The Meeting Place - (Unfinished)

It was called the Meeting Place.
Allegedly, God was doing mighty things there, in a small corner of the city park where curious, ruined souls would congregate every Saturday morning and listen to the Word of God. There had been whisper of several unconfirmed salvations, a scandalous rumor over the choice of hymnal (Southern Baptist? Lutheran? African American? Choices, choices!), and the most controversial incident to date; apparently, the “leader” of this group held his first baptism in a blow-up pool fed by the city sprinkler system! It was ridiculous – all of it, blown completely out of proportion. Like a bad joke. The local church pastors (all football buddies from the local high-school) had counseled one day over black coffee in Lorraine’s Doughnuts. It had been their favorite place as growing jocks.
The conversation had begun at 8:00 sharp, and wasted into noon before everyone realized that it was pointless. This new church, if you could muster up the imagination to call it that, this Meeting Place, was quite simply a danger to the city. Not only did their pathetic baptisms steal water from the luscious greens of the environment, but their ragamuffin leader hadn’t even bothered to give Bill Johnson or Ted Drake a ring – or give anyone a ring. It was simply out of hand.
So they sent Harv Chandler.
Harv was a white-haired, gold-toothed radio preacher. He’d been all over the local Christian stations for thirty years now; he was a spiritual giant. As he paced calmly across the city park on Saturday morning, shod in his Sunday best, he tried his best to reassure himself. Harv, old man, God’s used you mightily. You’re the man for the job. You aren’t here to accuse anybody, just spy out the ter’tory. Spy out the ter’tory. Like Joshua in the Promised Land. Just like Joshua.
Trailing scuff-marks in the sun-washed concrete path, he rounded a bend and found himself directly in front of the Meeting Place. He must have approached from an odd direction, because everyone was facing him, staring at him with muzzled curiosity, as if he was an alien in a space suit. There were two figures, backs facing him, plopped in the grass. One was strumming a guitar, and the other was playing some kind of drum. Some African thing.
Harv maintained his perfect, golden grin, and walked around to the back. He looked for a chair, and finding none, opted to stand beneath a tree while everyone else sat. The music was playing; it was a song he didn’t know, and everyone’s eyes were closed, so Harv took the opportunity to size up the crowd. In the back: frazzled-looking college students with T-shirts and shark tooth necklaces, drug addicts, girls who looked like cheap prostitutes, a few videogamer types, and one biker-chick. Okay. In the front: an extremely thin, drooping man with bloodshot eyes that leaked tears as he sang (meth addict), a muscled Hispanic fellow with all manner of gang tattoos sketched across his body, and a small clan of goth teens with black corsets and makeup that brought to mind Dante’s Inferno. Or a particular piece by Frank Peretti, which, in Harv’s church, was practically canonized. Harv Chandler kept his opinions in the back of his mind, and waited out the worship silently.
The two musicians prayed something very simple and indecipherably fast (amateurs!, thought Harv) before taking a seat in the front. The muscled, Hispanic gang-member stood up and immediately began pacing.
“Brothers, sisters,” said the man, to Harv’s puzzlement, “God loves each and every one of you. He knows exactly how many hairs are on your heads. He knows everything you’ve said, everything you’ve thought. Nothing is a surprise to Him, because He’s everywhere! Isn’t that just… just amazing?”
Harv was unmoved. Really, it wasn’t a very engaging sermon, so far. It was actually quite basic. It was the same old “Jesus loves you!” stuff that everyone was getting tired of. Harv thought back to the great theologians and religious philosophers of the Church: Luther, Calvin, Edwards… theirs was a message of harsh truth, of sacrifice, and a vicious call for reformation. People wanted that! People needed that! This gangbanger-turned-amatuer-pastor obviously needed to read his theologians. And, frankly, he might need to learn to read first. Analysis in-progress, Harv listened attentively to the tattooed, pacing preacher as he continued.
“I think it’s amazing that men like King David actually made it into the Bible. I mean, he murdered people – he went to bed with another man’s wife – he constantly complained to God. But God forgave him every time. Every single time. I know that a lot of you,” he gestured toward his audience, “do things that David did. Or worse, even. But you know… God forgives you every single time.”
True, thought Harv, but we, as Christians, are called to be perfect, even as our Father in heaven is perfect. Matthew 5:48…
The man continued his monologue: “God isn’t disappointed when you sin. He already died for all of the things you’ve done, and all of the things you’ll do later. How can he be disappointed if He knows everything before it happens, and He still died for you?” He cleared his throat. “I know this might be confusing. Let me try and get to the bottom-line. God wants you to choose Him. That’s it.”
