In the Name of "They're Christian"

This should not be taken as an essay or a position or a vignette. This is merely a rant.

Sometimes as a Christian in this tolerance-turning world we feel a sort of pressure to promote Christian art and Christian artists and chick-fil-a and any other person or company willing to slap a bible verse on a cup or close on Sundays or play Christian music or say that they pray or an athlete who points the proverbial finger to the heavens. And all this may be good in the ‘us not supporting sinfulness’ kind of way, but what’s the middle ground? How seedy does a great song or artist have to be to warrant a boycott, how unmerited does a Christian song or artist have to be to not forgive him because he or she sings or plays or writes for Jesus? It’s not that I necessarily have a problem with this first question as there are songs that I don’t listen to because they take me into darkness rather than lighting my way, and I think this list of songs is different for everyone but is surely not one that can be exclusively genre based or one that can be a list of songs to listen to because there are way too many edifying, powerful, bold, telling, and truthful songs out there that to create a list of ‘do’s is too small a thing. It’s this latter question that has been much the struggle for me as a 17 year old soon to be 13 year-running Christian school graduate with a church and family walling me in with whatever heaven, hell, punishment, forgiveness, judgment, or mercy they need too to keep me within those walls. For the most part I haven’t wanted to live outside of those walls but only because my ultimate goal is living inside God’s will and when that fits in the walls it works great and when it doesn’t...well…it doesn’t.      

 Neil Gaiman in a commencement speech said that his life was entirely centered on getting to the place (he called it the mountain) that he desired to go, and he said that sometimes he had to say no to good jobs because it would be taking him away from the mountain whereas if those jobs had come earlier he probably would have taken them because they still would have been closer to the mountain then where he was at that time, but sometimes those very good things if they are the wrong choice can be very bad things. Christian music, Christians in the arts, Christians in sports—it’s all wonderful…done right.

God is glorified when anyone raises their voice in praise to him— even so far as to promise that one day the rocks will cry out if we don’t. But does that mean every Christian ought to be a singer or a musician. Certainly every aspiring athlete that does their best does not make it to the pros, yet those that do get inflated to demigods and skyrocket to stardom on the wings of religion. Similarly, I feel that as Christians we forgive poor talent in the name of Christ when what we ought to be doing is praising Christ for those with talent and praying for these people to praise him as well. I am tired of turning to the Christian radio station to hear a 3 chord song screamed by an average singer with lyrics that are so shameful I’d think it was a different God. My Jesus is not a deity fitted with appropriate words only the explicit ones and the imaginary ones can get at his majesty so why do we forgive these artists for shanty songs? Because they said Jesus in it? Because they have a good testimony? Is that what we pay for? Because I’m tired of hearing Jesus’ name on bad art. Jesus is not the good that makes bad art not bad he is the good that makes sinful songs and sinful people’s actions reflect glory to himself. That’s my Jesus

Your Voice

I’m tired.
Tired of writing so many love poems for someone that doesn’t exist
Or at least for someone I don’t know yet.
So instead I’ll write about your voice.
I’ll write about how it is music
Music that drowns out my stuttering
You, you breathe like a symphony and you speak like a song
A sultry mix of strings you have yet to go wrong
When you talk with the wind each word is just strong
enough.
And when I reached for you in infinity and could pull out only this voice
You shattered me soon after I believe
With the sound of silence
With the evaporating sound of you not speaking
Into me
When you talk to me you take each piece
And with the intricacy of eternity you mold me back together
From the ends of eternity you gather me and fit me with myself
And that’s enough
For now
Because I have run out of dream to keep making things up
And your voice melts me
And then floods me with sweetness
Drowning
In a sea of your smile and your words
I haven’t to say if I lived before but I know not like this
Not like now
In each moment you’re here
Playing orchestras in my ear
Without fear
And part of me wants to kiss you
But then I’d have to bear the silence
With you not there to make such amends

As to open your mouth and fill me

With the one thing you can--

With your voice

Life's Short (especially if you're an ant)

I ran over the top of an ant hill today with my lawn mower. It was the 2^nd time in a row I had done so with purpose, though I run over it every week regardless in order to cut the grass. I sat and watched as hundreds of ants scurried from their caves widening small holes in the surface like an inverted meteor shower scampering on top of each other with a unity about them arming themselves to fix their fort (from my intruding blow) with alacritous speed and burdened backs. I came back around the circle of my side yard’s mowing circuit to see about half as many ants  as before still working like crazy even though I could no longer see the imprint of my tire in their mound. I thought about how disheartening it would be for the ant to work so hard to rebuild their fortress only for me to knock it down every 7 days on Saturday. Does the ant know this pattern? Can they predict when it’s coming?

