Skeptics, of course, are welcome to walk a mile in my shoes. Stand up in a room of tolerant coworkers and tell them that Jesus saves. Then sit back and watch tolerance in action.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
California Heartache – California Quarantine
I find myself faced with yet another reason to be writing my next novel, “Burlesque.” Miss California, Carrie Prejean? That Miss USA finalist? That Christian who took a stand for God’s ideal of marriage only to have a moment of indiscretion shoved in her face?
In part, I’m enraged at the hypocrisy of it all. Seriously, folks. Who among us haven’t done something stupid in our youth? Those judges and pageant representatives condemning her? Don’t bother trying to tell me they’re pure-as-snow virgins. Don’t condone an industry that pays for contestant’s implants so they can parade the beauties across the stage wearing bikinis and sultry evening gowns, only to later condemn a contestant for succumbing to the pressures of being physically beautiful. That’s like a cop selling sports cars so he can later nail his customers for speeding. I wonder how the critics would hold up to the scrutiny if they were put under the microscope.
In part, I’m disappointed. This beauty, raised by a Christian family—or so I would presume from the news clips—who drops her top for a camera… I’m not pointing the finger here. I’ve just heard of so many Christians who fell into sexual sin and each time it breaks my heart. If I am to assign blame, I would point the finger at a church culture that doesn’t promote the freedom for people to struggle openly with their besetting sins. Were she allowed to talk about the temptations she faced at the age of seventeen, would there be any photos circulating on the internet now?
In part, I’m hopeful that the family movement Carrie Prejean’s become a spokesman for won’t drop her. The church is supposed to be a carnival of lost souls found, and if we toss out all the imperfect people then the pews would be empty. The Bible teaches a doctrine of grace on this matter. The world, however, teaches a doctrine of quarantine. It is my hope that the church and other religious organizations will hold to their guns—that is, the doctrine of grace—and stand by a fellow solder who held to hers.
Far too often, we follow the world’s example in this.
In the old west, we quarantined the soiled doves, passing laws that kept them from mingling with ‘respectable folk.’ Never mind that several of the lawmakers were customers.
Not to long ago, the city of Centennial had a female mayor who turned out to be a former stripper. She’s been quarantined out of office.
Porn stars are often quarantined from regular acting jobs and kept in their particular, sordid industry. Yet, are they so different from the countless actresses who’ve bared their breasts for a passionate love scene? An actress appears topless in a very public, major motion picture, and she gets an Oscar. A future beauty contestant let’s her boyfriend snap a few personal photos—a boyfriend who behaves himself like a knave by releasing said photos with no personal repercussions—and she’s put in quarantine.
How can we as a country support a pageant that passes judgement on how well a woman wears a bikini and heals, yet also passes judgement on the same women for having her picture taken in her underwear?
More importantly, if we encourage beautiful women to have high moral standards, but then ridicule her for bravely taking a controversial stand on those standards, what message are we sending to the beautiful women of tomorrow?
In my mind’s eye, I see a city of anthropomorphic pigs. They wear nice clothes, they debate politics, they eat in manageable bites. Yet, at the center of the city is a much cherished mud bath. Those who choose to abstain from the mud and seek other ways to cool themselves are mocked for not being true pigs. Those who work to maintain the mud, so beloved by the city, are placed in quarantine for fear they might contaminate the rest of society with their filth. Even those who leave a life in the mud for a life of cool towels and regular baths are still considered unclean by the unwashed masses.
In this city, pigs must wallow in the mud, but not dwell in it. They must indulge in the mud to be considered normal and acceptable. But they must also shun the mud in proper society for fear of contamination. Failure to abide by these rules, results in the pigs turning on the offending member.
Tolerate the mud; that is the choice, the only choice. Tolerate the mud that enslaves its denizens. Tolerate the mud, but uphold the quarantine. Tolerate the mud, or suffer the intolerance of those who tolerate the mud. After all, that is the only choice the pigs are given.
I, for one, do not support tolerance because I believe it doesn’t work. First, it is intolerant of any doctrine other than itself, which by definition, makes tolerance hypocritical. Second, it supports one group of people forcing their beliefs on another group, while denying the other group to so much as present their beliefs to the first. In other words, a homosexual can tell me to be tolerant of his lifestyle, but if I so much as mention the Bible verses that list homosexual behavior as a sin, I’m being an intolerant jerk. (even though tolerance isn’t my doctrine, it’s the doctrine of the person shoving his beliefs down my throat)
Third, it constitutes hate speech. Tolerance is like a missile designed to seek out moral absolutes and destroy them. God’s Word is based on moral absolutes, which means tolerance is a polite way of telling the church to roll over and play dead.
If we did that to any other group on the planet, we’d be on our way to court.
I do not tolerate the mud.
I support sex between a married couple as God intended. But I do not support seeing it exploited in movies or popular culture or fashion or pageants. Kill the double standard. Lift the quarantine. Acknowledge that we’re all pigs in need of a bath.
My heart goes out to Miss California. Despite the pictures, I’m proud of her. I may not support every decision she’s made, but I support her willingness to stand for the truth. And in that, I’ll stand by her.
After all, if Jesus didn’t condemn the woman caught in adultery, then who are we to start throwing stones?
In part, I’m enraged at the hypocrisy of it all. Seriously, folks. Who among us haven’t done something stupid in our youth? Those judges and pageant representatives condemning her? Don’t bother trying to tell me they’re pure-as-snow virgins. Don’t condone an industry that pays for contestant’s implants so they can parade the beauties across the stage wearing bikinis and sultry evening gowns, only to later condemn a contestant for succumbing to the pressures of being physically beautiful. That’s like a cop selling sports cars so he can later nail his customers for speeding. I wonder how the critics would hold up to the scrutiny if they were put under the microscope.
