Post 20 (A Different Kind of Cheating)...

So for my final post, I am going to do a little cheating again. A couple of days ago I posted something I've already written. Today, I'm going against my word of writing more than a simple narration of my day(s). These thoughts will be bulleted...

-- The other day while at Barnes and Noble I noticed an old favorite, Salvation on Sand Mountain, Dennis Covington's look into Snake Handling Pentecostalism in Appalachia. There is currently a fifteenth anniversary edition of the book with a new Afterword. I highly recommend it for the humility with which he covers a subject that most would report on with mocking and derision.

-- In perusing the posts I have written for this little February project, one theme seems to be dominant. Church. No secret there. I could run from it, but it wouldn't matter. It would still catch up to me. This is in my blood, the companion I will probably always find myself running beside, wrestling with, and embracing.

Last night I had dinner with the people who are my current church. We sat in the living room, watching children dance and play. We ate and drank and shared the contents of our weeks past and those to come.

This morning I met for brunch with more of those who are my church, while others were across town playing kickball. The original reason for the brunch fell through, but who needs a reason to sit across the table from each other and share stories? We talked about the kickball tournament, rats chewing through car pipes, and Texas Country Reporter. In the middle of a conversation about the past week's snow and the building of snowmen, while Emily was in another room, her four year old son Hogan interrupted us all to let us know what we previously hadn't known-- His mommy has a baby in her belly.

Like I said, I could run from this. But why would I want to?

-- Yesterday morning at Cafe Cappuccino I sat at a table next to an older couple. The husband was complaining about the Democrats as the wife sipped her coffee, not uttering a word the entire breakfast. He kept yelling at an imaginary Obama sitting next to him and I was reminded of what one of my friends' (I can't remember who) has as his "political views" on Facebook: "Whatever will make you not yell at me."

I constructed a future story in my mind that included this wife killing her husband, stuffing his body in the freezer, and running off to a Mexican Island for peace and quiet.

Today I ate dinner at Uncle Dan's Bar-B-Cue and sat next to a couple about the same age. This time it was the wife doing the talking. She said she was going to church in the morning, and wondering if he was going to go as well. He said no, he wasn't. She responded that he needed to. He gave her the look that I would probably give someone telling me what I need to do.

I hope someday he can find people like those I have found. I also hope one day that the Obama-hater can find a peace of mind that doesn't include fear of an imaginary enemy.

-- Last thought for the day, and month. This morning the Waco Trib Reported that the Hippodrome Theater has closed its doors, maybe for good. I was reminded of all the things I have written in the past about the sacredness of place. I also thought back to a certain popular religious leader among college students who made a name for himself in that very building, and how great it would be for him and his organization to try and save that building. I'm not holding my breath, any more than I hold my breath for any other evangelical church to value something old and tangible. It is unfortunate that the things we can touch have lost all sense of holiness among contemporary leaders.

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So, this has been fun. Thank you to everyone who has donated. I am excited about going to church tomorrow to see how much we have raised for the Bernards. After this, I will return to my old blog. I will probably rework it, and will not post daily. But I am going to try to give you at least one thing a week.

Fame...

Never seen L.A.
The closest I've been to Hollywood
Is Dollywood
But when you get back to Beverly Hills
You can tell all your buddies
That you met one of the most famous people
In the country
-- From Brad Paisley's Famous

If I spend some time on it, and really concentrate hard, I can sign my name where you may be able to read it. When trying to figure out who signed a particular document, my friend James at Barnes and Noble would always ask "Is it legible, or is it Craig's signature?" I come from a family of lefties with less than adequate handwriting. Couple that with me being at the front end of a generation that really didn't have to write stuff by hand after high school, and you have the making of someone with the penmanship of a doctor, or serial killer, or both.

I do have a signature, however, that is deliberately hard to read. It is my autograph signature. This is the signature that I practiced as a child when I was pretty sure that my career path would lead me eventually to being the WCW World Wrestling Champion. Old dreams die hard, and somewhere along the way I realized that the signature I often use is the autograph signature.

I often wonder if this desire to be famous is universal. I doubt it is because I know people who would shun fame if it were offered to them. But since I probably wouldn't, I assume everyone else is as narcissistic as I.

Of course part of the desire to be famous also includes the desire to pretend not to believe you actually are. Wouldn't it be great to have tons of people run up to you in public to shake your hand, take your picture, and ask for your autograph and then be able to say "Me? I don't get it, why would you want my autograph? Oh well, ok."

I was speaking with a friend today about one of the strangest creatures of all, the "Christian Celebrity." He has had the opportunity to travel and do some speaking at churches around the country. He talked about how he knows what complete jerks some of "those guys" can be. They can also be seen as members of some upper echelon of Christian society. I remember years ago working at a large event for students. A popular Christian singer, Chris Rice, was performing. One of the students I was helping to check in asked if Rice had arrived yet. I told him yes, that I think he just walked by. The student responded, without a hint of sarcasm, that he assumed they would have had to helicopter him to the top of the hotel.

My friend noted that he didn't want to be seen in either of those ways. His self awareness is impressive. The fact that he is worried about it is a giant step in the right direction. I'm not sure if I would have that kind of maturity.

It is nice, though, to be known. If you work hard at something, and a body of people recognize you for it, I guess there is nothing wrong with that. The problem comes when you become so insulated and isolated from real life, from people who can tell you no, you can't do that. You can't talk to that person that way.

Hopefully we all have people like that. Those who can be honest, but still pretend to be impressed with our autograph. We did work hard on it, after all.

Cheating...

Ok, I am about to cheat. Rather than writing something new, I wanted to share something old with you. I don't believe I ever put this on my normal blog.

Several years ago my good friends Tony and Melissa Herring started a church in downtown Tyler called Soma, which is Greek for "body." The Herrings are some of my absolute favorite people, top shelf. They are family to me and some of the most effective ministers I know. Through them and Marvin, Melissa's brother, I have had an opportunity here and there to get to know the church and their values and ethos. The limited amount of time I have had to spend with these people has been some of the most life-giving, laughter filled moments of my life. Like any young church, they have struggles, but are doing some amazing kingdom-type work in East Texas.

A couple of years ago they asked if I would write their mission statement. Honestly, it was one of the greatest honors I have ever been given, the opportunity to describe a local church and to help define, and refine, their mission. It was also a challenge, because I wasn't writing my church's mission statement, I was writing theirs. The end product ended up being one of the things I have been most proud of since I began writing. And here it is...
________________________________________

What We Believe
Soma is a body of believers gathered to worship God by singing, teaching, learning, creating, listening, and living our lives within a transformational community that shifts our lives, individual and corporate, from being centered on ourselves to being directed toward God.

