Suddenly Christian

One time, in the desert town of Antelope Valley, California, I was at this silent auction fundraiser thing for a charity, and was so struck by the (28 x 24 inch) painting above that I took the leap and bid $80.00 for it. I thought it was a picture of some nuns and one man heading towards some sort of church or holy building. No one else leapt behind me; the picture was mine. When I went to pay for it afterwards, the auction people said, “How cool that you got this painting done by Muhammad Ali!”

That’s when I learned my new painting had been done (and signed!) by none other than The Champ himself. Who knew The Greatest could paint? And judging from this picture, I know, not many would think it still. But I like it. It’s driven by a fresh, elemental, playful power that I find moving.

Not unlike its painter! (Oh: the white spot on the picture is just glare from my flash. Who am I, Cartier-Bresson?)

Some 15 years after acquring this picture I became a Christian. Then I wondered if it was right for me to leave hanging in my house art that I had come to understand was distinctly Muslimish. I sort of fundamentally reject incorporating into my evaluation of a work of art its subject matter or explicit “message”; I’m interested in the aesthetics of a piece, and not much else. Still, I didn’t want God to ever say to me, “Great having you on board, Johnny! Too bad we have to send you to hell now because you’re too stupid to know you shouldn’t hang Enemy Art on your walls.”

But then I thought, “Enemy art. That’s so stupid. Islam isn’t the enemy of Christianity. Evil is the enemy of Christianity.”

But then I thought, “Yeah, but a lot of Christians do  think Islam is the enemy of Christianity. And you’re a new Christian—what do you know? And historically, Islam and Christianity haven’t exactly gotten along like the blood brothers I think they actually are. A lot of Christians think Islam is evil, ya’ know.”

Then I thought, “Remember that fight between Muhammad Ali and George Foreman? I love George Foreman. The Rumble in the Jungle! Man, Don King was a pain.”

And then I heard a bell ding. ”Wow!” I thought. “Just like in a fight!” Except instead of the next round, this bell meant the chocolate-chip cookies I had in the oven were ready. So then I started thinking less about world theology and history, and more about eating freshly baked chocolate-chip cookies.

Anyway, up there’s my painting done and signed by Muhammad Ali. Blasphemous Imagry, Excellent Painting Done by One of the World’s All-Time Greatest Athletes, or Not A Bad Way To Promote World Peace? You be the judge!  I’d do it, but I’m late picking my wife up from work.

Yesterday my wife Cat and I were driving on the freeway when she said, ”The slogan of the truck we just passed is ‘Always Late.’”

“Take a picture!” I said. ”Take a picture!”

Being a Superior Human Being Who Always Gets It, Cat immediately started scrounging around in my bag for the camera I keep on me for those occasions when life insists I make fun of it.

“Got it!” she said, pulling out and holding aloft my Kodak Cynico-Matic.

I cleverly maneuvered alongside Mr. Party Tardy; Cat leaned over my lap to get the picture; I tried not to cry as she used my crotch to steady her elbow; and voila: the image above.

So what’s the deal with that slogan? Does the owner of the truck have it on his business cards? Is his big sales pitch, “You can count on me to be late! If I’m supposed to be there Tuesday noon, look for me Wednesday morning! If then! Now where’s that produce you want hauled?”

And what’s with the Evil Death motif? The truck and trailer—both painted Ominous Purple—were festooned with skulls and crossbones. It was like a truck driven by Cap’n Jack Sparrow’s son, Thrasher Sparrow, who’s into metal. Or maybe the driver’s the ultimate fan of the band Death Cab for Cutie. Who knows?

Maybe the skulls aren’t meant to be scary. Maybe they’re supposed to show what this trucker’s customers look like by the time their delivery arrives.

That actually makes sense, because I could not drive slow enough to stay next to this truck—and I drive a Ford Focus.  When we first saw the truck we had just started up a long, slight incline on the road, and by the time Cat grabbed my camera, Mr. Purple Wane was so far behind us it was like he was driving in reverse. I basically had to park on the freeway and wait for him to catch up.