In part, I’m disappointed. This beauty, raised by a Christian family—or so I would presume from the news clips—who drops her top for a camera… I’m not pointing the finger here. I’ve just heard of so many Christians who fell into sexual sin and each time it breaks my heart. If I am to assign blame, I would point the finger at a church culture that doesn’t promote the freedom for people to struggle openly with their besetting sins. Were she allowed to talk about the temptations she faced at the age of seventeen, would there be any photos circulating on the internet now?
In part, I’m hopeful that the family movement Carrie Prejean’s become a spokesman for won’t drop her. The church is supposed to be a carnival of lost souls found, and if we toss out all the imperfect people then the pews would be empty. The Bible teaches a doctrine of grace on this matter. The world, however, teaches a doctrine of quarantine. It is my hope that the church and other religious organizations will hold to their guns—that is, the doctrine of grace—and stand by a fellow solder who held to hers.
Far too often, we follow the world’s example in this.
In the old west, we quarantined the soiled doves, passing laws that kept them from mingling with ‘respectable folk.’ Never mind that several of the lawmakers were customers.
Not to long ago, the city of Centennial had a female mayor who turned out to be a former stripper. She’s been quarantined out of office.
Porn stars are often quarantined from regular acting jobs and kept in their particular, sordid industry. Yet, are they so different from the countless actresses who’ve bared their breasts for a passionate love scene? An actress appears topless in a very public, major motion picture, and she gets an Oscar. A future beauty contestant let’s her boyfriend snap a few personal photos—a boyfriend who behaves himself like a knave by releasing said photos with no personal repercussions—and she’s put in quarantine.
How can we as a country support a pageant that passes judgement on how well a woman wears a bikini and heals, yet also passes judgement on the same women for having her picture taken in her underwear?
More importantly, if we encourage beautiful women to have high moral standards, but then ridicule her for bravely taking a controversial stand on those standards, what message are we sending to the beautiful women of tomorrow?
In my mind’s eye, I see a city of anthropomorphic pigs. They wear nice clothes, they debate politics, they eat in manageable bites. Yet, at the center of the city is a much cherished mud bath. Those who choose to abstain from the mud and seek other ways to cool themselves are mocked for not being true pigs. Those who work to maintain the mud, so beloved by the city, are placed in quarantine for fear they might contaminate the rest of society with their filth. Even those who leave a life in the mud for a life of cool towels and regular baths are still considered unclean by the unwashed masses.
In this city, pigs must wallow in the mud, but not dwell in it. They must indulge in the mud to be considered normal and acceptable. But they must also shun the mud in proper society for fear of contamination. Failure to abide by these rules, results in the pigs turning on the offending member.
Tolerate the mud; that is the choice, the only choice. Tolerate the mud that enslaves its denizens. Tolerate the mud, but uphold the quarantine. Tolerate the mud, or suffer the intolerance of those who tolerate the mud. After all, that is the only choice the pigs are given.
I, for one, do not support tolerance because I believe it doesn’t work. First, it is intolerant of any doctrine other than itself, which by definition, makes tolerance hypocritical. Second, it supports one group of people forcing their beliefs on another group, while denying the other group to so much as present their beliefs to the first. In other words, a homosexual can tell me to be tolerant of his lifestyle, but if I so much as mention the Bible verses that list homosexual behavior as a sin, I’m being an intolerant jerk. (even though tolerance isn’t my doctrine, it’s the doctrine of the person shoving his beliefs down my throat)
Third, it constitutes hate speech. Tolerance is like a missile designed to seek out moral absolutes and destroy them. God’s Word is based on moral absolutes, which means tolerance is a polite way of telling the church to roll over and play dead.
If we did that to any other group on the planet, we’d be on our way to court.
I do not tolerate the mud.
I support sex between a married couple as God intended. But I do not support seeing it exploited in movies or popular culture or fashion or pageants. Kill the double standard. Lift the quarantine. Acknowledge that we’re all pigs in need of a bath.
My heart goes out to Miss California. Despite the pictures, I’m proud of her. I may not support every decision she’s made, but I support her willingness to stand for the truth. And in that, I’ll stand by her.
After all, if Jesus didn’t condemn the woman caught in adultery, then who are we to start throwing stones?
Monday, March 30, 2009
Prayer
There is absolutely nothing like the sound of my little boy’s voice. I love the way he coos. I love the way he squeals and talks to his toys. His sneeze is still the cutest sound I think I’ve ever heard.
I won’t tell you about the belch that left me in stitches for hours.
The other day, I dreamt about my son’s voice. And in my imagination I wrapped that little voice around the words, “Daddy, I love you.” I’m told that when he finally does speak those words of his own accord, I can kiss my heart good-bye. Even now I’m starting to tear up.
God spoke in that daydream. He told me that when Koen starts talking, it won’t really matter what is said. What will matter to me is that he’s saying it.
He told me that prayer isn’t all that different for Him.
My ADD mind wandered to a church Sunday School room where a person asked, “If God already knows my needs, then why should I bother praying about them? Why won’t He just provide?”
Prayer, according to what God whispered in my ear that day, is not about daily bread. Ultimately, it isn’t about words of worship or words of thanksgiving or words of supplication or the Lord’s Prayer. In the end, prayer isn’t about prayer requests or holding others up before the Throne of Grace or asking that a loved one comes to know Christ.
Prayer, at its most basic level, is about the sound of my voice.
Prayer is about the effect my voice has on His heart.
Prayer is about God hearing His little boy, whom He dearly loves to no end, speak the words, “I love you, Daddy.”