Of all the texts written over history by people trying to understand the origin, present condition, and future of the world, we believe the Bible to be the most trustworthy. Though written by the pens of humans it was, in ways we don't claim to have fully grasped yet, instigated and inspired by God. The Bible tells our story, informs our decisions, and shapes our lives. It is authoritative. While we value, and actively seek, God's direction through prayer, listening to the still, small voice of God, and wise counsel-- we acknowledge the Bible as the final authority.

While recognizing that the mysterious nature of the Trinity is a concept that can seem beyond the reach of our finite minds, we believe God is one being, existing as three distinct persons: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

God, perfect in power and holiness, is the creator of all there is, from the majestic peaks of the Himalayas to the depths carved out of the Grand Canyon; from the tallest East Texas pine to the farthest star in the universe; and from the lowest microbe to God’s crowning creative achievement -- Humanity.

Man (both male and female) was created to be in fellowship with God. Yet because of the entrance of sin into the world by the decision of humanity to go their own way, this fellowship has been broken, only to be mended by the perfect life, cruel death, and literal bodily resurrection of Jesus.

Many roads have brought us to Soma. We consider our various backgrounds-- Baptist, Catholic, Pentecostal, Methodist, etc., in addition to those backgrounds that did not include church-- to be a part of a rich tapestry of experiences that bind us together, rather than a divisive wedge that drives us apart. Our diverse history colors how we view the work of the Holy Spirit in our midst. We believe the Holy Spirit teaches healthy behavior, convicts us of sin, and leads us to worship. Because we are finite and God is infinite, we do not presume to dictate how the Holy Spirit works in our individual and corporate lives. Therefore, we believe that certain manifestations of the Spirit (tongues, miracles, signs and wonders) that appeared in Scripture can (and do) still occur today. Yet we also believe that the work of the Holy Spirit exists in the absence of fanfare as much as in the presence of signs, so those who have never experienced certain manifestations of the Spirit are no more or less likely to have had a meaningful encounter with God than those who have.

At Soma we value the opportunity to be a part of the Kingdom of God on this earth. We believe Christ came to redeem not only the souls of individuals, but those of cultures and societies as well. We believe God has empowered the church with a prophetic voice to speak truth (with grace and humility) to the power structures of politics, entertainment, the arts, business, and education.

We also believe God's work in this world extends to places that are not immediately evident or easily discernible. So while we practice a prophetic voice, we also act as detectives and treasure hunters, trying with all our might and the enthusiasm of a child to discover God's fingerprints in film, literature, relationships, and all other elements of human existence. And when we find them, we celebrate and revel in the joy that only God brings.

Soma is a worshipping people. We worship by singing. Yet we also worship by forgiving. We worship by reading Scripture and appropriating it to our lives, but we also worship by reaching out and giving bread and worth to the poor and neglected people on the margins of society. We were created for worship, for lives that seek to have its focus set solely on God. Our redemption by the work of Christ and the prompting of the Holy Spirit enables us to worship more fully. We believe that God, in his own time and way, will bring all human and cosmic history to a point of eternal worship.

Gifts...

Sitting on my front porch tonight, it is quiet. Cold. Breath can be seen, and it floats for several seconds after it leaves the lungs. And there is snow. Not much, but it is there. Small enough to portend the muddy mess tomorrow's sunshine will create, yet significant enough to be seen as a gift. An out of the ordinary gift for a people who could use it.

From the inside I hear the hum of the television. Olympics. Athletes who have devoted entire lives for these few moments. Moments that I am spending listening to the silence. Melting snow dripping from the rooftops into small puddles on the ground. Houses all around, full of people. Families. Friends. Relationships that are contentious, messy, and necessary.

We spend our lives waiting for this moment, and then it is gone, only to be replaced by new ones.

Today I was reminded of another gift, Ann Miller.

Those who graduated from Baylor knew Mrs. Miller as a revered professor of literature and humanities. She would often break out into poetry at random times and situations. On more than one occasion she was known to spot young students in love and embarrass them by quoting Yeats or one of the Brownings. One former student said about Ann Miller that she was "someone so in love with poetry, with what the written and spoken word can convey, that the language of books was constantly escaping the page-- and through her-- becoming again and again part of the lived language."

I did not graduate from Baylor. It was only in her later years that I knew Mrs. Miller as a customer at Barnes and Noble. What was apparently true of her on campus, was true off as well. It was not uncommon for her to come up to the information desk and ask for a book of poetry by giving the first line of the first poem in the collection, and then the title. Sure enough when I took her to the book, she would ask me to look in it and there it was,the first line exactly as she had recited it. She often bought two copies of a single book and on more than one occasion I would see her giving the book to someone she ran down in the parking lot... complete strangers. I only knew her in fleeting, but I am better for it.

---

The snow has stopped
And all is waiting
Hope suspended
But so is despair
In between, liminal
The soul waits
With baited breath...

The Best of Waco...

I received my instructions to vote for Jordan Browning for the best Wedding Coordinator in Waco. I did, and you should too. Go HERE , fill out the information, and scroll down the thousand or so selections until you get there, and vote for Jordan Browning-Ever After.

Hopefully the readers of The Wacoan will get this one right, although they rarely do. So to help you navigate what is objectively the best of Waco, I give you my list...

1. Best Chicken Fried Steak: George's.

Several weeks ago I had a free Saturday and decided to drive around the little towns outside of Waco, assuming I would find a killer chicken fried steak. Surprisingly, no such place was found. The next week I met a friend at George's and decided to give their's a try, and it was phenomenal. Pat Green has good taste.

2. Best Little Old Lady: Dorothy Clark.

I have known Mrs. Clark for years now. She spent much of her adulthood as a missionary in Japan, until her husband passed away in his mid fifties. She tells me that she still gets so angry sometimes at him leaving her.

One of my first conversations ever with her was at Barnes and Noble, shortly after we had become friends. She was reading a book in the Christian section that teaches that people of all faiths will be in heaven. As I came up to greet her, she was startled, afraid someone else was seeing her reading the book. Fearing she was in enemy territory, she curled her finger for me to come closer so she could whisper what she had to tell me. She said that she agreed with what was in the book. She said that she had friends who were Buddhist and Hindu, and she didn't care what the preachers on television said, there was no way they weren't getting into heaven.