I used to be a Teamster; I loaded trucks, and knew a bunch of truck drivers. They were good guys. They took speed—”bennies”—to keep them awake: out of shape, grey haired, big rig drivin’ pill poppers. Maybe whomever was driving this truck was the son or daughter of one of those guys. Makes sense.

(Sort of related post o’ mine: Grilled by a Truck.)

Lately single women have been asking me, “John, what do guys want? I’m a pretty, intelligent, good-hearted girl who has a lot to offer any man. But all the men I know or meet invariably end up having some sort of congenital aversion to anything even vaguely resembling long-term emotional commitment—to settling down, getting serious, getting married. Why is that? I’m a fun, sweet person. I make my own money. I have lots of rewarding relationships in my life; I know how to be in a good relationship. I’m a mature, grown-up person. And I’d like to get married someday. Doesn’t everyone? Don’t guys? Isn’t that the whole point—finding that special someone, falling in love, getting married, settling down, having children, growing old together? Isn’t all that, like, the Grand Prize of life? Then why is it that if a girl on a date so much as scratches an itch on her ring finger, the guy she’s with acts like she’s sprayed him with mace? Who do these men think they’re going to get involved with, if not one of the women they actually meet?  What is it that men want? What in the world are they looking for? Do they even know?”

When women ask me this, I usually answer with, ”Do I know you? Anyway, great speech. Tough questions! Well, this is my stop. Good-bye—and good luck!”

But that’s not helping anyone. So the next time a woman poses me this puzzler, I’m going to stay on the bus until I’ve given her my real answer, which is this:

“Men find unappealing in women the same thing women find unappealing in men: Need. People are not attracted to the emotionally needy. (Actually, there are lots of men out there who are attracted to emotionally needy women, but such men—men who seek out women over whom they can exercise power—are dangerous creeps from whom all women should flee.) The fact that you’re registering that whatever man you’re with is resisting a serious relationship means you’re definitely sending that man messages that you do want to be in a serious relationship. That’s not good. You might as well hang a sign around your neck that says, ‘Desperate! Please Help! At Least Compliment My Hair!’

“You can’t live your life waiting for a man to rescue you. Wanting a man to make your life whole is the one thing guaranteed to keep men from you. Because what wanting a man to make your life better means is that you, alone, aren’t good enough for you. It means that you find yourself inadequate. It really means—or really signals—that you don’t like you. And if you don’t like you, why should anyone else? No one knows you better than you do, right? You’re the expert on you. If you’re not satisfied hanging out with you, why would anyone else think they might be?

“There’s only one way to find Mr. Right, and that’s to stop looking for him. Looking for Mr. Right can only mean that you think you’re Miss Wrong, or Miss Not Quite Good Enough. You’re Miss Ing Something. Forget that. Stop worrying about meeting Mr. Right. Instead, start thinking of yourself as Miss Perfectly Okay By Herself. (Isn’t it interesting that we use the same word to indicate an unmarried woman as we do ’failure to obtain’? If unmarried women are called ‘Miss,’ then unmarried men should be called something like ’Flop,’ or ‘Err.’ So, for instance, if single, I would be Err Shore. Which is a lot like the German ‘Herr Shore.’ Hmm. Perhaps this explains World War II.)

If you really want to find Mr. Right, stop looking for him. Stop, in other words, waiting for someone to give you a life. Get your own life! Prove to the world, and to yourself, that you don’t need anyone to make you someone.

Life is one big paradox. And one of its biggest is that the only way to find Mr. Right is to genuinely and truly stop looking for him. Live your life. Get happy. Listen to God. That’ll keep you busy enough for this life, and beyond.

Other stuff I’ve written along these lines: Six Tests to Determine If He’s Mr. Right, To Single Women: Men. Don’t. Change., Top 10 Tips for Becoming an Ideal Husband, and What’s In A Word: The Truth Behind Men’s Personal Ads.  

Here’s a toy somebody donated to the thrift store today. Made of rock-hard plastic, it’s about twelve inches high. I was going to make a joke about how unsurprising it was that it looks brand new, since no one could have ever  played with it … but now I feel kind of sorry for ol’ … Horno. Or Zeetmo. Or Splacko. Or whatever in the world the poor thing’s name is.