The Bible says that His voice shakes the mountains; the very foundations of the earth. He lifts his voice, the earth melts.
We lift our voice to Him in love and worship; His heart does the melting.
His eyes well up with tears of joy and elation.
Imagine tickling God. Imagine telling him a joke that He finds irresistibly funny. Imagine making His day because we stopped to say, “I love you, Daddy.”
Why pray when God already knows our needs? Because prayer isn’t about the needs.
It’s about a little boy talking with his Daddy; a Daddy who stops the universe to listen
I won’t tell you about the belch that left me in stitches for hours.
The other day, I dreamt about my son’s voice. And in my imagination I wrapped that little voice around the words, “Daddy, I love you.” I’m told that when he finally does speak those words of his own accord, I can kiss my heart good-bye. Even now I’m starting to tear up.
God spoke in that daydream. He told me that when Koen starts talking, it won’t really matter what is said. What will matter to me is that he’s saying it.
He told me that prayer isn’t all that different for Him.
My ADD mind wandered to a church Sunday School room where a person asked, “If God already knows my needs, then why should I bother praying about them? Why won’t He just provide?”
Prayer, according to what God whispered in my ear that day, is not about daily bread. Ultimately, it isn’t about words of worship or words of thanksgiving or words of supplication or the Lord’s Prayer. In the end, prayer isn’t about prayer requests or holding others up before the Throne of Grace or asking that a loved one comes to know Christ.
Prayer, at its most basic level, is about the sound of my voice.
Prayer is about the effect my voice has on His heart.
Prayer is about God hearing His little boy, whom He dearly loves to no end, speak the words, “I love you, Daddy.”
The Bible says that His voice shakes the mountains; the very foundations of the earth. He lifts his voice, the earth melts.
We lift our voice to Him in love and worship; His heart does the melting.
His eyes well up with tears of joy and elation.
Imagine tickling God. Imagine telling him a joke that He finds irresistibly funny. Imagine making His day because we stopped to say, “I love you, Daddy.”
Why pray when God already knows our needs? Because prayer isn’t about the needs.
It’s about a little boy talking with his Daddy; a Daddy who stops the universe to listen
My Son
I would like to announce that my son incontinent, and I couldn’t be more proud.
My son babbles in incoherent syllables, and I couldn’t be more proud.
My son is an egocentric little whiner who screams and throws a tantrum whenever the world doesn’t revolve around him. But even then, I couldn’t be more proud.
My son is nearly five months old.
It would be absurd for me to even consider waiting for him to impress me before thinking him worthy of my love. He rolls over, I cheer. He grabs a blanket to stuff in his mouth, I clap. He grabs my hair and gives it a good yank…I scream, but I still love my son.
Anything he can do, I can do better. Yet, he’s the one I brag about. He’s the person I tell stories about in church or at the store or with total strangers on the bus…
I brag about my incontinent, incoherent, unproductive, exhausting, demanding, needy, whiny, egocentrical son.
And why?
Isn’t it obvious?
Haven’t I already told you a dozen times?
He’s my son.
And because he’s my son, the very sight of him fills my heart with joy.
Because he’s my son, I sing a lot more.
Because he’s my son, his laugh is like music. His smile is like diamonds. The word “precious” doesn’t even begin to cover what Koen means to me, because he’s my son.
It is a curious thing that he would come into my life now.
It is a curious thing that after telling God I really needed to see Him as loving, Jill would announce that she’s pregnant.
It is a curious thing that while I approached fatherhood with such an excitement for what I could teach Koen, I didn’t account for what he would be teaching me.
Koen has taught me what I look like from God’s point of view. Incontinent with besetting sins, incoherent with prayers on autopilot that tend to drift into a completely unrelated day dream, selfish prayers that demand this or that or throw tantrums…
And yet, I am completely, unashamedly, and boundlessly loved. Not for what I’ve accomplished—for anything I can do, God can do better. But because He created me.
That’s a good enough reason for me to love my son.
That’s a good enough reason for Him, too.
My son babbles in incoherent syllables, and I couldn’t be more proud.
My son is an egocentric little whiner who screams and throws a tantrum whenever the world doesn’t revolve around him. But even then, I couldn’t be more proud.
My son is nearly five months old.
It would be absurd for me to even consider waiting for him to impress me before thinking him worthy of my love. He rolls over, I cheer. He grabs a blanket to stuff in his mouth, I clap. He grabs my hair and gives it a good yank…I scream, but I still love my son.
Anything he can do, I can do better. Yet, he’s the one I brag about. He’s the person I tell stories about in church or at the store or with total strangers on the bus…
I brag about my incontinent, incoherent, unproductive, exhausting, demanding, needy, whiny, egocentrical son.
And why?
Isn’t it obvious?
Haven’t I already told you a dozen times?
He’s my son.
And because he’s my son, the very sight of him fills my heart with joy.
Because he’s my son, I sing a lot more.
Because he’s my son, his laugh is like music. His smile is like diamonds. The word “precious” doesn’t even begin to cover what Koen means to me, because he’s my son.
It is a curious thing that he would come into my life now.
It is a curious thing that after telling God I really needed to see Him as loving, Jill would announce that she’s pregnant.
It is a curious thing that while I approached fatherhood with such an excitement for what I could teach Koen, I didn’t account for what he would be teaching me.
Koen has taught me what I look like from God’s point of view. Incontinent with besetting sins, incoherent with prayers on autopilot that tend to drift into a completely unrelated day dream, selfish prayers that demand this or that or throw tantrums…
And yet, I am completely, unashamedly, and boundlessly loved. Not for what I’ve accomplished—for anything I can do, God can do better. But because He created me.
That’s a good enough reason for me to love my son.
