Parable of the Daughter

On the bookshelf of human history, sandwiched somewhere between a pyramid and a wild-haired plastic troll, sat a single dusty cross.

Ages passed and still it remained, until one day an apocalypse of darkness and blood shook the people’s little self-made shrine and sent their trinkets crashing down. Then that single dusty cross started to grow.

Its reach soon extended past every idea of men, until at last it covered the Earth, overflowed the seas, and ruled the heavens with justice. It spoke then, and called out in a loud voice.

Every soul heard and answered the call. Taking up the icons of their humanity, they came to stand before the One Mighty Cross, and there they were judged.

Many were found who did not know the One Mighty Cross, and who in turn were not known. Among these were those who bore the symbol of the crescent moon. Some clutched the eye of Ra. Many brought no emblem at all, which was a sign in itself. Finally those came who, with backs straight, proudly carried the Word of God, but even these remained unnamed.

The Cross cried out in anguish, “Are there none who know me?”

Then a child was brought before the Throne. In one hand she tenderly held the picture of an orphan. “Sir,” she said, “I would like to enter your kingdom, but please accept my friend too.” She reached out and presented the photograph to the One Mighty Cross.

In the silence they looked into each other’s eyes.
And smiled.


Jesus once said that not everyone who called him Lord would enter the kingdom of heaven. You can read about it in the Bible- Matthew chapter 7.

Kick the Devil in the Brimstones

All I remember of my thirteenth year is isolation and teeth-gnashing frustration. In my young mind I was spiritually mature beyond my years. My social and emotional struggles were an obvious parallel to what Jesus experienced in the Garden of Gethsemane.

Alas, this wasn’t true.

The seeds of that year were planted far in advance by Saturday morning cartoons and flannel graph Jesus dolls. Each week I’d grab a bowl of cereal, and watch as some two-dimensional character struggled with a moral decision on the television set. Two spirits would show up to perch on his shoulders: the tough devil belching baritone, and the weak-kneed angel with long lashes and no spine. You probably remember, or can guess, who won those fights. Then Sunday I’d wash behind my ears, put on some shiny shoes and go to church, where I’d learn about “Gentle Jesus Meek and Mild” and turning the other cheek.

Somewhere along the line I learned more about being a pansy than anything else- a lesson that didn’t serve me well when my brother introduced me to the game of ‘Two for Flinching’. Most of my male readers will probably know how to play, but for anyone that doesn’t it goes like this: You hit somebody, and then pretend like you’re going to hit them again. If they flinch you get to hit them twice. It’s a great contest and easy to win, because if the person doesn’t flinch you hit them again anyway.

I don’t think I lost all those bouts of TFF because of my steadfast integrity. Moral courage couldn’t have condoned the injustice. I lost because I was afraid.

The devil has his version of TFF. It’s called ‘Hide for Shaming’. It’s a simple game too. He tempts you to sin and then ~SLAP~ he gives you the backhand of shame! He keeps you playing through fear, embarrassment and self-loathing.

I didn’t care if I ever won ‘Two for Flinching’. I just wanted the game to stop. I was humiliated and beat down. My parents said to just walk away, but my brother had legs too and simply hounded me.

Then one day I hit back. Things gradually changed after that.

Are you tired of playing the devil’s little shame game? Then it’s time to hit him where it counts. Kick him in his tender little brimstones. It’ll take a little courage, but there’s grace for that.

Use the boots of Confession and Repentance.

Automobile Porn and Religion

Paul of Tarsus said and did many things before they took his head. The things he wrote and spoke about were at times hard to understand, challenging, encouraging, full of joy and full of pain. Of all the things he focused on though, there is one thing that haunts me.

He wrote to his young protégé and warned that in the last days there will be people that have a form of godliness but deny its power.

When I was younger I used to enjoy reading magazines with glossy covers and full color pictures inside. Well, I didn’t exactly read them; it was all about the pictures. My favorite was Road & Track. I still remember tracing the outlines of the shiny Ferraris and marveling at the way the lights enhanced the seductive curves of the Lamborghinis.

