Dear God #1

Dear God,

I was taught that you know everything; the term I believe is omnipresent – but you already know that, right? Anyway, I guess I’m writing this to you more for myself than for any intellectual or rational benefit to you. From what I gather you don’t really need any of us humans that you created because you are eternally self-sufficient. It’s really odd you know because here on earth we tend to look down our noses at people that are self-sufficient and in need of no one because they have it all. Maybe you have a pure self-sufficiency and function on a different moral plane than the rest of us. Last week my neighbor, she’s so funny, told me that when you have a lot you can afford to be rude. She may be on to something, eh? She doesn’t have much, and neither do I for that matter. I hope you don’t mind if I periodically drop in on you with some correspondence along these lines. There are a lot of questions I have about you, the way you are –or at least seem to me- and observations I’ve made from what Christians say about you and from things I’ve read over the years.

Son of Adam

Church Life in the 21st Century

Dear Marie & Denise,

What did you think of the event last night? I do try you know. I’ve seen so so many of these productions over the years that, quite frankly, I’m absent for the theatrics of it all. Last night I found myself thinking of how abysmally detached the church in general has become insofar as these type of things, and their relevance to spirituality or even the historical connectivity, are concerned.

Why we are so compelled to have productions of this nature in the evangelical church is beyond me. The readings are articulated as if they are a voiceover audition for some radio commercial, the singing is often half-hearted and not up to par musically and the feeling one walks away with is one of general malaise rather than spiritual chemistry and a heightened sense of what is grand.

It seems as if the modern Christian can no longer stomach spirituality unless it is sugar coated with a thick layer of extravaganza and heel tapping. I miss the mystery of religion. I do. Of particular concern to me was the morose ethos in which we celebrated the Eucharist. Were we celebrating a death or a resurrection? The spirit was more so the former than the latter. Disconcerting is a word that comes to mind as I ponder all this.

Today’s church has all but stripped religion of awe- the wonder and secrecy being replaced with cartoons, clichés, comedy and banner waving. It’s a battle I face internally often. I apologize if this sounds cynical; it is not intended as such. Sometimes reality has a cynical flavor to it only because we have become so accustomed to denial. I think Flannery O’Connor was right when she said that that the South was Christ haunted.

Sincerely,
Pater

The Big Empty

" ... Bush has one of the emptiest faces in America. He looks to have no more depth than spit on a rock. It could be that the most incisive personal crime committed by George Bush is that he probably never said to himself, "I don't deserve to be President." You just can't trust a man who's never been embarrassed by himself. The vanity of George W. stands out with every smirk. He literally cannot control that vanity. It seeps out with every movement of his lips, every tight lipped grimace. Every grin is a study in smugsmanship."

Normal Mailer & John Buffalo Mailer
The Big Empty: Dialogues on Politics, Sex, God, Boxing, Morality, Myth, Poker and Bad Conscience in America

I'll Get Around To It

I’m beginning to wonder.

Maybe I’ve just slipped

There used to be a time I didn’t give a rip

If a friend was gone or just a bit tight lipped

But of late I’m craving some word

Just a hello not just a wave

Some sign that I’m not forgotten

A shadow in a long dark cave

Days are comin’ when all won’t be so swell

When you’re looking for someone to love you

But your history’s an empty shell

Alone you’ll be with your shadows and doubts

Wondering what all the damn fuss is about

But wishing you’d made that call, rung that bell

Stepped inside another’s shell

Better look out, baby, maybe give a clear shout

Black’s turnin’ to white, and your time’s running out

Strong to Deliver (A Short Story)

My father’s footsteps, always the dreaded clomping rhythm, belong only to him. He owns his weight, carries it with the strained grace of a fallen newborn giraffe. He is never too far to not be heard, and always he is close enough to remind me of the menace of his boiling anger.

Tonight he will come to me again of his own accord; he will descend like the mighty black winged stalker in my dreams, lusting after a blameless prey to confer the free rein of his wrath upon- an innocent apple to divide with his pointed arrow. Hate in the flesh.