As we got to know each other more she began saying-- "You know what? The more I think about it, the more I think God may even let people like YOU in heaven, Craig." I replied "People like me? What do you mean people like me?" She answered "You know. Republicans."

3. Best Middle Aged Lady: Pat Farrell

There is no story like a Pat story, and they all require adult ears. I've heard all my life about people not caring what others think about them, but Pat is one of the few I've met for whom that is genuinely true. I've told this story before, but I'll tell it again.

During the early years of me working at Barnes and Noble, Pat and I had a conversation about John Krakauer's Under the Banner of Heaven, a book about the Fundamentalist Mormon sect. Pat noted that it was strange how the women were married to so many husbands and were worried about which one they would be married to in heaven. She said "Hell, If I get to heaven and find out there are husbands there, just send me to the other place!"

4. Best Mrs. Pac-Man: Laundrymat on the corner of Waco Drive and 25th.

For a while I was without a washer and dryer and would use this facility. I got so addicted to the Mrs. Pac-Man, that I would sometimes go in and play even when I didn't have laundry to do. It is one of the originals, not like the one at H-E-B that is slower than it should be.

5. Best Mexican Restaurant: Mi Tequila.

I like to think I have a little to do with the success of this restaurant. Located in a building on Valley Mills that has been a million different things, it is a rather nondescript building. I'm not quite sure how I discovered the place, but somehow I became a regular. Most of the waitstaff know what to bring me. (#33, Beef, Sweet Tea.) Once I was there and about a quarter of the people in there were people I told about the place. It warmed my heart.

Messy Ecclesiology Revisited...

This morning Terry Esau returned to speak at UBC. For reasons that are obvious to many, I have kept his books at arms length, and probably will continue to, although I believe what he has to say to all of us is vital. But that is neither here nor there. After church I had the opportunity to speak with him briefly. He asked how I think things have been at the church since Kyle's death, and I was honest. He seems like someone who understands the multivalent nature of church, so I felt free to share with him that the past four and a half years at UBC have been at times a fountain of life, and at times a drain on life... sometimes simultaneously. The tragedy of Octbober 2005 didn't cause the messiness of humanity that flows through our corporate blood, but in many ways it ripped off the facade that may have been hiding it. We realized the truth in our words... We are full of earth and dirt...

In the middle of some of that earth and dirt I poured my frustration into things such as THIS.

But like any good and healthy teenager, UBC is growing. Both as a body, and as individuals. Earth and dirt and an inordinate amount of narcissism is still lingering, as it has lingered in churches and people for years. But occasionally you can wipe the mess aside and see something underneath the grime that may have the potential to be shiny again someday. Tonight we met for a town hall meeting, full of exciting conversations. And I am glad. I'm glad that people from a disparate range of backgrounds and passions spoke up. I'm glad for church leadership on the stage and in the crowd for being intentional. I'm glad to be in such a place.
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Elsewhere I have written about the little church building that I grew up in. Because of the hard work and dedication of many in that church, it has been preserved and now doubles as a fellowship hall (where the old sanctuary was) and bedrooms in the back for disaster situations (inspired by Katrina.) This weekend I came home for an anniversary party and stepped foot in that building for the first time in over fifteen years. Other than a few cosmetic changes and the removal of pews, the place still looks pretty much like it did.

I snuck away from the crowd and went roaming the building. It's a cliche, I know, but it seemed so much smaller than I had remembered. What seemed like a long cavernous back hallway when I was a child turned out to actually be a narrow walkway between rooms as an adult. I made my way back to the nursery. Although the rooms were converted into small living corners, they remained quite like I had remembered.

It was quiet. The murmur of the party in the distance made me know reality was still in full force. But in that hallway I heard myself growing up. I heard children playing and songs being sung. I heard teenagers being alternately rebellious and hopeful, glib and giddy.

I realized how small that hallway was and thought, all church hallways are small. Even the big ones. There's only so much space and you are going to have to bump into each other if you are going to navigate your way around. Sometimes the bumping can be uncomfortable, but you do it anyway. You do it because you have chosen this people called The Church. In this choosing you have been caught by them and will go forth with them.

Stories you have likely heard...

Like all of us, I have stories. Mine are no more or less interesting than yours. And like some of your stories, some of my stories get more polished and expand with each telling. There are a handful of mine that are likely beginning to cause eyes to roll among my close friends when I begin them. Here are a couple...

-- There is a certain somewhat famous indie rock band that I have held a personal grudge against for almost a decade now. I will just call them Schmeisley.

I was in Dallas to see my old friend Josiah's band, Holland (now named the Lonely Hearts.) After stopping by the Gypsy Tea Room to say hi, me and a couple of other friends walked down the street in Deep Ellum to eat dinner at Cafe Brazil before the show began. While waiting to be served I overheard a conversation with the server and some girls at the next table. I heard the words from the table "We are from East Texas."

Number one rule about being from East Texas is that, when outside of East Texas, if you hear the words "East Texas," your ears perk up. (Actually, the number one rule is that you should always pour spreadable butter in your salsa at Mexican restaurants, but for the sake of the story, I have changed rule number one.)

My ears perked up, and I joined the conversation. "East Texas, I'm from East Texas! What town are y'all from?"

The girl rolled her eyes and responded, annoyed-- "Well, we lived in Eustace for a while, but now we live in Tyler."

I freaked out. "Eustace! I grew up around Chandler and Brownsboro!"

There are only around 800 people in Eustace. There are only about 879 people who have ever heard of Eustace. It's a small club, so I was excited to be part of it, if only by proximity.

More rolled eyes from the girl... "Ok," before she deliberately shifted her shoulders away from me in an effort to stop the conversation.

Rule number two about being from East Texas is that you get excited and talk folksy with fellow East Texans. Rule number 2.2 is to lose the pretense. You can run as fast and hard as you can away from Cedar Creek Lake and Kickapoo Creek, but their mud will always be on your heals.

I shook it off, finished eating, then went to the concert. About mid way through the show one of the guys from Lonely Hearts, in between songs, said "Oh look, our friends from Schmeisley just came in." I looked back, and you guessed it: Nose-in-the-air girl.

One of my proudest accomplishments is having made it for years around indie-rock kids without actually having heard one of their songs. It is really sickening how long I can hold a grudge, even on such a minor thing.