That’s a good enough reason for Him, too.
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Practice or Pyre
I’m a better musician than many, not professional by any means, but certainly proficient. As a guitarist, I can lead camp fire songs with the best of them. As a bassist, I usually only need to know the key in which the song is played. Yet, in both cases, I’m really just a competent fake.
Some years ago I attended a concert with a musician who is far and away my superior. Yet, when faced with the master solo guitarist on the stage, he turned to me and said with a smile, “Some guys make you want to go home and practice, and some guys make you want to just burn your equipment.” The musician on the stage fit the latter category.
Again, I’m a good musician, better at least than the youth pastor at my church or the members of some garage bands I’ve encountered. But in this I’m comparing myself to amateurs and other competent fakes. I could probably play a decent rhythm track under most professionals, or at least the staff of the local music store.
But pair me with a true master, whose guitar strings whisper sweet music at his very presence, and I’m playing $300 worth of firewood. I simply don’t measure up, and pretending that I do would only make me look more foolish.
I think the same can be said for people in general. As an evangelical Christian I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people brush me off with the words, “I’m a good person.” But what if that “goodness” is determined by a fallen standard? Most who say that following the Ten Commandments will get you to Heaven can’t even name them—not by half. No matter how good we are, God is still better, and compared to His mellifluous tones, the best of us sounds like a violin student in his first lesson. After that jam section, the prospect of being thrown into Hell won’t sound so unjust.
But God as a trick up His benevolent sleeve.
The soundtrack to the movie Black Snake Moan is played by a group of highly professional, highly competent blues musicians. The actor, Samuel L. Jackson, is not one of them, but he did spend some rather humbling time with them learning to play. In the film we see the actor playing the song to the best of his meager ability. Again, he was taught by the pros, and he knows the part. But in truth he’s just playing along with soundtrack, and it’s the notes of the master musician we’re actually hearing.
This is what the cross was about; Jesus taking our pour excuse for righteousness and replacing it with His own.
This is what the Christian Faith is about; crap musicians learning to play at the feet of the Master.
For those of use who know Him, He makes us want to practice.
And of course, there’s also the desire to keep others from needlessly burning their equipment.
Some years ago I attended a concert with a musician who is far and away my superior. Yet, when faced with the master solo guitarist on the stage, he turned to me and said with a smile, “Some guys make you want to go home and practice, and some guys make you want to just burn your equipment.” The musician on the stage fit the latter category.
Again, I’m a good musician, better at least than the youth pastor at my church or the members of some garage bands I’ve encountered. But in this I’m comparing myself to amateurs and other competent fakes. I could probably play a decent rhythm track under most professionals, or at least the staff of the local music store.
But pair me with a true master, whose guitar strings whisper sweet music at his very presence, and I’m playing $300 worth of firewood. I simply don’t measure up, and pretending that I do would only make me look more foolish.
I think the same can be said for people in general. As an evangelical Christian I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard people brush me off with the words, “I’m a good person.” But what if that “goodness” is determined by a fallen standard? Most who say that following the Ten Commandments will get you to Heaven can’t even name them—not by half. No matter how good we are, God is still better, and compared to His mellifluous tones, the best of us sounds like a violin student in his first lesson. After that jam section, the prospect of being thrown into Hell won’t sound so unjust.
But God as a trick up His benevolent sleeve.
The soundtrack to the movie Black Snake Moan is played by a group of highly professional, highly competent blues musicians. The actor, Samuel L. Jackson, is not one of them, but he did spend some rather humbling time with them learning to play. In the film we see the actor playing the song to the best of his meager ability. Again, he was taught by the pros, and he knows the part. But in truth he’s just playing along with soundtrack, and it’s the notes of the master musician we’re actually hearing.
This is what the cross was about; Jesus taking our pour excuse for righteousness and replacing it with His own.
This is what the Christian Faith is about; crap musicians learning to play at the feet of the Master.
For those of use who know Him, He makes us want to practice.
And of course, there’s also the desire to keep others from needlessly burning their equipment.
Philosophy and Chess
I suck at the game of chess.
It’s not for a lack of study, mind you. I’ve read about a dozen books on the topic; some comprehensive overviews, some focusing on strategy, or tactics, or openings, or whatever. I know how to fianchetto a bishop. I’m familiar with the concepts of material, time, and position. I’m fluent in a few different types of Chess notation.
I know the point value attributed to each piece, and I know to develop the lower point values first. After all, “Pawns are the soul of chess.”
I also know the adage, “To learn, play.”
But of course, if I play, I might lose, and if I lose, I’ll feel foolish for all those hours I spent studying the game instead of simply letting the computer—or local chess club—kick my butt. A friend of mine—who just recently learned that a Knight is worth three points—follows this latter tack and his experience on the board really shows.
I don’t play him much anymore.
Instead, I run back to my safe little chess opening puzzle book and try to learn what not to do in an actual game.
But chess is not a theory to be studied. Instead, it’s a game to be experienced. Only by spending time at the board can one learn the intricacies of the pieces. Only by losing can one hope to win the simple pleasure of knowing, not knowing about, but knowing the game. To learn about knight forks, get caught in a few. To learn the power of pawns, challenge them.
To learn, play.
With this in mind, I’ve met a number of philosophers and theologians who treat God the same way I treat chess. They’re much better read on the subject than me, having absorbed books by monks, and rabbis, and seminary teachers. They know the difference between Calvinism and… and… whatever theology is the opposite of Calvinism. Compared to them, I’m sure I sound like a backwater hick.