(Oh—for the record, nothing on little … YowTao moves, or anything. And that weird slanty circle thing on his stomach isn’t a button, or anything you can turn or anything. It’s just … that.)

I don’t know what kid this toy used to belong to, but I sure do feel sorry for him. Or her. Or it.

So today I was sorting and pricing books at one of the thrift stores run by my wife. (Same as I was doing the other day, when I came across the book from which I excerpted the poem and scanned the image I then used for “The Dumb Soldier”/”George W. Bush Thinks Of His Soldiers”, a post o’ mine that, if you must know, I thought heartbreakingly poignant and discouragingly under-appreciated. But whaddaya gonna do?) While working through the books, I was thinking, “Wow. People sure are interested in sex, sexual roles, gender identification … all that. Well, duh. No surprise there. And Christians, of course, are famous for being a little too  worried about who’s doing what with whom.” (If you’re just joining us, this is the train of thought I hopped on with The Sexual Lives of Others: Like Catnip to Everyone—Even Christians.)

As I was thinking about this sort of thing, I was also mindlessly flipping through the books, checking for pen marks or ripped pages, or cash whatever. And at the moment  I was considering the wisdom of so many Christians spending so much time worrying about stuff like The Gay Agenda, I picked up and opened a Scholastic “Touch-and-Feel Book,” and saw staring back at me this:

That God. He thinks he’s sooooooo funny.

And he soooooooo is.

Two days ago I wrote a simple enough little piece (here) in which I rather cursorily addressed the question of whether or not I should attend the wedding of some gay friends. A preacher’s wife snorting coke during a televised Easter service wouldn’t generate as many comments as that blog post did. I wouldn’t have gotten any more responses if I’d written that I’d discovered absolute proof that Jesus was a schizophrenic Muslim magician. I guarantee you that in the time it’s taken me to write this, four more Christians have left comments on that post to the effect that Jesus hates sin, and would no sooner attend a gay wedding than he would assist Satan in trimming his hooves.

I went and checked. I was wrong: five Christians just left me a message along those lines. And that number will double by the time I’m through here.

Before I was a Christian, I thought Christians were definitely more focused on sex than they were anything else. Now that I am a Christian, I still kind of think that.

But so what? That’s just people, isn’t it? It doesn’t matter who you are—Christian, Hindu, Muslim, Jew—it’s a sure bet that in the course of any given day, you spend more time thinking about what other people are doing—and why, and when, and how, and with whom—than you do anything else. And there’s nothing particularly wrong or malevolant about that. Saved or not, we’re all first and foremost Social Creatures.

I do think, though, that it wouldn’t kill we Christians, when condemning Today’s Offensively Secularized Culture as often as God knows we do, to remember that we, right along with everyone else, are constantly and everywhere proving that we’re fairly fixated on what others are doing with their time, energy, and (most of all) sexuality.

Non-Christians are irresistibly fascinated by the behaviors, imperatives, and core motivations of others. So are Christians. So is everyone else in the world.

God can forgive us for how readily we surrender to our desire to be involved in the personal business of others. But it’s clear that he’s in no particular rush to cure us of that desire.

Today my wife Cat and I found out that the offer we made on a townhouse over which we’ve been ga-ga was accepted. (I wrote a bit about making the offer here.)

Below is a picture of our home to be. The tall part and everything to the right of it will be ours. It’s three stories, 1515 sq. feet, two-car garage, built in 2003.

The fall in housing prices has been a sheer blessing for my wife and me. You don’t even want to know what this place sold for in 2004.

Does anyone think I should or shouldn’t invite my gay friends to our housewarming party?

KIDDING!

The other day I was reading through Robert Louis Stevenson’s classic book of children’s poems, “A Child’s Garden of Verse,” when I came across the poem below. It’s entitled ”The Dumb Soldier.” Having read it, there was no way I could stop myself from imagining an alternative title to this poem being “George W. Bush Thinks Of His Soldiers.”

WHEN the grass was closely mown,  
Walking on the lawn alone,  
In the turf a hole I found  
And hid a soldier underground.  
  