-- Ok, now the Point of Grace story from my previous post.

For those of you who don't know, Point of Grace is kind of like the ABBA of Contemporary Christian Music. Before they made it big (by Christian Music standards, anyway) they performed at a student Conference in San Antonio. It was the twilight years of my bass guitar career and somehow I ended up being in the "worship band." (For those who don't know what this means, it is like the house band... but without any chance of getting a free beer out of it.)

We did our stuff before the Point of Grace Concert. They did their concert, complete with accompaniment track, and then decided they wanted to end the concert with worship, so they invited the band up to help them out. So they sang two or three songs with me on the bass guitar.

Thus, I was once the bass player for Point of Grace.

Music and Me...

I was the bass guitar player in a country band called "Last Minute Thang." And no, this is not a joke.

It was high school and I was a band student. Make that, a band nerd. I wanted to be in band since I was a young child at football games, back when the old rock gymnasium was still standing at the visitors end of the football field. I didn't understand how music worked when I was a kid, but I would go home and on a sheet of paper try to recreate what I heard. I drew lines. Small lines for low notes, longer ones for high notes. The next day I would try to recreate the song in my head by looking at the paper. I was obsessed.

Then the glorious year came-- Sixth Grade. About the only thing I can remember good about sixth grade was beginning band. I was a trumpet player, and I was good. Well, good for a sixth grader. By tenth grade my teeth needed braces, which made it painful to continue playing the trumpet, so I switched to Tuba.

Yes, I was a Tuba player. Two years All-State.

Like I said, band nerd.

Sometime in high school a jazz band formed and I learned how to play the bass guitar. I actually learned on an old upright bass. I was not naturally talented at anything, I just practiced hard. Because of this lack of natural talent, I didn't play any instruments, including the bass guitar, by ear. I simply knew how to read music and recreate it on the instrument.

The upright bass became an electric bass. Then, as the Brad Paisley song says, I grabbed a few good buddies, and we started a band.

We played at a few country churches and at the Chandler Cherokee Pow Wow. We played covers of popular country songs. Garth Brooks, Clint Black, and Garth Brooks. (We listened to a lot of Garth Brooks.) At the churches we played old gospel favorites. Beulah Land, Amazing Grace, Beulah Land. (Beulah Land was popular among the little old ladies.)

And then our Footloose moment came. We were about to play at the Winona Shindig, a place that helped a lot of small regional acts get their start. We were shut down when the father of our drummer and lead singer, a fundamentalist Baptist pastor, found out that there would be dancing and alcohol at the Shindig.

Country Music glory was derailed forever.

I continued to play the bass for a bit longer. Early college in the early 90's was the "Praise and Worship Revolution," so I tinkered with the bass guitar. I was actually the bass guitar player for a Christian group Point of Grace. For two songs anyway, but that is another story altogether.

Whenever I run into an old friend from home one of the first things I get asked is if I still play the Tuba or the Bass Guitar. The Cross Canadian Ragweed song rings true-- You're always 17 in your home town. But the truth is that I haven't touched a musical instrument in years. I'm not sure I'd know what to do. But that is ok with me. That was a whole other life, a whole other person. I've got other things to work on now...

Ash Wednesday...

Have mercy Father/ On me your son/ Just a damned old sinner/ and ashamed of things I've done/ I beg forgiveness/ For the prayers I've said/ And the lies that burn like coals upon my head.-- From Fathers and Sons by Brian Douglas Phillips

Today is Ash Wednesday, one of those days on the church calendar where I try to pretend that I am an old-pro at all this stuff that I was in the dark about for the better part of my life. But that is, of course, a complete lie. I am to the point where I can think about sin and death and ashes and moving into a season of death and resurrection, but I am still thinking about that smudge on my forehead. I used to joke about how unfortunate it was that UBC's Ash Wednesday services were at night, so we can't go a whole day without people seeing the ashes on our heads. You know, because that is what Ash Wednesday is about... letting people know about my piety and attentiveness to grace.

But I am no pious one, and have awful trouble being attentive to grace. I am frail, prone to long extended bouts of narcissistic obsession. I am slothful in my speech and with my time. I have done, and I have left undone. Nothing more than ashes, and to ashes I will return. But out of the ashes...

An Open Letter to Chris Seay and the Twenty or So People Who Clicked "Like" on his "Open Letter to the Regents of Baylor University"...

I get it. I reacted the same way as you. When I heard the news, my Facebook status read...

The "Baylor Family" has complained that its past leadership has been too divisive. Now it appears that Ken Starr, one of the most divisive characters in recent U.S. history, will be named Baylor's next president. Wow.

Like most of us who posted yesterday morning via blogs, notes, or status updates on Facebook, I wanted to be on top of the news. Like a cable news network full of ideologues, I wanted it known that I understood the greater implications of what this all meant before the next guy did. I understood the history of Ken Starr,of the Baylor controversies, and of what it takes to be a leader that unifies a divided constituency. I understood Ken Starr was not this guy.

Then the support from Mark Osler began making its way through the blogosphere. And then from Nadine Strossen, the long time president of the ACLU. Then President Bush, the one that all the progressives are now calling "the good one." Later I read that he endorsed President Obama's first choice for the U.S. Supreme Court, Sonya Sotomayor.

The tidbits kept trickling in and I realized that I may have been one of the only of my Facebook friends who had read the Starr Report, but beyond that, I didn't know a damn thing about the guy. What revealed itself throughout the day was the fact that Kenneth Starr is a polarizing and divisive for two reasons. a.) In a handful of high profile cases, he has been on the unpopular side of history. b.) People like you and me say he is.

The problem with prematurely labeling someone as divisive is that it infects the conversation. It demands people take sides before there are even any sides to be taken. On top of that, the supposed "divisive" person is faced with an added burden of proving they are not so on top of the already arduous task of the job set before them. It is unfair, and unChristian. You are a pastor and a public figure. I am a student studying to be the same. Regardless of whether we like it or not, we are always teaching. In this case we have taught that it is ok to cast judgement on someone we do not know, provided we inoculate ourselves from criticism by offering a tepid support for the decision to elevate that person to a position of leadership.For this I believe we all owe Judge Starr an apology and the benefit of the doubt.