Except, that I’ve spent time at the chessboard of God. And at that board I’ve lost opinions, unfounded beliefs, sugar-coated doctrines, and a part of my soul that I came to learn wasn’t really mine in the first place. I still come away licking my wounds more often than not. But like a chess player who exchanges bad habits for good ones—inexperience for wisdom—I don’t miss what I lose, especially when compared with what I gain.
The Bible makes it very clear that following Jesus comes at a cost, so I don’t blame the theologians for hiding from the Lion of Judah in their non-threatening books. But to do so is like studying art without ever attempting a doodle, or learning to sail from the comforts of one’s couch.
Or learning to play chess without facing an opponent.
I know a lot about chess.
And yet, I suck at the game.
I love it at a safe distance, denying myself the adventure of its company.
And that is my greatest loss.
It’s not for a lack of study, mind you. I’ve read about a dozen books on the topic; some comprehensive overviews, some focusing on strategy, or tactics, or openings, or whatever. I know how to fianchetto a bishop. I’m familiar with the concepts of material, time, and position. I’m fluent in a few different types of Chess notation.
I know the point value attributed to each piece, and I know to develop the lower point values first. After all, “Pawns are the soul of chess.”
I also know the adage, “To learn, play.”
But of course, if I play, I might lose, and if I lose, I’ll feel foolish for all those hours I spent studying the game instead of simply letting the computer—or local chess club—kick my butt. A friend of mine—who just recently learned that a Knight is worth three points—follows this latter tack and his experience on the board really shows.
I don’t play him much anymore.
Instead, I run back to my safe little chess opening puzzle book and try to learn what not to do in an actual game.
But chess is not a theory to be studied. Instead, it’s a game to be experienced. Only by spending time at the board can one learn the intricacies of the pieces. Only by losing can one hope to win the simple pleasure of knowing, not knowing about, but knowing the game. To learn about knight forks, get caught in a few. To learn the power of pawns, challenge them.
To learn, play.
With this in mind, I’ve met a number of philosophers and theologians who treat God the same way I treat chess. They’re much better read on the subject than me, having absorbed books by monks, and rabbis, and seminary teachers. They know the difference between Calvinism and… and… whatever theology is the opposite of Calvinism. Compared to them, I’m sure I sound like a backwater hick.
Except, that I’ve spent time at the chessboard of God. And at that board I’ve lost opinions, unfounded beliefs, sugar-coated doctrines, and a part of my soul that I came to learn wasn’t really mine in the first place. I still come away licking my wounds more often than not. But like a chess player who exchanges bad habits for good ones—inexperience for wisdom—I don’t miss what I lose, especially when compared with what I gain.
The Bible makes it very clear that following Jesus comes at a cost, so I don’t blame the theologians for hiding from the Lion of Judah in their non-threatening books. But to do so is like studying art without ever attempting a doodle, or learning to sail from the comforts of one’s couch.
Or learning to play chess without facing an opponent.
I know a lot about chess.
And yet, I suck at the game.
I love it at a safe distance, denying myself the adventure of its company.
And that is my greatest loss.
Church Essay #2: What?!
(To be fair, things have changed since this was written.)
I’m trying not to see this as hypocrisy. I’m trying to connect what’s being said with what’s being done. I’m trying, really trying.
But I’ve seen this before.
I told the planning committee to focus on Christ. Focus on worship.
“We are,” they said. “But we need a band, a good band, and band that would really rock this house for Jesus.”
I told the music leader to forget the band. I told him to play, not for the crowd, but for the King.
I told him to play for an audience of One.
He told me he was. He insisted he was. I stood blinded by the laser lights on the stage as he told me about fog machines for Jesus.
Yeah, yeah, worship. Check. But what we really need is a band. A band will bring people. A band will fill this place like the mega-churches that Jesus never preached at.
He gathers musicians. They look and sound like American Idol rejects. Yet, they play louder as though the neighbors not filling the pews are missing out. The cacophony rattles the stained glass.
Thirty come to hear the band play.
Twenty-five faithful souls.
Twenty willing to give them another chance.
The precious band draws a faithful dozen … sometimes.
Soon, only the pastor is clapping.
I told them to focus on worship, instead of the band.
They didn’t listen.
There isn’t a planning committee anymore.
That church is dead.
No one speaks of them, not even in whispers.
I’m seeing it happen again.
This time, the band can actually play. This time no one comes to throw shoes at the chorus of screeching cats. This time, people clap.
But the music is too loud. People stop coming for the ringing in their ears. People tell me they can’t hear themselves join in the song.
I voice my concerns.
“We’re reaching a younger generation with this service,” they tell me. “There are those who would complain we’re still too quiet.”
I look at them and shout over the ringing, “What?!”
They don’t hear me.
They don’t see the people leaving.
More speakers appear on the stage.
It’s this or the traditional service. If only I could stomach the sound of the organ. If only I could stomach worshipers who smile too much, or too little. If only I didn’t mind gray headed relay racers who won’t let go of the baton. I don’t belong in the traditional service.
I try to tell myself that I belong in this service because it’s the only other option, this service where everyone keeps saying the music is too loud. I can’t hear myself pray, or worship despite the songs I don’t know. Speakers compete with the still small voice.
They tell me to be seated as the band leaves the stage.
I shout, “What?!”
Earplugs are provided at the door.
Standing outside in the parking lot, I can identify the song being played.
I sing along as the sound man moves the master volume slide up.
The pastor says that worship is worship is worship. He says style doesn’t matter. He says rap, hymns, rock, country; worship is worship is worship.
Style doesn’t matter. He says it like a man so hurt by racism that everything becomes about race. “Style doesn’t matter,” he says, again and again and again.
I shout, “What?!”
No one is listening.
No one can hear me.
If they could, they would know I’m not talking about style. They would know I rather enjoy the band. They would know that worship is worship is worship, but I’m not worshiping.