Spring and daisies came apace;
Grasses hide my hiding place;  
Grasses run like a green sea  
O’er the lawn up to my knee.  
  
Under grass alone he lies,  
Looking up with leaden eyes, 
Scarlet coat and pointed gun,  
To the stars and to the sun.  
  
When the grass is ripe like grain,  
When the scythe is stoned again,  
When the lawn is shaven clear,
Then my hole shall reappear.  
  
I shall find him, never fear,  
I shall find my grenadier;  
But for all that’s gone and come,  
I shall find my soldier dumb. 
  
He has lived, a little thing,  
In the grassy woods of spring;  
Done, if he could tell me true,  
Just as I should like to do.  
  
He has seen the starry hours
And the springing of the flowers;  
And the fairy things that pass  
In the forests of the grass.  
  
In the silence he has heard  
Talking bee and ladybird,
And the butterfly has flown  
O’er him as he lay alone.  
  
Not a word will he disclose,  
Not a word of all he knows.  
I must lay him on the shelf, 
And make up the tale myself.

I’ve recently been invited to a couple of gay weddings. (I live in California, don’t you know—the land of fruits and nuts). So I asked myself the famous “What would Jesus do?” question.

Which led me to the Bible.

Which led me to this:

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You give a tenth of your spices—mint, dill and cummin. But you have neglected the more important matters of the law—justice, mercy and faithfulness. You should have practiced the latter, without neglecting the former. You blind guides! You strain out a gnat but swallow a camel. (Matthew 23:24),

this:

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You shut the kingdom of heaven in men’s faces. You yourselves do not enter, nor will you let those enter who are trying to. (Matthew 23:13),

and, most painfully, this:

“Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You travel over land and sea to win a single convert, and when he becomes one, you make him twice as much a son of hell as you are. (Matthew 23:15)

And so it seemed to me that I should go to the wedding of my friends, that Jesus would much prefer I put my love into action—that is, that I participate in the world, wherever it calls me to be—rather than staying at home, alone with my dogma, and showing no one any love at all.

But what do you think? Better to go the weddings, and thereby keep and enhance my relationship with my gay friends, or refuse to go, and probably irreparably damage those relationships? Cuz those are my choices.

Yesterday a reader wrote to ask, “John, would you comment on something I heard last night at church — that is, on the very real possibility that God uses people to deliver messages? The idea is that the delivery is usually made by someone who has no clue what the message means, to someone who is desperate for the message.”

Well, since you asked [hi, Dan!], I do think God uses people to deliver his messages. I think that’s the whole point of people. I think every person in the world is a walking, talking, mobilized broadcast tower for station WGOD, comin at ya, live and fulla jive, always burnin if the world is turnin. How else does God communicate with us, but through people? Through weather? Through animals, those adorable teases who always act  like they’re going to talk to us? Through hieroglyphics that magically appear on elevator walls? Sure, that would considerably liven up elevator rides—but no. That’s not how it works. When God wants to say something to us, he says it through the people in our lives.

And God, being God, always has something to say. To everyone. Through everyone. All the time. It never stops. God is never done communicating with any of us. The one message he never sends to any of us is “Oh, cool. You’ve got it all now. You’ve learned everything there is to know about my nature, will, processes, and ultimate purpose. Sweet! God out.”

Nah. God’s broadcasting to us, 24/7. And the medium of his ongoing message to us? That would be every single person whose path ever crosses our own.

Our job is to remember that, to make sure we focus in on and hear  the message we can be sure God is sending us whenever we engage another person.

And what message is that sure to be? What message is everyone always sending everyone else?

Love me. That’s what we’re all broadcasting to the world, every moment of our lives. Love me, love me, love, love me do.

And when God as Jesus was talking directly to us, what did he explicitly name as the supreme law, as the greatest of all  his commandments?

That we are to love our neighbors as we love ourselves.

Everyone, no matter who they are, or what other kinds of messages they seem to be bearing, is in fact delivering to us the exact same message from God: Love me, as God loves you.

All we have to do is listen.

Related Posts: Are the Great Commandment and The Great Commission Incompatible? and More On The Great Commandment vs. The Great Commission.