I am a Lost fan as are you. But when it comes to the conversations about the show I am, well, lost. All the twists and intricate nuances do not interest me. Destiny or Choice? Boring. Plot doesn't fascinate me in Lost because there is always going to be something new around the corner. A hatch, a smoke monster, a wheel that throws you to last week. For me, these serve one purpose-- To reveal a character. Both what is deep within a character, and what is between characters. I am enthralled by the looks people give, by why they are angry or why they are scared, why they react one way in one situation and another way in another. In Lost, the past is essential, but there is always a new present to reveal that there is no such thing as a one-dimensional character. Most people contain multitudes, and all of them deserve the opportunity to make the most of a new reality.

Let's all give Judge Starr that opportunity.

Rugged Belief...

Your heart's on the loose
You rolled them seven's with nothing to lose
And this aint no place for the weary kind
-- Ryan Bingham's The Weary Kind (From the Movie Crazy Heart.)

As children they taught us to pray, "God is great,God is good, let us thank him for our food, Amen." This worked its way deep down in us and taught us an important lesson: God is, in fact, good. And it was easy to believe, especially where I grew up. The pine trees reached the sky and the sky seemed to go on forever. Crime was low, friendships plentiful, and the preacher always had a half-stick of gum ready for the children at the end of the church service. How could God not be good?

And then it all got complicated. Acne and weird body hair, girls that wouldn't pay attention and guys who wanted to fight you. Car payments and collection agencies. And eventually, words like Cancer, AIDS, and death got attached to the names of people we knew. We still kept saying "God is good," but slowly the question began to work its way out of us, "Really? Is God good?" The puzzle pieces just didn't seem to fit.

A few of us rejected the God piece altogether. The realities on the ground seemed to be proof that either God was a fairy tale or that Bette Midler was right, God really was just watching us from a distance.

Some of us tried to force the pieces together. We developed a language that polished off the harsh realities of life. We smiled our best Joel Osteen smile and said everything was ok. Difficult times were just illusions. Devastating life circumstances were no longer cause for lament, but "opportunities to rejoice." Funerals became "celebrations of life," and the answer to "How are you doing" was always "blessed," no matter how much shit we were covered in. (It's a wonder we marveled when others accused people of faith as having their heads in the sand.)

Others of us turned God into a puppet master, calling the shots and micromanaging the universe. The universe was created in six days, God has one perfect plan for your life, and don't whine because "He is in control." This was perhaps the easiest to embrace because it took all responsibility for our lives away from us and allowed us to dictate the people God looked down upon.

Through it all, the two-pronged mystery of a good God coupled with a harsh world got lost in the garage sale. But some of us are looking for it again.

Recently I was a participant in a time of prayer. We made a few confessions of faith, each repeated by verbalizing the words "God, you are good." We were then encouraged to say prayers for our selves, our community, and our world. Each prayer was followed by a collective "God, you are good." The Haitian earthquake... God, you are good. Death of a loved one... God, you are good. Estrangement and disownment... God, you are good.

It was painful.

How can we be honest about all that we see in the world and still believe in a good God? I don' know, but we do. I suppose it may be because one does not negate the other. King David knew this, and gave us the Psalms as a guidebook for embracing tragedy and God at the same time. The pain and the hope mixed together. Both were acknowledged, neither ignored.

Today after church there were quite a number of us at Mi Tequila, one of my favorite places in Waco. A few of us have become regulars, and many more joined us today. I looked around and thought about how much I loved all these people, the ones who have shared life with me, the ones who are relatively new, and the ones I have just met. We were all there, together. There was something normal, boring, and extremely holy about those moments. But then a tinge of sadness overtook me as I recalled what a good friend of mine said to me shortly after the death of my friend Kyle... What is so horrible about this is that it is just going to keep on happening. We are all just going to keep on dying. All of us are going to have to keep burying each other until there is no one left to bury.

None of this negates hope. We still embrace the ultimate reality that everything will be made right at an appropriate time. But we shouldn't allow that fact to sweep us away too soon. The gospel is bad news before it is good news.

This is hard and requires rugged belief. Annie Dillard said that if we really believed the words we said in our worship, instead of coming to church in our Sunday best, we would put on pads and crash helmets. Life is hard, God is good, takes what some would call guts, others would call something else.

This ain't no place for the weary kind.

Ramblings...

The sun came out today just in time to see itself set. As I was driving over the 17th street bridge I could see a faint glimmer bouncing off the downtown buildings to my right. It disappeared over the horizon as quick as it came out from behind the clouds.

I thought about this city. There are pockets of life-giving activity all around, yet it is possible blend in and fade away. Untold numbers of people likely do just that. Some do it by choice, while others agonize at their loneliness. Caught in the crossfires between Baylor social status, class, and the ubiquitous religious conversations, this can be a lonely place.

I am often alone, yet rarely lonely. I am a skillful traveler of the road that journeys from introvert to extrovert. I function well in crowds, can charm he socks off of old ladies, and have become somewhat adept at the well timed witty remark among a table of friends. But I also love my alone time. I need it. I need to be able to look at the just arrived yet soon to vanish sun and to sit with the image for hours and try to figure out what it means.

I suppose it means this-- It reflects off of what it will. It gives us all the opportunity, if only for a brief moment, to see the angles, to imagine what it means for light to break through the darkness, to illuminate the faces of those who would be close to us. It also shows us the way home.

Birds and Rocks...

I logged many hours as a child at Lamplighter, the preschool that nurtured within me a love of people and an independent spirit. My parents both worked, so me and my sister were there from a very young age. I had the rare experience (these days, anyway) of being with friends from the time we were toddlers until the present. I suppose you could judge families for not having a parent stay home with the children, but as for me, I wouldn't have had it any other way.

I remember many things about Lamplighter. The tire fort, the old boat, and the sandbox. At an early age I remember helping the teachers paint ceramic zoo animals, that stayed on the front porch of that old building until just a few years ago. And then there were the field trips. The school owned a white van that it used to transport us to various places. The seats in the van folded down into a flat surface so more kids could fit in, without seat belts, of course. Like many things from my childhood, this would make adults recoil in horror today.

One place that old white van often took us was to the swimming pool at Sportsman's Paradise, a neighborhood on Lake Palestine whose name greatly exaggerates the reality on the ground. On one such trip to this pool, I had an experience that would shape how I viewed God for years to come. I was around four or five.

A friend of mine told everyone that he saw someone give someone else the finger. The children in the van, apparently experts at this type of behavior, responded "NO WAY!" I, on the other hand, had no clue what this meant. So I asked him what "giving someone the finger" meant, and he told me. It is where you point up with your middle finger while all your other fingers stay down in a fist. "Oh, yeah, I knew that."