He’s leaving an awful lot of Bible out of there. And he still knows none of the theologians. Self-educated, self-important, self-sustaining. This is all about self, isn’t it?
“You don’t choose sin, brothers and sisters! You fall into it when you don’t choose God. Am I making any sense? Let me give you a picture – close your eyes and imagine this: a box. There’s nothing around it, just darkness. Now listen: the box is God, and the darkness is sin. You can’t choose to open “sin” because it’s not a box. But if you refuse to make the choice to open the God-box and turn on the light inside, you’re still in darkness! That’s what sin is. It’s just not-choosing God! So how do you get away from sin? You choose God!”
This, thought Harv, is ridiculously oversimplified. You can’t reduce God to a box with a light inside! That’s not an exhaustive allegory. People don’t get it!
A hand went up. Actually, it was one of the goth people (boy or girl? Harv couldn’t tell.) who was raising their hand. What was it supposed to mean? Was it a gesture of charismatic contentedness? Maybe he/she was stretching? The gangbanger-pastor stopped pacing immediately and addressed the one with their hand up. Harv frowned, half-surprised, but listened.
“A question?”
“Um. Yes.” The goth thing appeared quizzical beneath its makeup. “You said that I can’t choose sin. But what if I purposefully ignore God to make Him angry?”
The gangbanger nodded, smiling as if he agreed. “Very good point!” He turned and addressed the others, like he’d anticipated this question and was already prepared to incorporate it into his sermon. “She asked: what if you’re sinning on purpose to ignore God? Would that be choosing sin? I’ve got a weird answer, because honestly, it’s a weird question. If you’re going to ask it that way, you’re still begging the question. In that case, what you’re doing is ignoring God, which is the same thing as not-choosing Him. You see what I mean? So yes, you can choose sin. But on that same token, the root of your intent isn’t to choose sin, it’s to ignore God.” The pastor paced one lap silently. It occurred to Harv, suddenly, that this gangbanger-pastor might be making things up from the pulpit! Or, at least, the theoretical pulpit. The pastor continued. “You might argue: ‘what about an atheist? What about someone who doesn’t believe in God? What is their intent when they sin?’ Well, the answer is simple. Everyone knows God exists. In their core.” The gangbangers face looked angry, or focused, or something. Maybe just intense. Perhaps Harv had underestimated the gangbanger-pastor’s intellectual capacity. “If you live on Planet Earth (it’s beautiful, isn’t it? Look at the tree back there, and the grass, and all that stuff), anyways, if you live on Planet Earth, you know God exists. Causes are always more complex than their effects, and so we know that there’s something out there. Something intricate and intelligent enough to create Planet Earth and everything in it.” He faced his congregation again. “Basically, that would be God. When you boil everything down to fundamental truth, you’re faced with a crazy idea: God exists, and not only does He exist – He talks to you. When you take the only system of belief that incorporates a graceful God and actually addresses the Resurrection evidence, you have to realize that Jesus Christ was really the Son of God. He really came. And really died for you. Crazy, huh?”
Harv’s lips were pursed. It now seemed apparent that this gangbanger-pastor was an intellectual, and also that his sermon was a completely unstructured mess. It was probably all improvised. Somehow the man had strayed from “you can’t choose sin” to some apologetics rant that didn’t make sense anyway. The pastor continued.
“Sometimes people say, like, ‘every time you sin, you crucify Jesus all over again’. That’s, well, that’s the farthest thing from the truth. Our Lord died once, for all. And now it’s done – Jesus no longer suffers. The reality of the gospel is quite simple: all your sins are paid for in heaven, so you don’t have to go to hell. You could live the worst imaginable, you even do it on purpose, but the minute you repent, it’s all gone. It’s all struck from the record. Living the Christian life, guys… it isn’t necessary for salvation.” The pastor searched the crowd, eyes alighting on Harv briefly, but then perusing the rest of the congregation before continuing. “But we must do it to honor God. No matter how hard we try, we won’t make a cent of difference in our salvation. But we really, really have to try, you know? The effort won’t pay off, except to hear Jesus tell us we were faithful when we get up there. Okay?”
Nods all around.
“Okay then. Let’s pray. Lord God, we thank you for this time, Lord, when we can come and worship you, God. It’s a privilege, Father, to be in your presence here in this beautiful park, Father God. In Your, holy, holy name… Amen.”