I don’t see worship in the band’s faces either.
The music leader says, “We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”
The guitarist chews his gum, focused only on the next chord.
“We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”
The pristine notes of the base player thunder from the extra speakers. He’s playing the music, but his face doesn’t move.
There’s a look that comes with love songs. There’s a glow that overtakes the countenance when the singer voices in melody the most ardent cry of his heart. Worship is worship is worship. But what is worship if not a love song to the wild and passionate lover of our souls?
The band speaks of worship.
The pastor speaks of worship.
Worship I can neither see nor feel.
I raise my hands despite the absence of that radiance from the stage.
My heart and lips remain silent, a counter-balance to the assault on my ears.
In my head, I wonder if I’m not going crazy. I wonder if I’m not just being overly critical. I wonder if I haven’t allowed the Evil One to corrupt me, and block me from encountering Christ.
They tell me God is moving in the band, and I want to believe. I want to support what God is about.
Yet, I wonder if I’m the only one noticing the diminishing crowd.
I’ve seen this before.
I’ve seen a church forget that the world is turned around, and that the way that seems right often isn’t. Beware the yeast. Beware the decoy. Beware the theatrics of Hell.
Since when has church been about bringing people in the doors instead of sending them back out into the world refreshed? Since when did this spiritual gas station become a concert hall? Since when has music in the service been the focal point? When did we forget that we aren’t singing for our benefit, but for God’s?
Treat the root to treat the tree, not the leaves.
I long for a church that creates a place where Christ—not the band, not the style, not the target demographic—but Christ is the center of the service. Only then will He come to inhabit the praises of Hhis people.
I long for a church that teaches the discipline of being still and listening to God when He speaks, letting Him saturate our lives.
That would be a church where people would leave dreaming of returning next week.
That would be a church where our hunger for something real, something of substance could be satisfied.
That would be a church that doesn’t waste it’s time with laser lights and fog machines.
Focus on worship.
Focus on lifting the name of Jesus.
Focus on encountering Christ, and the rest will come.
They tell me they are focused on worship.
They tell me they are seeking the glorification of Christ.
I shout, “What?!”
The congregation applauds the band. At least I presume it’s the congregation. I’ve run for the door to find a place where I can hear my own thoughts. Five people are clapping near the sound board.
I leave church as exhausted as I was when I came.
I dream of not returning next week, of staying home with my guitar and playing a few hymns.
The neighbors in the unit above mine wouldn’t hear me worshiping. But God would. I’ve felt Him in my living room as I voiced in melody the most ardent cry of my heart.
Perhaps I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I’ve become a curmudgeon so stuck in his own ways that nothing anyone else does is good enough.
Or, perhaps I’m truly seeing church for what it was meant to be. And in that vision, I’m seeing church fall short of its true potential.
Self-diagnostic complete, yet inconclusive.
I’m still trying not to see this as hypocrisy.
Am I missing something?
I try to ask others for a second opinion as a sanity check on my perspective.
I try to voice my concerns and observations.
I try to say, in love, that I feel we’re going the wrong way.
I try to keep my church accountable in its claim of seeking Jesus above style or band or demographic.
They look at me and shout, “What?!”
I wonder why I even bother.
I’m trying not to see this as hypocrisy. I’m trying to connect what’s being said with what’s being done. I’m trying, really trying.
But I’ve seen this before.
I told the planning committee to focus on Christ. Focus on worship.
“We are,” they said. “But we need a band, a good band, and band that would really rock this house for Jesus.”
I told the music leader to forget the band. I told him to play, not for the crowd, but for the King.
I told him to play for an audience of One.
He told me he was. He insisted he was. I stood blinded by the laser lights on the stage as he told me about fog machines for Jesus.
Yeah, yeah, worship. Check. But what we really need is a band. A band will bring people. A band will fill this place like the mega-churches that Jesus never preached at.
He gathers musicians. They look and sound like American Idol rejects. Yet, they play louder as though the neighbors not filling the pews are missing out. The cacophony rattles the stained glass.
Thirty come to hear the band play.
Twenty-five faithful souls.
Twenty willing to give them another chance.
The precious band draws a faithful dozen … sometimes.
Soon, only the pastor is clapping.
I told them to focus on worship, instead of the band.
They didn’t listen.
There isn’t a planning committee anymore.
That church is dead.
No one speaks of them, not even in whispers.
I’m seeing it happen again.
This time, the band can actually play. This time no one comes to throw shoes at the chorus of screeching cats. This time, people clap.
But the music is too loud. People stop coming for the ringing in their ears. People tell me they can’t hear themselves join in the song.
I voice my concerns.
“We’re reaching a younger generation with this service,” they tell me. “There are those who would complain we’re still too quiet.”
I look at them and shout over the ringing, “What?!”
They don’t hear me.
They don’t see the people leaving.
More speakers appear on the stage.
It’s this or the traditional service. If only I could stomach the sound of the organ. If only I could stomach worshipers who smile too much, or too little. If only I didn’t mind gray headed relay racers who won’t let go of the baton. I don’t belong in the traditional service.
I try to tell myself that I belong in this service because it’s the only other option, this service where everyone keeps saying the music is too loud. I can’t hear myself pray, or worship despite the songs I don’t know. Speakers compete with the still small voice.
They tell me to be seated as the band leaves the stage.
I shout, “What?!”
Earplugs are provided at the door.
Standing outside in the parking lot, I can identify the song being played.
I sing along as the sound man moves the master volume slide up.
The pastor says that worship is worship is worship. He says style doesn’t matter. He says rap, hymns, rock, country; worship is worship is worship.
Style doesn’t matter. He says it like a man so hurt by racism that everything becomes about race. “Style doesn’t matter,” he says, again and again and again.