He will plunge downward with a stench of revulsion dangling on his breath like a hazy mist hovering over a mountain, eyes lined with crimson streaks east and west broken only by two solitary marbles full of blackness.

I press my plastic rosary beads to my chest, the silver crucifix resting warm between my youth and enjoying a security that eludes me.

I pray, “Our Father who art in heaven …deliver us from evil now …”

I pause. It is at the hour of death my deliverer must come.

My prayers, are they not fervent, Lord?

Do I sin by not wanting “…thy will be done ?”

My wounded cries for deliverance, for vengeance, do they go unheeded because there is some displeasing weakness within me that I have yet mastered?

Do you save only those who are strong enough to save themselves, and in their deliverance, you, Holy Father, Strong to Deliver, are extolled on high for what is their doing?

Lover of the Innocent, Protector of Children and Champion of the Poor, deliver me!

My room is dark but for the streak of light that has strained its way through a crack in the window. In my solitude I pray yet again, but know that my angel of death will arrive at my door soon. I can hear the clock mocking me, my heart racing against its steady ticking, always ahead, always winning, preeminently victorious. Outside I hear the steady droning of cars in motion but I hear only one door slam, and the final death rattle of mistaken keys in a lock and the predictable angry crash of a burly shoulder against the front door.

“Open! … open it goddamnit … you little whore … open it or I’m gonna bust yer head!”

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy Name …”

To kvetch or not to kvetch, that is the quetschen!

Yes, I know! You don’t have to remind me. I haven’t blogged for days on end. However, here I am and I will pick up where, I think, I left off.

I’ve been on the road doing quite a bit of traveling but am back in the saddle now. It’s Monday morning and the weather is beautiful outside. People are still rambling about the weather being so bad just a few days ago, but today should serve as a distraction from the climate kvetching.

(Time out! Did you know that the term “kvetch” is a Yiddish term? Yeah, it literally means to squeeze or pinch. It also has its roots in the Middle High German quetschen … which should remind you of an English word that we usually try to give an answer to. Hey! Now go impress your friends with your great etymological prowess.)

I’ve been so terribly consumed of late. It seems like I run from person to person. I’m not going to say I’ve been “busy” because I detest that leather worn word. I have been, however, very much frenzied of late. Work has taken me away from my regular routine and while I welcome the change in the scenery and exposure to new experiences I nonetheless find myself feeling late for a meeting or anxious about another unexpected phone call or worried about falling behind.

I’m reading a book coauthored by Norman Mailer and his youthful son, John Buffalo Mailer. The title of the book is The Big Empty. I stumbled upon this publication largely through a broadcast on cable of an interview conducted of the two writers by The New York Society for Ethical Culture (http://www.nysec.org/). I was impressed enough with the clear thinking of Norman Mailer to warrant going in search of the February 2005 publication the very next day. (I have since read a short novel by NM by the title of The Gospel According to the Son- a very interesting look at the life of Jesus, written in the first person, sort of Jesus’ response to the four gospels- very thought provoking.)

I have a guitar performance on April 22nd that I feel dreadfully unprepared for. Tonight I’ll padlock myself away for a few hours and decide what course I want to go in for that. I never quite feel adequate for these events; something inside me tells me there should be someone else sitting there, another more qualified individual than myself. However all those harsh feelings usually subside and vaporize once I am seated and can see the responses from people and know there’s no turning back. Music is something that is difficult for me to write about. I’m not sure why. I’ve yet to really explore that one. Perhaps it’s because there is some mystical element to the performing and the enjoying of music. I find it hard to remember lyrics to songs, but my fingers seem to know exactly where to go when I am playing some early 19th century arrangement that I have no mnemonic hint as to how to remember other than shear mental trust and assurance.

Well, it’s Monday morning. It’s nice to be back. The weather seems to say, “It’s going to be a full week … get to work … everything’s going to be okay.”