But I didn't. And I was curious. So I did it. Silently, to myself, I held my hand close to my chest and "shot the bird." I thought I was being inconspicuous until I heard the girl sitting next to me gasp in terror. "Ahhhhmmmm, that's bad!!!" I told her it wasn't bad, it was just holding up a finger. At that moment a small rock flew into the open window and struck me just below my eye. As I grabbed my face in pain the girl leaned in and whispered in my ear, "I guess that is God punishing you."

And that is how I came to live much of my life in fear of a vengeful God waiting around the corner for me to do something bad.

But the same preschool where this happened was the same place that drug us to all those Vacation Bible Schools throughout the summers. It was here that we learned to value Scripture. This made it possible that I would someday read the words from 1 John... "There is no fear in love, but perfect love drives out fear."

I suppose as a minister, this is my job, to help people find this perfect love that drives out fear. If you get to know me, maybe you will see it. As your friend, I've also been known to raise a finger or two...

Musings on My Kind of Music...

In his 1998 autobiography simply titled Cash, The Man in Black makes a keen observation about the history of country music that is as true now as it was then. Unfortuanately, it will likely be true from here on out. He noted that there was a certain way of life that produced Country Music. Now, it is Country Music that produces a certain way of life.

The southern farmer, after hot days of back breaking work, would craft songs describing and lamenting experiences in the fields. The melodies, instrumentation, and tone were initially inherited from their Scotch-Irish forbears, but later mingled with the mournful sounds from black slaves (and later on urban blacks), and occasionally the dusty desperado music of the American west, to create a quintessential American art form.

Now there are hardly any southern famers, save those who work on large corporate farms. We listen to this music and try desperately to recreate the hardscrabble life from generations ago. When Willie Nelson and Merle Haggard sing the Townes Van Zandt classic Pancho and Lefty we no longer feel the immediacy and raw instinct that comes out of the line "He wore his gun outside his pants/ For all the honest world to feel." Instead we create a cult-like following around firearms and make up imaginary enemies out of people who supposedly want to take them away from us.

I think the reason many of us continue to listen to country music is because it provides us a window into when times were harder. It is escape music of a different kind. This says a lot about the value of all the things that make our lives easier, that we would want a form of music that harkens us back to a time when there would be much more dirt under our fingernails and a real reason to wear cowboy boots.

Fingerprints...

Many people have books that they reread every year. Mine is David Sedaris' Holidays on Ice. In one of the chapters he tells the story of the year he worked as a Christmas Elf at Macy's in New York City. I've read the book over a half-dozen times, and I laugh out loud every time.

He marvels at how customers in a retail environment somehow think of the exact same things to say when prompted. When Santa asked adults in passing what they wanted for Christmas, the men all said "A new car" and the women said "A new husband," almost without fail. Having worked in retail for over eight years, I can vouch for this phenomenon. If I ask a male customer wandering around looking like they are lost if I can help them find anything, more than half the time they will say "Yeah, my WIFE!," as the grab their stomach in absolute hilarious laughter. Or, if a bar code is not scanning properly, "Oh, I guess it's free!" David Sedaris says it best-- "When all is said and done, the police are right. It all comes down to fingerprints."

This is why I find the story of the guys getting into U.S.Senator Landrieu's office humorous. Apparently their goal was to disable the phones and catch the Senator's staff laughing and making fun of the constituents who can't get through to give their opinion on the health care bill. Having worked in the regional office of a U.S. Senator, I have a little secret-- Every office makes fun of the constituents who call. It isn't because they are stupid or uninformed. Some of them make wonderful points that fall in line with the beliefs of both the elected representatives and that person's staff. But rarely does anyone call with an original idea. A vast majority of the time the caller is reciting verbatim what their favorite liberal or conservative pundit said on the radio just five minutes before. And they get angry with you if they sense you are trying to get them off the phone to move on to the next unoriginal caller. I would usually achieve this by anticipating what they would say and verbalize it before they could.

People often ask me how different it is going back to seminary as an older adult. Here is one answer-- Any time I have what I consider an interesting or thought provoking idea, I no longer believe that the idea originated with me. This can be beneficial because, unlike many younger students, I see my education as being a journey of discovery, not MENSA practice. I may master something, but I'll never be able to lay claim on an idea that is solely my own.

This is one of those posts that has no good ending....

Being the Change (that may never come...)

Politicians and other assorted important people often choose Friday and Saturday nights to make statements or sign legislation that may be unpopular to the public at large. The idea is that the reporting wing of news organizations are running off a skeleton crew and it is more likely that the weekend surprise will be overlooked, or forgotten, by the time people start caring again on Monday morning. It is a very effective method of avoiding disdain.

I am not an assorted important person, or a politician, but this is my weekend surprise...

In the recent late night battles, I have been a member of Team Jay.

(Ducking the tomatoes and rotten eggs...)

Yes, it is true. I think Jay Leno is funny. I should have stood up for him weeks ago, but the barrage of anti-Jay statements on the web served to shame me into silence. But I will not be quiet, no, I will not be silent anymore.... la-la-yeah. Don't get me wrong, I think Conan is funny as well. In fact, he is funnier. Letterman is funny, but I feel like his is the type of humor that judges me. I feel laughed down upon by David Letterman. But Leno, I get. Old fashioned, everyman, humor. Yes, it doesn't take an intellectual heavyweight to appreciate Leno's middle-of-the-road comedy. But by the time his show comes on, my intellect has already done all it is going to do.

But this isn't a post about humor. It's about decision making that effects other people.

There is no doubt, Conan got screwed. But Jay got screwed as well. NBC execs made a gamble years ago that O'Brien's popularity would continue to soar while Leno's would go in decline. The first part of that gamble paid off, the second didn't. But rather than admitting a mistake and making a tough decision, they tried to have their cake and eat it too. And after they realized the cake was not very tasty, they still refused to admit a mistake and tried to cut the cake into smaller pieces, as if that would make any difference.

But this isn't a post about the late night wars. It's about the complete absurdity of so many people with money and power.

Here's what was shocking to me about the whole fiasco. Conan seemed to be completely taken aback at the incompetence of the higher ups at NBC, as if people in the upper echelons of power have a history of treating people with respect. He obviously has not been around the block very much.