Imagine my lust bubbling over when one day when I came across an advertisement that said I could have my very own exotic sports car. It was inexpensive and I’d need to put it together myself, but it looked like the real thing!

My dreams were never quite realized. My allowance usually disappeared at the corner store- gobbled up by Pac-Man or some other two dimensional digital fiend- and thus even the replicas remained locked firmly in the realm of fantasy.

Not so with my religion. I learned almost by osmosis that the pinnacles of Christianity could be attained with a little hard work, one good set of clothes, and a confident smile. Oh, it didn’t accelerate or handle like the real thing, but the authentic Christianity was only found in the book with the golden words on front. My version was cheap and virtually indistinguishable from the original.

It worked great, right up until I tried it out on the race track of life. The sharp curves of other people’s pain showed the flaws in the steering- I hit the wall. The pit stop was full of sagely advice, but was chronically empty of spare parts and fuel. When I hit the pot hole of my mistakes and disappointments it all fell apart.

Does your religion look like the real thing? Great. Good for you.

But what’s under the hood?

Wisdom from the Urinal

Men are not born with the ability to write their names in the snow. Indeed, that most important of appendages takes years to train and a lifetime to master. One must be able to put together just the right combination of experience, beverage, Jack Frost, and privacy in order to achieve this hallmark of masculinity.

The training starts early, and if it weren’t for utter ignorance the process would be most humiliating. The infant lad lays there getting his diaper changed and has no more control than a hamster with a fire hose. Gradually the bladder is brought under control, and each young male begins his own journey down the hallowed halls of urination.

Using the potty.

Using the potty but calling it by a different name when girls aren’t around.

Standing up at the potty.

Standing up at the potty without making your mom angry.

One of the most intimidating rites of passage, though, is the public washroom and the urinal. With a fragile male ego just beginning to bud you are told you need to unzip your pants in the presence of other men. Depending on your father figure and what he has taught you about the status of your member, you may feel pride or shame. But there is no getting away from the jitters as you stand before that porcelain and realize that regardless of the size of your fella, your legs are just not quite long enough to establish a good line of sight.

Ideally one would be able to line things up: eyes, ‘lil willy, urinal puck. For the small of stature it gets more complicated: eyes, puck, ‘lil willy. Up on the tips of the sneakers he goes, and at that exact moment (Chariots of Fire or some other fitting theme here) every male learns something about balance and focus.

Balance and focus go hand in hand, so to speak. One without the other leaves a person either misguided or unstable, or both. This is as true for the spiritual life as it is for potty training (readers of this blog have voted, and tend to see the author as more unstable than misguided). So let me leave you with the following reminder:

As you grow and learn and live, try to stay steady and only aim at the things that matter. Remember that you’re a work in progress, and don’t be surprised at a little back-spray every now and then.

Puritan Panic

The magic deck of cards was my most prized possession, right up until my dad threw it into our fireplace as a sacrifice to the gods of temperance.

If I shuffled them one way they looked like a normal deck. When I shuffled them another way all you would see was the four of hearts. Cut them one way, and I’d come up with any one of 52 different cards. Cut them again and- you guessed it- the four of hearts would come up every time.

The fact that each simple trick could be explained by my 13 year old education was lost on my father in his moment of puritan panic. Apparently these were they workings of the devil, spawned in the fires of hell. And thus, after one glorious afternoon of peering into the nether regions of the universe, I watched as each card became an ashen parachute and floated up our chimney flue.

Something changed in me that day. I was no longer content to sit under the tutelage of my elders and absorb their half-baked, inherited notions of how the universe worked. I began to question things.

Why was rock music evil, but country music good?

If bad people went to bars, why did we keep brandy in the house?

Why did only the nasty evolutionists talk about dinosaurs?

The only thing I didn’t question was why a money grabbing evangelist was on the same television setting as a porn show. That discrepancy didn’t bother me one bit- some things just were, and you couldn’t do anything about them.

In the conservative circles I run in, sometimes asking questions can lead to being labeled as postmodern. And being postmodern is akin to being a heretic. It implies you have no compass for truth or morality. Post-modernity is seen as the great enemy that threatens the church.