I shout, “What?!”
No one is listening.
No one can hear me.
If they could, they would know I’m not talking about style. They would know I rather enjoy the band. They would know that worship is worship is worship, but I’m not worshiping.
I don’t see worship in the band’s faces either.
The music leader says, “We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”
The guitarist chews his gum, focused only on the next chord.
“We’re worshipers first, and musicians second.”
The pristine notes of the base player thunder from the extra speakers. He’s playing the music, but his face doesn’t move.
There’s a look that comes with love songs. There’s a glow that overtakes the countenance when the singer voices in melody the most ardent cry of his heart. Worship is worship is worship. But what is worship if not a love song to the wild and passionate lover of our souls?
The band speaks of worship.
The pastor speaks of worship.
Worship I can neither see nor feel.
I raise my hands despite the absence of that radiance from the stage.
My heart and lips remain silent, a counter-balance to the assault on my ears.
In my head, I wonder if I’m not going crazy. I wonder if I’m not just being overly critical. I wonder if I haven’t allowed the Evil One to corrupt me, and block me from encountering Christ.
They tell me God is moving in the band, and I want to believe. I want to support what God is about.
Yet, I wonder if I’m the only one noticing the diminishing crowd.
I’ve seen this before.
I’ve seen a church forget that the world is turned around, and that the way that seems right often isn’t. Beware the yeast. Beware the decoy. Beware the theatrics of Hell.
Since when has church been about bringing people in the doors instead of sending them back out into the world refreshed? Since when did this spiritual gas station become a concert hall? Since when has music in the service been the focal point? When did we forget that we aren’t singing for our benefit, but for God’s?
Treat the root to treat the tree, not the leaves.
I long for a church that creates a place where Christ—not the band, not the style, not the target demographic—but Christ is the center of the service. Only then will He come to inhabit the praises of Hhis people.
I long for a church that teaches the discipline of being still and listening to God when He speaks, letting Him saturate our lives.
That would be a church where people would leave dreaming of returning next week.
That would be a church where our hunger for something real, something of substance could be satisfied.
That would be a church that doesn’t waste it’s time with laser lights and fog machines.
Focus on worship.
Focus on lifting the name of Jesus.
Focus on encountering Christ, and the rest will come.
They tell me they are focused on worship.
They tell me they are seeking the glorification of Christ.
I shout, “What?!”
The congregation applauds the band. At least I presume it’s the congregation. I’ve run for the door to find a place where I can hear my own thoughts. Five people are clapping near the sound board.
I leave church as exhausted as I was when I came.
I dream of not returning next week, of staying home with my guitar and playing a few hymns.
The neighbors in the unit above mine wouldn’t hear me worshiping. But God would. I’ve felt Him in my living room as I voiced in melody the most ardent cry of my heart.
Perhaps I’ve gone mad. Perhaps I’ve become a curmudgeon so stuck in his own ways that nothing anyone else does is good enough.
Or, perhaps I’m truly seeing church for what it was meant to be. And in that vision, I’m seeing church fall short of its true potential.
Self-diagnostic complete, yet inconclusive.
I’m still trying not to see this as hypocrisy.
Am I missing something?
I try to ask others for a second opinion as a sanity check on my perspective.
I try to voice my concerns and observations.
I try to say, in love, that I feel we’re going the wrong way.
I try to keep my church accountable in its claim of seeking Jesus above style or band or demographic.
They look at me and shout, “What?!”
I wonder why I even bother.
Church Essay #1: The Dance Party
He’s thinking about cheating on his wife.
But he won’t say so here.
It’s not allowed.
In church, we’re not allowed to be human. We’re not allowed to come through the door tired from the week, or struggling with besetting sins. There’s no room on the altar for our shit; it might soil the hand-crocheted doilies.
People ask how we are.
We nod, smile, and tell them we’re fine.
We’re getting our asses kicked by hostile employers, unappreciative wives, unsupportive husbands, and yet, we nod, smile, tell them we’re fine, and move on. That’s the dance.
No one waits to listen to the answer anyway.
People ask how I am.
I tell them I’m dead.
They say, “That’s nice.”
And walk away.
I tell them I’m wrestling.
A plastic smile says, “That’s nice.”
They move on.
I don’t.
I’m still wrestling.
I’m still dead.
No one will bear my burden.
It’s not part of the dance.
No one teaches that step in Sunday School.
I suppose it clashes with the doilies.
* * *
She walks through the church doors and packs away her thoughts of suicide, packs away the pain of a life that didn’t turn out as advertised. She packs it away behind a plastic smile.
People ask how she is.
She lies, because this is church.
Thou shalt not tell the truth.
Thou shalt say thou art fine and move on.
She didn’t always lie. She talked about her daughter’s stalker. She talked about the worthless man she married who walked out on her for a waitress, walked back in when the money ran out, walked out again with borrowed funds she’d never see returned. She talked about the revolving door of her heart, and the burden of not knowing what to do with it.
She told the truth, and the dancers tripped.
She told the truth, and the dancers got angry.
Jill the Tripper.
So, she learned to dance like the rest of them.
Learned to lie.
This is church, after all.
Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.
Pack your true self behind a plastic yellow smiley mask. Pack your heartache. Pack the lust that knocks on the door. Pack away the sins you’re not supposed to struggle with anymore because you’re saved.
Learn to dance.
Learn to play along.
Learn to lie.
Trip, and they’ll turn on you.
Fall, and you’ll be ostracized.
Show your true colors—toilet brown—and they’ll call you a hypocrite.