I am, of course, making an unfair generalization. There are decision makers in business, churches, and politics who are genuinely good people who have the greater good always in view. There are managers of retail stores who listen to the concerns of both their associates and customers and refuse to speak the language corporate nonsense. There are school boards who honor the loyalty of long-term employees and who refuse to give ridiculous "We've decided to go in another direction" statements when they decide not to renew a contract. There are politicians and church leaders who refuse to call things any other thing than what they are.

Of course, I am not talking about anyone or situation in particular. :)

I guess the great dilemma is trying to figure out the right balance between being fatalistic and proactive. When do you try to become a part of the change, and when to you realize that things never change?

These are things I'm still trying to figure out as I ramble on...

Notes from the Supermarket...

I've noticed the following things about my trips to the grocery store.

-- If you grew up in the south, and I include East Texas in that, you call them "buggies," not "shopping carts." I often say "shopping cart" now, and feel like I am betraying my heritage every time I utter the words.

-- The fancy cheese case is for people in a higher socioeconomic class than I belong to. This is not to say these cheeses are necessarily more expensive than others, though some are. It is just to say that I browse the fancy cheese case and think "If I made more money and lived in a certain kind of house and hung out with a certain type of person (English professors,) then I would purchase some of these cheeses."

-- Saturday nights are the best nights to shop. Sunday nights are the worst.

-- The best time to shop at the Wooded Acres H-E-B is between 6:30 and 7:00 a.m. Both the night and morning shifts are working, and there are hardly any customers. Oh, and the stocking-guy with the huge Afro is still working, and I've been watching that hair grow for years. It is probably about a foot and a half tall now, and I am not exaggerating.

-- White people at the grocery store are more likely to flirt and play peek-a-boo with black babies than with any other race of babies. I began to notice this a while back, because I do this. Today I asked my friend and coworker Nesha, who is black, about this and she agreed. She said that it was probably because we thought they were little monkeys, then told me she was just kidding when she realized I was beginning to feel like David Duke. My theory was less racist, but still didn't make me feel any better. I think it is a White Guilt thing. The white adult plays peek-a-boo with the black baby in an effort to tell the black parent "I am o.k. with you being here in the same place with me. I am not like the other white people you know. Oh, and sorry for history." Nesha agreed. She also said it was because black babies are cuter than white babies. I was glad she said that, because white people have been saying it for years, but unsure if it was acceptable to acknowledge in public.

-- At the checkout line, I refuse to use the plastic-divider-stick-thing. I believe that the amount of space between my groceries and those of the person in front of me should be sufficient to let the cashier know where one customer's items end and mine begins. If you ever want to see people freak out, you should try this. It is entertaining to watch the people in front of you get anxious that they are going to end up purchasing one of your items. About nine times out of ten they will put the stick behind their things in a passive aggressive statement that seems to say "I am NOT buying your stuff for you!!!!"

Bob...

One of the greatest things anyone ever did for me was to lecture me about a very specific unhealthy belief of mine. I do not mean by this that he sat me down and gave me a good talking to. By "lecture" I mean that he created an actual lecture dismissing the merits of my belief, and delivered it to a college class that I was enrolled in, and present at.

What is difficult about growing up in the Bible Belt is that if you are a Christian, there is no way really to distinguish yourself. And how can you be a functioning adolescent or young adult without distinguishing yourself? Some stood out by disowning the faith of the surrounding culture altogether. These were the rebels. Others, like myself, embraced a kind of pietistic Fundamentalism. It wasn't enough for us to just go to church or to pray or to read our Bibles. We had to "go deeper."

Going deeper meant that we didn't watch certain movies, say certain words, or go to certain parties. It meant that we wore shirts depicting Jesus on the cross with the caption reading "This Blood's for You," as a parody of a famous beer commercial. The crucified Christ as cartoon.

Perhaps nowhere did this need to "go deeper" manifest itself in our lives than in the area of music. Early in high school I remember a youth camp speaker (who is now an icon among many Evangelical college students) suggest that if we wanted to be a "real" Christian we would begin to give up certain kinds of music. By late high school and early college this war on "secular" music was in full force, and I was a faithful foot soldier. By "secular" we meant any song that contained more than three chords and didn't talk about Jesus as your lover or how God is really cool.

It all came to a head the summer after my freshman year in college. At the Baptist camp I had worked at for several years, I found a couple of like minded friends and we, in effect, became the God Squad. We read our Bible and prayed more intensely than the others who "just didn't get it." What IT was, I'm not sure we could have told you, other than that it was something the others didn't get. We didn't go to rated R movies, say the horrid words "crap" or "dang," and we certainly didn't listen to the ungodly "secular music" that everyone else listened to.

In the midst of experiment in holiness, I alienated many of the people who were close to me. I also nurtured a destructive (and heretical) view of God and the world. Loving God and loving my neighbor as myself was no longer relevant. Denying what others embraced was what mattered. Some of you know what I am talking about. If you don't, be assured that my story is not unique among young evangelicals.

Luckily for me, though, word got back to Bob Mayfield about my summer exploits in Super Spirituality. Bob was the director of the Baptist Student Ministry at Tyler Junior College, where I was a student. At that time the College offered Bible courses, presumably, since it was a public school, from a nonsectarian bias. But the only people qualified to teach these courses were the directors of the various Christian groups on campus, and Bob just happened to be one of these people. Being involved in the BSM, I figured taking a class from him would be a safe adventure.

One of the first class lectures was about how much he loved what others deemed to be "secular" music. He told us that if we are Christians and believe, as the great hymn says, that "This is our Father's World," then we should be open to seeing the work of God all around us. The creativity with which people of all faiths (and no faith) make music is a fingerprint of God, whether they or we know it or not. He had a wide range of records and CD's from his library and as he was giving his lecture, he would sample different ones. That day we heard from James Taylor, The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Willie Nelson, Ray Charles, Billie Holiday, and The Who. Even some gospel greats got thrown into the mix, like his favorite singer to impersonate, Vestal Goodman. He said that if we couldn't see the hand of God at work in the great music of our time, then we couldn't see God at work anywhere.

My classmates probably had no clue why we were receiving this lecture in a nonsectarian Bible class. I had no doubt why, for Bob's eyes were aimed at me throughout the entire hour. And as if to communicate that I was correct in my assessment, Bob ended the class with a lively "Any questions, Craig?" I, slouched in my chair, defeated, had no questions at all.