Not quite finished with this one. I'm kind of putting it on hold while I get a lot of musical practice done... I'm applying for two camps this summer (a prestigous, month-long music one, and a prestigous 2-week writing one).

Die and Recieve

John Knox, the famous evangelical and theologian, once petitioned God, "Give me Scotland, or I die!" That is a very famous quote. Perhaps it is so popular because of the bravado, or the heroic elegance found in those simple words. But not as many people quote the words found in John Knox's journal after his prayer. He records God's response very simply: "Die, and I will give you Scotland."

That is a powerful lesson that everyone forgets. We live in the Information Age, where everything is convenient. Lots of youth pastors will approach modernity with a condemning eye, damning the sins of our generation (they are numerous), launching into sermon after sermon about the availability of internet pornography, drugs, and guns in our depressed postmodern world.
But even for the spiritually adept, for the strong believers who don't face enormous struggle with secret sin and temptation galore (these individuals are far, far, far and few between), the Information Age presents a new challenge: Convenience.
I recently got a new cell phone. I like it because it feels good in my hand, has a camera, and because the sound quality is leaps and bounds above my last phone. I can buy backgrounds, sounds, games, and news in little more than three minutes, anywhere in the US. This is a no-brainer to pretty much everyone, but that's exactly what I'm calling you out on.
We are so used to instant information, to long-range connectivity, to response at our convenience. But, I regret to inform you, God is not on the same frequency as our cell phones.