I say ka-ka. Ultimately, nothing threatens the church. The only thing that post-modernity threatens is the pompous idea that the world needs to swallow the medicine we’re selling without reading the label.

By the way, what sounds more ridiculous to you? That a beaten, crucified man comes back from the dead or that the same man comes back from the dead and then runs in fear from a reporter from CNN?

Elephant in the Room, Skeletons in the Closet

I've been bothered for awhile now at the way much of the church treats homosexuals. In view of that, I wrote this little skit. It involves an anonymous man trying to talk to Jesus about his (straight) friends. All the while Jesus ignores him, focusing instead on the task of opening a closet door.

___________________________________

"My buddy Fred still struggles, Lord,
when his eyes begin to roam.
But at least it's girlie mags he buys,

and not men he's bringing home."

[Jesus kneels down, and looks under a door]

"And Lord, Tom has a shepherd's heart

that would fit a role pastoral.

Sure he drinks and has a temper,

but he isn't homosexual."

[Jesus rummages through toolbox; selects two small tools]

"Jesus, let me pray for Francis too.

Could you help him lose some fat?

'Cuz he doesn't swing for other teams,

when it's his turn at bat."

[Jesus fiddles with lock on door]

"Lord I'm upset now- please look at me!

My friends need you in many ways!

Just ignore the lock on that stupid closet-

it's only filled with gays!"

[Door opens. Another man falls out unconscious. Jesus proceeds with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and CPR]

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Easter Sunday (No Anemic Gods For Me, Thank You Very Much)

Anemic gods become sick and cower
Before the table that showed Jesus’ power.
For He that would govern everything,
First tasted pain and felt death’s sting;
He lay in my grave just to be with me,
Then carried me out and set me free.


The strongest God is One who can walk through our pain with us, and come out breathing on the other side. Our culture teaches us that pain is a bad thing, and is to be avoided at all costs. That's called denial.

Jesus is a realist. He meets us in our pain and brokeness (which is one reason why the unbroken rarely see Him), and takes us through to the other side where there is Life.

Ask Him to take you there today.

Easter Part II: God Came Late

No special honor for the forgotten day
Between the crucifix and Sunday.
Just dreaded surrender to the hand of Fate:
If God came at all He came too late
To save his son, or rescue me.
Life is broken dreams and a bloody tree.


What does your future look like? Is it as rosy as it was 48 hours ago, or does each new day bring a crushing weight? You wake up hoping yesterday was a bad dream, but the sunlight reveals that you are, in fact,
Afraid
Alone
Abandoned.

Sunday isn’t good for anything if we can’t make it through Saturday. And as far as the Easter story goes, the Bible is pretty much silent on what happened Saturday. Maybe it’s because planet Earth was left to fend for itself for a day? It would have served us right, but I don’t think that’s it.

Saturday is, if anything, a day when Heaven is silent. We fill the time as best we can, but sorrow enters with every breath. Every heartbeat echoes in the vault left empty when hope fled away.

If you are there today- suspended between heaven and hell- then all I can say is this:
If there is anybody near you, then grab a hand and HANG ON. If nobody is there, send me a message. Really, I’m not kidding. I’ll hang on with you, and I know some others that will too.

Cuz we gotta get through to Sunday.

Easter Part I: The Last Choking Cry

Exalting in that last choking cry-
What cruelty in the claws of Death
As they squeezed tighter the neck of God!
They offered despair while stealing breath,
And watched the only Life-Giver die.


There are levels of sorrow and despair. Have you felt them? Do you feel them now?
The frustration of a weak cup of coffee
becomes
The depression of unemployment
turns into
The ragged, gaping hole where you heart used to be because ______________.

Good Friday is coming, and I wish I had been there when someone decided to call it good, because it wasn’t.

Or rather, it isn’t.

Right now your life may be day upon day of Good Fridays. Those claws of Death come, and hope hangs suspended and lifeless on the gallows of your circumstances and bad choices. I’ve been there too.

Will you wait there with me my friend? Will you wait with me- just a little while longer -at the foot of the cross? I promise it’s not the end of our story.