Last November, just before Thanksgiving, I drove to Tyler to say my final farewell to Bob, who died suddenly of a heart attack. He left behind his dear wife Pam and a son, Max, who had been adopted from Russia a few years earlier. He also left behind many students like me, to whom he taught that the quickest route to true holiness is to embrace what it means to be truly human. The soundtrack for my trip down Highway 31 was Michael Jackson, Merle Haggard, The Fray, Dixie Chicks, and Red Hot Chili Peppers. Oh, and a little Rich Mullins to boot...

There's people been friendly
But they'd never be your friends
Sometimes this has bent me to the ground
But now that this is all ending I want to
Hear some music once again
'Cause it's the finest thing
That I have ever found

_________________________________________________

(I wrote another post a few years ago about Bob's impact on my life. Of all the blogs I've written, it is one of the few that I have had continual positive feedback about. You can read that post HERE.)

Lost...

"Sooner or later/ We'll look back on everything/ And we'll laugh about it/ Like we knew what all was happening" -- Michael Tolcher's Sooner or Later

When it comes to the family of Lost viewers, I am cousin Oliver. Late to the game. I spent last summer and fall catching up, but I still feel like a third wheel. I know what is going on and am emotionally invested, but I have not spent years stewing in the nuanced meanings and conspiracy theories as have my Oceanic sistren and brethren. But I am still a part of the family, and excited about the family reunion that will be going on in just a couple of hours.

I've learned a couple of things from my new found Lost obsession. One was adequately expressed in THIS NEWSWEEK ARTICLE from a few weeks ago. The author posits that there are two kind of Lost fans, and they roughly correspond to the ways different people approach faith. The first group will be entirely unsatisfied if a single mystery of the island is left unexplained. The smoke monster, Claire's disappearance, Adam and Eve-- all must come to an adequate resolution. The second group has no such expectation. These mysteries serve no other purpose than to illuminate the public and private lives of the characters. They move the plot along, but they are not the point. I fall in the second group. I'm more interested in Hurley finding peace, Sun finding Jin, Sawyer finding community, Kate finding Jack (and Evangeline Lilly finding me,) than I am in any answers to questions. I suppose this is how I approach my faith as well, but this is not a post about faith. (Or is it?)

The second thing I have learned is this. As I was going through my Lost marathon last summer, my friend Josh (who loved so much that he was more omniscient than me) would call and ask me questions in mock excitement. "Craig, what do you think about that SMOKE MONSTER!," or, "Man, that hatch is FREAKY CRAZY isn't it?!" Through conversations with him and others I realized the point of this teasing-- What seems important at any given time can often seem insignificant later. The episode when John Locke was looking for some kind of meaning was indicative of this. Pounding on the door of the Hatch, weeping over Boone's death, the light burst open and shone brightly in the darkness. This was momentous. Where did the light come from? What did it mean? Was it an alien? What was it? But after the story moves on (and we discover Desmond, one of my favorite characters,) the Hatch just doesn't seem like that big of a deal. There are new mysteries to discover.

I suppose something about life can be said about this. Be comfortable with mystery and the unanswerable. You don't have to know everything. Relax in the moment. One day you'll laugh all about it, like you knew what all was happening. And whatever you do, don't believe a word Benjamin Linus tells you. He's creepy.

The Stage...

There are only two movies on the hard drive of my computer.

One is Marjoe, the 1972 Academy Award winner for Best Documentary. It follows the last traveling revival of Pentecostal evangelist Marjoe Gortner. Marjoe had been preaching since the age of four. As a child his parents took him all over the country where he preached at old time gospel tent meetings and other ceremonies. He was touted as the youngest ordained minister in the history of the world.

There was only one catch. Marjoe was a fraud. When he was an infant his parents noticed his talent for mimicry. With dollar signs in their eyes they began to train him in the tools of the preaching trade. In meetings his mother would signal Marjoe to say a certain line or the take his sermon in a different place by crying out phrases common in these pentecostal meetings. "Yes, Lord Jesus," "Praise his Name," "Hallelujah," all guided Marjoe in his performance.

Marjoe continued the act well into adulthood, until a crisis of conscience drove him to expose his deception. So he assembled a team of filmmakers to follow him around on his last tour. Behind the scenes he shared with them all his secrets, how he gets people to speak in tongues, to give their lives to Jesus, and to open up their wallets. He told them what certain religious phrases meant and how to get proselytizers to leave them alone by saying "Brother, I'm washed in the same blood as you!"

In the end, I was left fascinated by what an amazing con artist Marjoe was. (And shocked that this movie came out years before the evangelical scandals of the 80's and 90's, but these incidents still took the culture by surprised.

But more than this, I was left with a feeling that the fake preacher was not the only fraud under the big tent. Marjoe not only exposed himself, he exposed the gullibility and naivete of religious people who crave a human idol to look up to. (In some circles the impetus for this idol worship is "Leadership," but that is neither her nor there.) We can sometimes be discovered as hollow people.

The second movie on my hard drive is also a documentary that covers an adult performer who had been on stage since he was a child. It also follows this revered figure in the lead-up to what was to be his final set of performances. You guessed it. This is It.

Does it even need to be acknowledged any more that the Michael Jackson on stage was an entirely different person than the one off stage? We do ourselves a grave disservice when we attribute this fact to him as if it is odd when a public persona diverges from a private life. The disservice comes in the assumption that our lives are once of absolute integrity themselves.

I was struck by a couple of things in This is It. The first was the amount of work that went into being Michael Jackson. The lore of MJ was always that of an extra-human figure that fell from the sky with perfect dance moves and a groove to match. But the documentary tells a different story. One of the comments uttered by Jackson throughout the film was "This is why we rehearse." This was said after mistakes were made both by his dancers and himself.

The second was the amount of awe expressed by his young dancers. Michael actually meant something to these kids that was more than just the source of their paychecks. They saw their proximity to him as something of deep significance in their lives. Early on one guy expressed it clearly, through tears and a strained voice.

"Life is hard, right? And I've kind of been searching for something to shake me up a bit, and kind of give me a meaning to believe in something. And this is it."

Is Michael Jackson someone worthy of giving another person meaning? I suppose that is up to you to decide. But the question misses the point, doesn't it? Regardless of how we have litigated the life of Michael Jackson in our minds, it is hard to deny that his music and his moves did something that may be considered holy, which was to shock us into movement.

Whether these two performers were con artists on stage or off, they both spoke and lived vital truths about the human condition. Marjoe Gortner revealed just how small we can all be. Michael Jackson showed us that regardless of how small we are, there can always be found a reason to dance.