Our relationship with God is not like a text message conversation. We cannot simply draft a new message, slap "Yahweh" in the "To:" slot, and hit send. God demands that we abide in Him. ABIDE, as in live with always. He doesn't want our half-hearted sacrifices of praise: "hey, gd, how r u doin? o sry i g2g ttyl..."
He wants our devotion, our worship, and what's so ridiculous about our daily refusal to give it to Him is the magnitude of the rewards. We are so fast paced, so reluctant to die to our selves, that it sometimes seems far-fetched that God would actually answer prayers. We pray that our day would go smoothly after a difficult morning, and when it does, you get that feeling like a fortune cookie came true. As if, perhaps, your waiter at PF Changs has been stalking you, and secretly admires you enough to slip that fortune in there. Sort of creeped out and reluctant to undergo the experience again.
"thnx god. o and about 2moro im sorta buzy, so sry. ttyl."

So I present you with a challenge (and it is defenitely a challenge, I can tell you from both success and failure): move in with God. Don't pray before meals or text him when you're bored. If you had caller ID from the future, and one night you got a surprise call from "Your Future Wife", would you blow her off with a simple: "I'm tired, okay? We'll eventually talk, just... I'm just really tired right now. Night."
No, of course not. And if you would, try counseling.

Abide with God. The rest of your life either works itself out, or descends on your list of priorities.

Gray Plastic Bag

Solomon’s Porch is a little coffeehouse and bookstore on the premises of my church. They do a lot of frozen drinks, dubbed “Freddos”, and iced coffees and stuff like that, but I think the best thing they have is the Americano. I like it in a 12-ounce paper cup, with maybe one and a half or two inches for cream, double shot. I use more sugar than most people, but less creamer than most (I consider it a healthy trade-off). People do all sorts of things in Solomon’s Porch. Most of the time it’s pretty quiet – one time I saw an architect drafting a building on his laptop. He had a pressed shirt and a Rolex, and close-cropped hair. A pair of those rimless Ray Ban spy sunglasses rested on the table next to his leather laptop bag. I think he was the only interesting person I’ve seen there who wasn’t from the church.
So I was at the coffeehouse today with my mom and my brother. My mom wanted to say goodbye to one of her friends, Katie, who was leaving with a church group to go to Israel. The rest of them were coming back in a week or something, but not Katie. Katie and her sorta-fiancee, Donny, are going to stay in Israel indefinitely. They’re probably going to get married there, and they’re probably going to live an amazing life in the name of Jesus Christ.
Donny was talking to me before he left. They were only allowed to take one fifty-pound bag for the trip – church regulations – but since he and Katie are actually moving away, they really had to pick what they’re taking and what they’re not. He’s a musical guy. He was in a band called Venerate (no-one was sure how to pronounce it, our youth pastor was Hispanic, so he said it “Venerahtay”, and I think everyone started calling it that too); they played a few times at our church. But anyway, he wasn’t able to lug along his guitar or his bass or anything. He had a harmonica, and he was blowing through it while we were talking.
He was saying how excited he was to get going. “It’s just saying goodbye to everyone that’s so hard. That’s what I didn’t want to have to do.”
“Yeah. I remember when my family picked up and moved out of the states, it was so tense. Sometimes you wanna just drop everything and head out.”
He agreed with me. We started talking about music again, it was the only thing we had in common, except that we both wanted to be going to Israel. I have short, boyish hair, I’m not very muscular, sort of a skinny little writer kid who’s kind of got his head in the clouds under his sunglasses. Donny is much more down to earth. He’s got that hip, bohemian appeal. Long red hair and a red goatee, his wallet is chained to his belt, baggy black cargo pants. Sometimes I wish I was more culturally relevant than I am. I just sit inside and write, and listen to jazz.
Donny can’t wait to get over to the place he and Katie are going to be staying. He thinks he will really enjoy the worship over there. It’s in Hebrew. Katie is almost fluent in the language, but Donny not so much.
We saw them off, and my mom started to cry a little when people were taking pictures and getting in the cars. Donny and Katie got in a red sports car with Donny’s mom, and they just drove off. So that was that. I sat outside in the boiling Southern California heat for a while, trying really hard to not mind it, because I didn’t want to go inside and have to talk to people. It must’ve been ten minutes, maybe two hours. I started to think really heavily, as I tend to do if nothing else presents itself. I was thinking about Israel, and wondering why I wasn’t going over there, or already over there. Everything relevant happens in Israel. Not just Biblically, but politically, economically. Did you know that Tovia Luskin discovered oil reservoirs at a Meged-4 drilling site, containing 100 million barrels of oil?* That’s a lot of power. Everything is happening in Israel or around it. I wondered why I was here and not there, why churches were visiting Israel on sightseeing tours instead of moving there like Katie and Donny, where they could relay information back to the mother church, instead of garnering their facts from bus drivers on the way to the Temple Mount tourist trap.
I was thinking about all this, and at the same time, watching a gray plastic bag that the wind was blowing across my field of view. Outside Solomon’s Porch, there is a very small parking area, twelve spots or something, and next to it there are railroad tracks. It was really hot when I was sitting there, I was sweating enough to feel all sticky just sitting there doing nothing.
That plastic bag floated across the asphalt, snagging on a curb or a parking block, then continuing its journey. It finally went over one of those “no parking” curbs and stopped on the railroad tracks. I wondered about that bag. I think we’re all sort of like it, in different ways, floating with the wind, here one moment and gone another. In my perception, I interpreted it as an allegory of my walk with God. Like that plastic bag, I’m not really driven. I sort of find my way for a week or a month or even a year, and then it gets too hard and I just settle. Settle for church instead of God, or for religiosity instead of excitement, and I know it’s my fault, but that’s not what I’ll say.
“Hey, don’t blame me that that snag was there. Hey, don’t blame me that the wind brought me here or there. Hey, I’m just going with the flow, man. Hey, take it easy!”
I was in the middle of wishing that I could work up the emotion to start crying, or have an out-of-body experience or a vision or something equally profound, when the door opened from Solomon’s Porch and a guy came out.
He was probably forty or forty-five, with close-cut black hair and thick eyebrows. He was sturdily built, but his eyes looked like everything pained him. Like he was really struggling to keep up with his image. He looked like a good guy who used to be a druggie or a war veteran or something painful, that God took and turned around. He sort of saw me for the first time.
“Hey man, how you doing?”
I said “good” way quieter than I meant to. I probably sounded like I had been crying. I hate it when that happens, it’s sort of like a junior-higher who squeaks and then gets embarrassed, except when it happens to me I sound like this sensitive little guy who watches reruns of Doctor Quinn: Medicine Woman every week.
“You okay, bud?” The guy kept walking but looked back.
I cleared my throat. “Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah, I’m just waiting.”
“Okay.”
The guy walked stiffly, sort of like a neurotic robot, past the parking lot, over the red “no parking” curb, to the railroad tracks. He bent down and picked up that gray plastic bag, and then walked back. He bunched it up in his hand like he was going to throw it away, and then disappeared inside without really looking at me.
I don’t know why that is so profound to me, but it is. It seems sort of like an intervention, like I wonder if that guy was an angel or God or something. No, wait. God looks like Morgan Freeman. I forgot. But anyway, it hit me then, that that guy was actually doing something in the world. He was making it his. Checking on an sensitive little buddy sitting outside, picking up a plastic bag – I mean they’re not the hugest things, but somehow that guy really earned my admiration today. I hope I see him around.