The average ant lives only about 40 days which would allow them to see their hill destroyed only 5 times at what would feel like 12 year intervals for a human. I thought that maybe I shouldn’t feel bad about it (after I convinced myself that it may have been a little more vindictive than necessary). But then I thought that perhaps just once is enough to ruin a life. Even an ant’s.

The "Weed Culture"

I haven’t officially written on the subject of marijuana though I’ve had the conversation a myriad of times. This is not all I have to say but merely a small portion of a large and influential topic. I will begin by saying that I do think that it should be legalized, that I believe there are positive effects, that medically there are few negative effects. I am neither a Doctor nor a licensed professional in any related area and I can speak only from what I observe. I hope these claims allow you to keep reading for it’s mainly the smoker that I write.

Not once have I lit a cigarette or joint or cigar or pipe or sucked by any means any illegal substance. I do not write this as a fellow smoker but one having known a number. I write this knowing that this already lessens my credibility, but I hope you continue because it is that very feeling—the feeling that no one has the right to tell you differently, that I see as the real problem with weed. Marijuana does not necessarily hurt people. It ought to legalized however, for a different reason: because marijuana infiltrates people. It becomes all they can talk about. It’s a not-so-secret society of shared experiences that in this present state is special for their “moral resistance” and bold face defiance of government’s imposition on their personal proclivities. This is what is wrong: the weed culture. It has flourished because of its illegality and it has almost demanded its constituents to engage in its culture exclusively. The drug may not in and of itself take people away from functioning sober society but the culture almost demands it.

Like all secrets it becomes so much more glorious when someone else knows. But now, that someone else has turned into a society, one filled with long-boarders and beanies and cut-off jeans with Rastafarian shirts. Not to say that these any of these are bad, I possess many of the items but it has come to define a culture—one that everyone knows exists but no one can make assumptions about. How many old women must we stop to justify searching the one way suspicious passenger? If it bothers them then they should act less suspicious. The problem with this “Weed Culture” is that it centers on the ecstasy of being suspicious, the effervescence of flirting with the line of law. No one changes and pretends they aren’t a smoker because they enjoy being one. It is their identification, the group to which they call home. Most people can’t call one group home. Most people have a much harder time searching for people like them and growing themselves to make that happen. Weed offers an escape from this. It is an all unifying bond that allows anyone to fit in somewhere. This is nice; a high in life, but it can’t last. It doesn’t last. There is very little addictive in the substance yet the culture is nigh impossible to resist.

I believe that this government must relinquish its grip on controlling marijuana. They are doing an awful job and in an obstinate effort to remain stringent on their past rules they have allowed this culture to grow and grow and expand further and further into the youth of the country. I firmly believe that when my country steps in too close violating God’s laws that it should be dealt with passive or even violent resistance however, just because marijuana is not bad it serves no good and necessary purpose for me and while being a long-time proponent of legalization I’ve often wondered whether I would smoke or not, but I realize that my desire is only for the culture, that fitting in to a mold, and when that is removed I, along (I believe) with many others will move past the immaturity of weed. Some will move to other drugs but I refuse to believe I need them. I refuse to believe that my mind cannot reach the same level of depth on its own. My philosophies are no less certain sober than that of someone high. Weed now is grown up. It’s mature and idyllic like driving a car at 14 before you are  supposed to and not wrecking. But just because weed doesn’t wreck me doesn’t mean I need to get in the car. This maturity is façade. This whole culture stems out of insecurity and immaturity—considering ourselves less able than we are, rushing towards ease and comfort settling in anywhere whether than striving for somewhere.