* * *
A man stands in the corner. He isn’t wearing a suit. His hair is too long. He looks too thin to be healthy. Even cleaned up and showered he looks grungy. He looks like those prostitutes and drug pushers we talk about bringing to Jesus, but not to church.
Save the sacred hand-crocheted doilies.
He talks with another man, a man in jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt.
They smile at each other. It isn’t plastic. It isn’t natural … here. They smile the way brothers smile, the way neighbors smile, the way love wraps itself around a persons face.
They don’t nod.
They don’t say they’re fine.
They don’t move on.
They stop long enough to share each other’s lives.
They stop long enough to share each other’s burdens.
I join their little group.
They ask how I am.
They wait for the answer.
I tell them.
They listen.
I lay my sickly brown burden on their shoulders.
They bear it with me.
Behind me, the dance continues. Clumsy kindergarten ballerinas cute in their tutus; crashing into each other; dancing for what’s-his-name.
But in our corner, we say words that aren’t allowed. We talk about porn and the struggle of resisting the cute girl in the copy room. We talk about the heartache of life not meeting expectations. We talk about being works in progress, not works perfected.
We promise to pray for each other, and we actually mean it.
We bear each other’s shit.
An eavesdropping dancer trips. We shouldn’t be saying words like that.
A man will have an affair this week.
But we shouldn’t be using words like that.
A woman will stop coming to the dance.
But we shouldn’t be using words like that.
She won’t be missed anyway. Jill the Tripper. Few will hear about the hanging. Fewer still would
believe it.
Christians don’t do that.
Christians don’t say words like that.
Christians, good Christians, dance.
Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.
Dance on the coffin of hurting souls
Dance to the tune of Nero’s Fiddle.
Dance to show the world that Jesus saves.
We stand in the corner and watch the spectacle. Jesus stands with us, playing a drum. But the dancers continue moving to a different beat.
But he won’t say so here.
It’s not allowed.
In church, we’re not allowed to be human. We’re not allowed to come through the door tired from the week, or struggling with besetting sins. There’s no room on the altar for our shit; it might soil the hand-crocheted doilies.
People ask how we are.
We nod, smile, and tell them we’re fine.
We’re getting our asses kicked by hostile employers, unappreciative wives, unsupportive husbands, and yet, we nod, smile, tell them we’re fine, and move on. That’s the dance.
No one waits to listen to the answer anyway.
People ask how I am.
I tell them I’m dead.
They say, “That’s nice.”
And walk away.
I tell them I’m wrestling.
A plastic smile says, “That’s nice.”
They move on.
I don’t.
I’m still wrestling.
I’m still dead.
No one will bear my burden.
It’s not part of the dance.
No one teaches that step in Sunday School.
I suppose it clashes with the doilies.
* * *
She walks through the church doors and packs away her thoughts of suicide, packs away the pain of a life that didn’t turn out as advertised. She packs it away behind a plastic smile.
People ask how she is.
She lies, because this is church.
Thou shalt not tell the truth.
Thou shalt say thou art fine and move on.
She didn’t always lie. She talked about her daughter’s stalker. She talked about the worthless man she married who walked out on her for a waitress, walked back in when the money ran out, walked out again with borrowed funds she’d never see returned. She talked about the revolving door of her heart, and the burden of not knowing what to do with it.
She told the truth, and the dancers tripped.
She told the truth, and the dancers got angry.
Jill the Tripper.
So, she learned to dance like the rest of them.
Learned to lie.
This is church, after all.
Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.
Pack your true self behind a plastic yellow smiley mask. Pack your heartache. Pack the lust that knocks on the door. Pack away the sins you’re not supposed to struggle with anymore because you’re saved.
Learn to dance.
Learn to play along.
Learn to lie.
Trip, and they’ll turn on you.
Fall, and you’ll be ostracized.
Show your true colors—toilet brown—and they’ll call you a hypocrite.
* * *
A man stands in the corner. He isn’t wearing a suit. His hair is too long. He looks too thin to be healthy. Even cleaned up and showered he looks grungy. He looks like those prostitutes and drug pushers we talk about bringing to Jesus, but not to church.
Save the sacred hand-crocheted doilies.
He talks with another man, a man in jeans and a Budweiser T-shirt.
They smile at each other. It isn’t plastic. It isn’t natural … here. They smile the way brothers smile, the way neighbors smile, the way love wraps itself around a persons face.
They don’t nod.
They don’t say they’re fine.
They don’t move on.
They stop long enough to share each other’s lives.
They stop long enough to share each other’s burdens.
I join their little group.
They ask how I am.
They wait for the answer.
I tell them.
They listen.
I lay my sickly brown burden on their shoulders.
They bear it with me.
Behind me, the dance continues. Clumsy kindergarten ballerinas cute in their tutus; crashing into each other; dancing for what’s-his-name.
But in our corner, we say words that aren’t allowed. We talk about porn and the struggle of resisting the cute girl in the copy room. We talk about the heartache of life not meeting expectations. We talk about being works in progress, not works perfected.
We promise to pray for each other, and we actually mean it.
We bear each other’s shit.
An eavesdropping dancer trips. We shouldn’t be saying words like that.
A man will have an affair this week.
But we shouldn’t be using words like that.
A woman will stop coming to the dance.
But we shouldn’t be using words like that.
She won’t be missed anyway. Jill the Tripper. Few will hear about the hanging. Fewer still would
believe it.
Christians don’t do that.
Christians don’t say words like that.
Christians, good Christians, dance.
Nod, smile, tell them you’re fine, move on.
Dance on the coffin of hurting souls
Dance to the tune of Nero’s Fiddle.
Dance to show the world that Jesus saves.
We stand in the corner and watch the spectacle. Jesus stands with us, playing a drum. But the dancers continue moving to a different beat.
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