*(I got this information from a fantastic book I was reading, nonfiction by Joel Rosenberg called “Epicenter”. Fascinating reading.)

Crueler, Part II

Ding! Third floor.
The elevator car hummed quietly up the shaft. Inside, Crueler leaned against one wall, studying the floral carpet design, faintly aware of some music playing inside. He recognized it to be Queen.
We are the champions… we are the champions… no time for losers…
Ding! Fourth floor.
Normally, Crueler would have opted for the stairs. Any Joe-off-the-street could kick in a fire alarm, or somehow bypass the elevators, and strand Crueler in this stinking car with Bohemian Rhapsody or something for unbearable, innumerable hours. But he wasn’t feeling particularly stalked today, and for whatever reason, he decided he could afford the luxury of the elevator.
No time for losers… cause we are the champions… of the world!
Ding! Fifth floor. He got off.
The carpet in the halls, he noticed, was the same carpet featured in the elevators. He wondered briefly what sort of person invented these little designs found everywhere – on airplane seats or hotel carpets or any of that. He supposed it was just an example of the commercialization of Navajo rug-weavers. He didn’t really care. Found himself slightly surprised for devoting that much thought towards such a pointless issue.
God, the hall was quiet. He glanced down the vacant rows of doors… 316, 317, 318…on and on forever. He checked his watch.
Huh. It was only nine. Oh well, he thought – perhaps all New Yorkers get themselves off to bed in a timely manner. Which reminded him how comfortable a bed was sounding, at the moment.
He angled for his door drowsily, and fumbled for the keycard in his jeans pocket. When he went to insert the card, the door creaked open. His mind shot to awareness. Someone was inside his room. His hands moved like oiled machines, whipping a pistol out of his shoulder holster, screwing on a silencer with an experienced flip of his wrist. No more fun and games, Jacobin.
He drew back the action and slipped in the door in one motion, entering the suite on his haunches, gun extended in front of him. Nothing appeared to be immediately out of place. The bathroom and kitchenette were dark. He scanned the small living room. No-one; the balcony was also vacant. The master bedroom, then? He moved silently, no audible footfalls…
We are the champions… we are the champions… no time for losers…
Great. Perfect time to get that damned song stuck in his head. He ignored the mini-Queen chanting pretentiously in the back of his mind, moving into the bedroom. There was a note on the bed. He didn’t lower his gun, didn’t read it – instead, he checked the bathroom.
Empty.
He rose to his full height, strode (still cautiously) to the bed, examined the note. The handwriting was hard to make out, apparently the whole thing had been rather rushed. Whoever left the note hadn’t even closed the door. He ignored churning questions and just read the thing.