If I had invented the moon

If I had invented the moon it would have been 3 times as big as the earth so that the Light would kiss everything. It would have been able to smile so that those who don't dream could close their eyes. It would shine through walls so that I never have to live in darkness, nor open my eyes and not see you. It would have earth orbit around it fast enough that we would feel like we're twirling, and the world would be a stage and nothing could stop me from watching your performance. It would be so bright that my dreams would become reality because I could not close my eyes. If I had invented the moon it would be weightless on a yo-yo string tied to my hand so that I could push it away only long enough to know how much I missed having it so close, and never push it far enough away that it can't come back nor push it so far as to erase that smile on its face when it comes flying back to share itself with me. If I had invented the moon gravity wouldn't exist and we could float to its surface as it shines through us and i could put out my finger and conduct you. I could charge you with the light of the moon. And in a way it would be only our light and though other's would see it, only we could feel it. And I would kiss you and it would shock you because we would be charged with each other; this light would be ours only, and from a million mile a way we could touch the same moon. But if I had invented the moon it would be all I could do and my imagination would never do the justice of inventing you.

I stood there (a second attempt at spoken word on wasting opportunities)

Rain fell that night

You and I dripped in the house

Sweat and summer rain formed puddles on the hardwoods but we didn’t care

It felt like kissing in a pool; the water in between your mouth and mine

I’d swim that ocean however long if your lips were on the other side

And we stopped and I saw that question in your eyes

I said, “don’t close your eyes I can’t bear not to see them

And I hope that’s not a tear

And it wasn’t,

You blinked and I kissed you

I missed you

My hands landed somewhere on your back I guess

Though I wish they were elsewhere.

I was feeling much now

You leaned in a little more and kissed me back

This time I stopped confused as to why a woman like you would want to do so

And you did so

You smiled unfreezing me my mouth dropping open

You numbed me and filled me flying inside

And I stood there.

I longed to love you and wondered how

But all you needed was me present, now

And I stood there

As you played the lead

And I not an actor more like a stage

You poured yourself into me and I let you go through

You poured out my ears and out my nose

You dribbled out of my mouth and fell like sand through my fingers

And I stood there

Later that night as you did all that you could do

You left as I stood in thought

And as I pondered,

You wandered

I wondered where

There

in your bed you fell exhausted, disheartened

As the rain washed nothing away

You loved that night

I thought that night

You cried that night

And I stood there

Did he really say no?

It’s a sweet irony—love. I don’t ever claim we had it, just that one night, that first night—and what can you even say of sex in a bed, that conventional bullshit. It’s meaningless—perfect only for drunks in need of comfort and old married couples grown out of spontaneity. Despite this, our first time soars with the wind lost among whorring clouds—a terrible night with too much passion thundering the entirety of my mind. Affairs can do that I suppose. Increase passion. Such is the case with filling any need. And here I am on the ground looking up and you seem to be flying through me that stolid expression. Am I a ghost? Like a tissue for your adulterous sneeze yet unable to wipe away your tracks— like water in need of washing itself. My knees burn from this rug (I don’t know why in hell you keep this ratty thing). Will you not say anything? I come at you begging at your door; in your house, but you can’t give me a response. You stand there leaning on that vomit of a sofa with that contorted and grotesque face of confusion. (You never like to be confused—you can’t be confused, you run too fast from it.)

Oh now you want to talk, now you think you have some words—no. You don’t think this has been hard for me. That every phone call I want only to hear your voice at the other end, how when it doesn’t come I hate myself for hope. This isn’t easy! Kneeling  alone with you standing right there as like a mediocre tapestry my life and my dreams unravel themselves and sweep hope in the dust pan and recycle my future—our future. I don’t know her, how she makes she feel, how she does the things that I can’t, how she says the things that I won’t, how she makes love to you. Wake up! O don’t give me that look, with the red in your cheeks, 17 months ago that was you and me and those cheeks were not red, that mouth was not so dangling. What has she done to you; that girl, you deserve at least a woman. Or maybe that is the biggest irony of all, me on my knees I think all stand up so I can you look in your blank eyes. That’s what you deserve, to be penetrated by a capable mind, to be looked at by someone able to judge. So I’ll have a look not that you’ll mind nor could you say so if you did.

Still no response but that half opened maw?[she says with a laugh and a grin] However strenuous my earlier efforts forgive my mendicancy for I have found myself no longer in the emptiness of your eyes. Your smiles corners no longer contain me.

Thank you I guess, I’ll just go ahead and go

Wake up (and get a new rug),

lock the door behind me

 give that little girl a hug