Port Nassau, Bahamas. Find the yacht “Delilah”.
Be there by noon Tuesday or you’ll feel the pain.
Don’t forget your swimming trunks.

Crueler rolled his eyes and went to bed.

The Purging Preview

A preview of my current short story undertaking...

___


A bald eagle drifted majestically over the desert, wings arced over the vast blue, wise avian eyes plotting his route diligently, sensing the updraft before it came. He blinked meticulously, pumping his golden wings in time with the beat of his heart: slow and dilatory, like the pulse of nature herself. And then when the wind kissed his beak, he let himself coast into the updraft, gliding up, up, up…high into the blue.
The clouds were below; the sky was dark and tenebrous though it was still day; there was only the barest oxygen, but the eagle was not short of breath. He felt the black windless abyss tugging at him, heard lucent stars crying: “Come home, Rael!”
But the eagle ignored the temptation, ducked his wise eyes down to the windswept earth far below, to the brown, valley-pocked desert that was his prison. He would never again let the desert’s sirens woo him into complacency. That had been his mistake, and this his punishment. He felt the wind vanish and the sparse supply of oxygen fall away completely. He had grown too thoughtful; the stars were pulling him back. The light of the moon flashed in his eye as he turned back to the earth, and dove.
The tow of gravity sucked him towards the flat brown vista below, faster and faster, shooting adrenaline through his veins like icy water. The eagle tucked in his wings and passed through a moist patch of cloud: high altitude cirrus. He hit terminal velocity, little more than a golden streak in the sky, chased by sound itself – and then he thrust out his wings and leveled. There was no need to pump his weary wings, so great was his speed. He passed into a speed-blurred valley, gliding only a foot off of a squalid river that ran its course in the valley floor.
A speck caught his eye; above and to his right.
Like a missile – he curved with supernatural ability, arced upon the blue, slammed into a twittering finch of some sort, whistled back over the river with his prey dripping gore into the water, impaled upon his half-parted beak. Lunch.
With the fresh blood pooling under his tiny tongue, he searched for a place to land. Actually, he already had a place in mind; knew it was somewhere along the river, just not its precise location. He smelled barbecue, followed his acute olfactory perception to the source: a paltry town, a quaint collection of shops and residences with only one paved street. The barbecue seemed to be coming from a little steepled, whitewashed church with stained-glass windows and front doors facing the blacktop. Perfect.
The eagle coasted over the riverbank, past a little communal fishing spot, and into town. He readjusted his beak inside the bloody finch, which was still quivering in the spasms of rigor mortis. A thicker stream of blood leaked from the little corpse as the eagle shot up across the church doors and alighted on the steeple. His wise gaze saw the avian splash of blood, artfully squirted at just the right place: over the church doors. If they eagle could have chuckled, he would have guffawed.
Consider it a blood offering.
The eagle leapt one more time, and dropped to land on the grey-shingled roof of the church. When his talons touched the ground, they were boots. His wings were suddenly sleeved arms; his tail was a fully clothed, shaped buttocks; his bosom was a sweaty man’s chest. He was suddenly not an eagle.
He was a man – standing lightly atop the church roof, clad like Johnny Cash, minus the ten-gallon hat. His head was – appropriately – bald, and sure enough, his nose resembled a beak. His eyes were still those wise eagle-eyes, but they looked disturbing and graphic in human eye sockets. The bloody, twitching finch was in his teeth. His clean-shaven chin was covered in blood and hastily-released body fluid, but he didn’t seem to mind. He just stood there and pierced the sky with his gaze.
Eventually, he grew tired of breathing through his nose, and carefully picked the tasty carcass from his unusually sharp incisors. He tucked the bird into his pocket – save it for later. His tongue slid over his teeth – back and forth, back and forth – as he took in the barbecue smells that came from the church below. Voices drifted up through the roof to his extrasensory ears.
Some hear fellowship and well-being, but all I hear is weeping and gnashing of teeth. Yessir, weeping and gnashing of teeth.
He strode to the edge of the roof, careful on the shingles; they looked old enough to give way anytime now. Peeking down at the stained-glass windows decorating the length of the church, it seemed a greater fall than it was. Looked to be forty feet, but he knew it was no more than twenty. And who cared anyway? He could fly.
He confidently stepped off the edge of the roof, and dropped resolutely towards that stained-glass window. His outstretched arms caught the rain gutter at precisely the right time, and he swung in, under the overhang, straight through a glorious depiction of baby Jesus and the Holy Virgin. He flew into the church’s humble sanctuary horizontally; feet first in an unholy burst of colored shards, and launched into an infinitely graceful backflip. He landed on his feet in a powerful stance atop a third-row pew, arms akimbo, smiling ruggedly at the group of horrified churchgoers huddled around a buffet table near the altar.
Everything was silent for a few moments.
And then someone screamed. It was a roly-poly woman with barbecue sauce at both corners of her lips, shouting involuntarily, out of surprise. It took a few moments for a collected man in a white polo to calm her down. The type that acts middle-aged, but looks not a day older than twenty-five.
Ah, the Shepard himself.
The man stepped out from the crowd, closer to the enigmatically-posed figure in black. He stared at the birdman as if he was some sort of gymnast/vigilante with a skewed perception of danger and a pension for quirky entrances. Not that it was far from the truth. The Shepard spoke.
“Just what do you ‘spect your doin’?”
The birdman opened his mouth, bloody teeth and all. “My dear man, I was but enacting the Holy Word. What good would it be to enter said church by the usual routes?” He pointed at the front door with a talonous index finger. “Jesus himself said: ‘No-one comes to the father except through me’. I did just that.” He glanced at the shards all around him. “Although I guess I took Mary down with Him.”
The Shepard looked as if he’d dealt with such disturbances before. If only he knew. He swiveled and spoke to a member of his awestruck flock. “Sandra, phone the police. Tell ‘em the ‘sylum had another escapee.”
Asylum? The birdman, in all his flight through this desert, had never seen any evidence of civilization save this town, and certainly no asylum. Which meant that the Shepard was pulling a fast one.
“I’m truly sorry, pastor, if I offended you. I merely smelt the sweet scent of fellowship - merely followed my nose down the street, yessir. Felt the good Spirit flowing through me, told me to jump through those windows, he did. Can’t ignore the Spirit, now can you?”
“N’matter what you think the Sperit told you, you’ve damaged our property and entered illegally.” He turned back to Sandra. “You got the sheriff on the line yet?”
“Phone lines’re dead.”
“What? You’ve gotta be kiddin’ me. Gimme that phone.”
“I ain’t kidding. Here.”
The Shepard snatched the phone with a look of I’m disappointed in you, and pressed the receiver to his ear. The birdman could see the frown in the Shepard’s eyes. Of course the lines were dead.
The Shepard stepped closer to the birdman, red-faced. “In Jesus’ name, what you? Are you a demon? An angel sent from the Lor– ”
“If you’d shut up, I’d tell you, my friend.” The birdman cleared his throat presumptuously. “I am Rael. I’m not a man persay, but certainly not a demon or an angel or any such thing. I have a purpose here. You see, I have been sent to warn you of the Purging.”

___

To be continued... (but probably not on here)

Jacobin Crueler

Crueler had been counting the swish of the fan blades. It was a weird fan, he would say, noting the odd structure; he guessed it was only decorative, not really cooling. He certainly couldn’t feel any breeze. He refocused his mind on the spinning wooden slats… twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, twenty- wait, thirty! Thirty-one…or two or three… He’d lost count again.
There was some acid jazz (maybe David Sanborn) pulsing softly at a pianissimo in the corner, where a little purple and gray CD player sat, leashed to the wall by a black cord that was frayed near the plug. There was a thin disk in there somewhere, spinning, spinning, spinning…like the fan, like the five wheels of Crueler’s Corolla, like the eyeballs of a dead man sliding back into their sockets, like the earth on it’s invisible axis. Like Crueler’s mind. Spinning, spinning, spinning, always pondering. His mind drifted to his Corolla out in the parking lot. Actually, it wasn’t a Corolla – it was a Tacoma; he’d just liked the ring of professionalism when “Crueler’s Corolla” rolled off his tongue. And at the moment, he wondered how the non-Corolla was doing outside, if it was being broken into or jacked by some idiot. The notion wasn’t beyond consideration, especially here in New York. Crueler contemplated stepping out to check on his precious Corolla, but decided that if anyone was breaking in, he’d just hunt them down and kill them later.
A door to his left opened partially to allow a large woman with curly hair to waddle in. She scanned a clipboard in her hand, looking uncannily similar to a fat penguin in her nurse’s getup.
“Jacobin Crueler?”
Crueler found himself making one of those spilt-second decisions that he always regretted later. He was divided between going with the nurse, and staying behind to find out exactly what how many revolutions-per-minute that stupid fan was making anyways.
The penguin lady called his name again, which he was tired of hearing. It was always Jacobin this, Jacobin that…Jacobin, won’t you come home with me tonight? He’d never been able to figure out what made him so attractive…but ever since he’d accepted the fact, he’d apparently seemed less attractive, because no-one was asking him home at parties anymore. Or maybe it was just that one thing with the police in Los Angeles. A whole LAPD SWAT team had burst in amidst (what else?) but his very own father’s birthday party. He’d had to convince his parents and all their curious, walker-toting neighbors that he was secretly an operative with the bureau, and that he had been handpicked to lead a SWAT team in a high-profile sting against a weapons-smuggling neo-Nazi at the docks. That had been a day to remember.
“Mr. Crueler?”
He rose to face a very irritated penguin lady, and followed her through the door. He watched her as she walked/waddled down a vacant hallway. Give her a nose and bird-feet, thought Crueler, and she’d be quite convincing at the zoo. She padded into an empty room with a default scowl on her face, and told him to sit.
He stood.
Maybe coming to the doctor’s office had been a bad idea. He wasn’t really sick. Sure, he’d swallowed a pint of acid irritant to make sure his throat was nice and raw, but other than that he was feeling fine. Without a word, the penguin-lady walked over, velcroed the blood-pressure thing to his arm, and started pumping it full of air. Crueler always thought it would be fun to yank the squeeze out of the nurse’s hand, but he refrained with as much self-control as he could muster, because he had a mission to accomplish here. And he didn’t really enjoy the thought of being attacked by a frighteningly large penguin lady.
She spat out some numbers in quick succession (they meant nothing to Crueler, so he didn’t note them) and then she hobbled out the door, closing it behind her. The room was suddenly very quiet; no noises to speak of, no items of particular interest, none of those awkward posters about testicular cancer doctors always slapped on the walls. Crueler desperately wanted something else to think about, but he settled for the silence because he knew he should be focusing anyway.
He knew no-one in the waiting room had seen the unusual bulge in his jacket pocket, but he wasn’t so sure about the penguin lady. He’d been so distracted by her birdlike qualities that he’d forgotten to analyze her like everyone else. Come to think of it, she had been scowling…that was never a good sign. He sat down noisily on the cot, crinkling the white paper, shifting carefully so the bulge wasn’t so obvious.
There, that was nearly perfect. At least, as perfect as he’d get it anytime soon –
The door swung open, somehow enigmatic in itself. The doctor was a stout little man with a bald head and cloudy, careless eyes. A thin pair of spectacles made him look more scholarly than he probably was in that quaint white lab coat.
“Hello, Mr. Crueler. What seems to be the problem?”
Jacobin cleared his throat, deciding on a Yugoslavian accent. “Vell, you see, I accidentally have some Clorox, and thought I threw it all up, but zis morning my throat is red. It very hurts.”
The doctor nodded, pursing his lips and casting Crueler a strange look. “If you’ll follow me, we’ll get you treated right away.”
“Vell, actually, Doctor, I had something else in mind.”
“Oh? What would that be?”
“You see, I know something zat no-von else knows.” Crueler leaned in close. This was just too much fun. “I know…zat you are really an undercover agent vith zee CIA.” He added a foreign giggle for good measure.
The Doctor was frozen for a moment before stuttering, “I think maybe you, uh, had too much of that bleach. You really need treatment right away.”
“No, no, zere is more to my story! So ven I learned that you are CIA, I zaid to myself in me head, “Jacobin, everyvon has a price,” and so ven I call my old boss in Yugoslavia, he say that you are vanted dead by their intelligence agency! Small vorld, no?”
The Doctor bolted, but Crueler had already pulled the silenced 9mm Taurus out of his jacket pocket and put two slugs in the doctor’s brain.
“Small vorld indeed.”
Crueler stepped over the body to the counter and grabbed an antiseptic wipe. His mind started spinning again, like an old Temptations record, as he wiped the Taurus clean and unscrewed the silencer. He liked this particular silencer, because it was silver – and to him, silver spoke of black BMWs, jazz clubs, the red-eye to Paris, a steak dinner in the city, all of it and more. Silver was somehow more sophisticated than gold, simpler, closer to the essence of beauty.
Crueler dropped the printless gun into the Biohazard receptacle, slipping the silencer back into his jacket pocket. He thought about grabbing that David Sanborn CD on the way out; it sounded like good driving music. Good music for Crueler’s Corolla. But the fact remained; he had already stuffed the glove compartment full of Louis Armstrong, Ella Fitzgerald, Coltrane, and the works. Yes, Crueler’s Corolla was fully stocked with the bereaved throes of a love supreme, where he could speed for miles with no-one to watch over him, and think, what a wonderful world.
Sort of an ironic notion, considering the violent sight before him: the splash of crimson that slowly deoxygenated on the linoleum, and the dead doctor that rested facedown in gentle sleep. Crueler grimaced, and exited the room, stepping lightly into the hallway with a glance in both directions. No sign of penguin lady.
Crueler decided against the lobby, hurriedly striding further down the monochrome hall. He passed a few open doors – nervous middle-aged men, sniveling toddlers and their parents, working women looking icy with a tissue – but Crueler kept going. He almost stopped at a faded, blinking old soda machine, but realized that he didn’t have change, and there was no Mountain Dew anyway. A few more steps carried him through a pair of swinging double doors, into an outdoor parking lot brimming with hot-orange ambulances.
He placidly resisted the temptation to steal one, and instead opted for the street. By the time he’d jogged the block back to his car, he could already hear police sirens. Which meant that they’d found the body, seen the bullets, maybe even happened across the gun in the trash can. But everything was clean, everything pointed to nothing, and certainly nothing pointed to him.
Satisfied, Jacobin Crueler kicked the Corolla/Tacoma into reverse, squealed out of his parking spot, and hit the road.

Dive Deep

In Honor of my favorite author, whom I do not know personally but defenitely will in heaven. That would be Ted Dekker. The man is an absolute and total genius with creative fiction, and one of his most incredible, Christ-evident catch-phrases comes from his Circle Trilogy. Dive Deep. Let us explore the meaning of that statement...

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Haunting whispers slithered from damp crevices in the jetty, where baby waves lapped, echoing up and out and to my ears, those haunting, fascinating whispers that were too faint to discern. The breath of the wind shoved waves shoreward, where they disappeared under the rocks, silent for only a moment, before exploding in dazzling showers of white and prism rainbows; they were like little canvases that appeared and dissipated in the space of a second, long enough for me to get only the barest glimpse of the fantastic painting, but falling back to the waters when I most wanted to see it. There was the long-drawn inhalation of the tide receding over a small sandy beach, followed by the thunderous sigh of the new water crashing down again to cover it. Crabs skittered along the drenched rocks. The sun never blinked. Sea birds sang to themselves high above. And I listened.
The day was trying to speak.
I had never heard the day before, but I had tried too many times to count. Day after day I would sit on my bench, closing my eyes to hear and opening them to see, struggling to attune to fleeting speeches of the day. I had come both at night and during the day. Both held different flavors, different dialects that were equally impossible to decipher, but I did like to think that I could just barely make out a few slurred syllables on good days. The night was always darker, always deeper, as if it was less of a discussion, and more of an interrogation. I would stare at the stars or the moon, let the pounding silence reign, vainly searching for the deep night’s whispered secrets. Days were nicer. They were more easily understandable, cheerier, and infinitely more satisfying.
But not at the moment.
No, at the moment, I got the sense that the day was trying to impress something upon me. It was like a nightmare in that I couldn’t reach the voice, couldn’t hear its suggestions - as if I was lost in a cavern and could just barely hear the voices of my party, but hadn’t the faintest idea where they were in the darkness. I opened my eyes. Maybe sight would aid me in my quest.
The bench I was seated upon creaked as I shifted my weight back, to lean. It was painted with a militaristic shade of brown, chipped where others had carved words or figures into the wood with pocketknives, or where the corrosives of the sea had eaten the wood over decades. And it creaked horribly. Before me laid the jetty, just a heap of jagged coral boulders and barnacle encrustations. There was one old, sea-beaten tree that sagged over the crystal sea, shading some concrete steps that descended into the shallows. There were only six or so steps, and they were very rough, formed by a flow of slimy concrete years ago; and people had drawn things in the steps. There were designs of colored seaglass, names and dates, and the faint outline of footprints stepping down into the water. They were the marks of others before me, who had sat on this bench or under the tree, listening to hear the day.
When the words first came, they were so loud that I was startled. Booming, reverberating through my mind and my heart, sealed by the slow churning of the day, sudden and mind-blowing. But perhaps just a fancy…
“I love you.”
My mouth was hanging open. I had just been spoken to! And not by the day, either. No, the day muttered philosophy and ambiguity to itself in secret, but this new voice had just screamed a loud truth – an absolute truth. In fact, the enormity of those new words cast the subtle voice of the day into confusion; perhaps the day didn’t speak at all, perhaps it was dead and I missed it, and thought I heard it speaking to me. I didn’t know, and it didn’t really matter anyway. Why explore the veiled fantasies of the day when there was something out there far deeper and larger and more personal than anything else?
And I couldn’t shake those words from my mind. They seemed to say everything that could be said. There was no point in analyzing it - it was too crazy – you just had to take it at face value and let it unfold itself inside you. What did love entail? Everything that led to good. Joy, contentment, a little pain, reunion, passion, bare truth, inexpressible closeness, all of it and more. Dear God, those three new words had just spoken more in one second than the day could in years of careful listening!
And then, with unreal swiftness, the voice rose again.
“Dive Deep.”
Again, such a simple statement with such an array of truth behind it. It spread from my mind to my heart and its meaning exploded in my chest. Dive Deep meant explore. Have a sense of adventure, search for glorious truths, push into the Love to experience the joys and passions of relationship. I was sure it meant so much more, but it was too otherworldly to express with human language or emotion. It was a metaphor so infinite, and yet so complete. But at the same time, it was also very literal. Dive Deep. What else could it mean?
A grin broke across my face. The bench squeaked as I stood to my feet. But the day’s whisperings were only faint behind the kinetic crackling of another world, sizzling with energy, throbbing, ready to explode at any moment. I descended the concrete steps without looking at them, treading on the efforts of those who had failed before me.
“Dive Deep.”
And then, without a glance behind, I vaulted, and plunged headfirst into the crystal waters.

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God has given our generation a gift. Suddenly Christians everywhere are jumping to the task, writing incredible fiction (Dekker), making blockbuster movies (Passion of the Christ), hitting the top music charts (David Crowder* Band), all of it and more. We have been presented with an IMMENSE opportunity to be in the world but not of it, as God's Word calls us to be. This is a cultural and spiritual time of revolution. We very well could be the last generation on this earth, oughtn't we make our mark for God while the lost still wander?

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http://www.teddekker.com/