The Church of Misfits: Official Interview
“Then Jesus said, ‘Come to me, all of you who are weary and carry heavy burdens, and I will give you rest.’” (Matthrew 11:29 NLT)
[4 new podcasts available]
Memorial Day 2003
Of all the things I wanted to be when I grew up, an inspiration was never one of them. And yet, somehow, that is precisely what I have become. To some people.
It has been my brief experience that when people see you as an inspiration, they have a tendency to somehow put you above themselves. And, honestly, I am not comfortable with that.
There are also times I wonder, What have I inspired people to do?
Inspiration without action is a dream that dies at the dawn of day.
When people read my words–maybe Katrina & Me, When Lightning Strikes, Any Port In A Storm, A Dark & Stormy Night, or Whatever–they usually just see the end result. They don’t see the dark days and the never-ending nights, the times I shook my fist at God in a maddening rage of grief. (Those of you who are regular readers may recall my mentioning that the word “anger” originates from Old Norse; it literally means “to grieve.”) And I have, at times, gotten the impression from people that because I have endured my share of storms and have lived to see the sunrise, people somehow think that I don’t need help. That I’ve “got it together.”
Well, I don’t. And I won’t. Not this side of eternity. But if people think you are some sort of inspiration, it can be difficult for you to find someone to talk to about what really is wrong. Simply because it is difficult for them to see you as vulnerable. And while everyone knows the old saying, “Nobody’s perfect,” there is still a difference between knowing and learning.
For instance, I know that energy equals mass times the velocity of light squared, but I don’t have a clue what all of that means. In the same way, the people in my life may know that I am not perfect, but they have certainly not yet learned the ways in which I am flawed.
For who has eyes to see?
The Earth has seasons. And so do we. Even now, as The Northeast of America approaches The Summer Solstice, the days are warm and the nights are cool. But soon, the nights will be warm and the days will be hot. In the same way, there are days I can throw a thunderbolt in faith, but there are also times the storms drive me to the shallow shelter of tempation.
It’s too much. And I give in.
Truth be told, I never wanted to be inspiration. And I’ll tell you why.
Because I still remember that morning, years ago, when my brother laughed so hard he spit up his Cheerios.
I still remember when he took my favorite spot in front of the TV during Saturday morning cartoons after I had got up to make some toast and to get him to move I put peanut butter in his hair.
And the time he would open and close the ashtray in Mom’s car while saying, “I am KITT. The talking car!”
Or when we stayed up all night watching cable TV and one character had to blow something up to save the world so she got a gasoline can and I said, for no particular reason, “Hey, that’s gas.” And my brother said, I mean he just shouted, “DUUUUUHH!”
And I still remember the time we were playing on the jungle gym and he saw a sign in the distance that read DRUGS and he just said, in a funny, dunce-like voice, “Drugs! Oh, wow! We gotta go there, Martha!”
I still remember the German word for “cleaning woman” because it always sent Steve Martin’s character on a rampage in the comedy Dead Men Don’t Wear Plaid and my brother could imitate it perfectly.
And I remember when he asked me, years later, to be the godfather of his firstborn.
And how crushed I was when he went back to prison again and lost that child to the state because the pull of alcoholism and drug addiction brought out the worst in him. And he would beat his wife.
The last time I visited him in prison, he said things to deliberately set me off–brothers always know how to get to brothers–and for him provocation meant gratification, but I just handed the phone to Dad. And I never visited him in prison again.
When he went back to prison–again–he sent me a letter. I sent it back. Unopened. Because after my grandfather had passed away, my brother promised to move to Florida to help my grandmother. But when he came back to The Northeast to finalize his divorce, it was drinking and drugs all over again. He broke his promised to our eighty-year-old widowed grandmother, who is still the greatest woman I have ever known.
And, one day, he got high on crack just before meeting my (then) seventeen-year-old niece. And he wanted her to lift up her shirt in front of a stranger so he could get money. My niece hasn’t spoken to him since. I got so mad I…Well, you can imagine what I wanted to do.
Truth be told, I just miss my brother. I miss the personal jokes. The laughter that made my stomach hurt. Brought tears of joy to my eyes. But, last I knew, he had another son–possibly a third on the way–but the adoptions for the first two have been finalized. And my brother is still an alcoholic and a crack addict who now collects welfare and lives in subsidized housing. Somewhere.
I haven’t spoken to him in five years.
Five years ago today.
Memorial Day.
How many mourn the living?
“If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen. And God has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother” (1st John 4:20-1).
People have said that I am an inspiration, but there are times I wonder, Am I the liar?
Because there are days I really do hate my brother.
And yet, there are other times, in the storm of my despair and the tempest of my brother’s addictions, that I trust in the sunrise of God’s grace and forgiveness.
And every Sunday, when the worship leader at my church says, “We now pray, either out loud or in our hearts, for those who need You…” I whisper his name.
And that whisper is all I have left.
It is all my faith can manage.
I have been praying for him for years. Years. And for years I have watched as his whole life has descended into the darkness of drinking and drug addiction. And betrayal. Sometimes, it is so much more than I can bear. A secret of which I seldom speak.
Don’t tell me this storm is an inspiration. I don’t want to hear it.
Because the sunrise, this time, is a long night off.
And you know something?
It always is.
{New on Podcast Page: ”Katrina & Me.”}
Autumnus Vox
I never saw the dawn of day,
but was born in time to die.
I never had the chance to play,
but lived in time to cry.
I never left my solitary place,
but stayed until my death.
I never saw my mother’s face,
but she seized my last breath.
I never knew, nor loved, my dad,
but only as I was conceived.
I never will say that I am glad,
but mom had him so deceived.
I never knew his doubts, nor pains,
but in darkness confusion reigns.
I never could’ve guess her gains,
but in darkness confusion reigns.
[Author's note: This poem was written fifteen years ago.]
The Resurrection of Spring
In The Northeast of America, the trees are turning green again. Most of them are about halfway to a full bloom, but the grass in my yard has been mowed three times already. I love the smell of fresh-cut grass. And I love it when God makes my own small corner of the world come alive again.
Spring always reminds me of The Resurrection, the renewal of the physical to the spiritual to the life-everlasting, but this year I actually found God in the details.
I found Him in worms.
The previous tenant who rented this apartment had built a huge compost heap in the backyard. It was four feet long by four feet wide. And because it sat on a slope, it was five feet high on one side and six feet high on the other side.
That thing was huge. And I couldn’t wait to tear it down.
But the previous tenant had made still another mistake when he had filled that monstrous compost heap.
He forgot the worms.
Specifically, red wigglers.
Icky, slimy, creepy, crawly things. Disgusting things.
I can’t even stand to look at them. They just eat, poop, breed, and die. But they absolutely fascinate me.
Because red wigglers eat egg shells, coffee grounds and filters, rotten fruits and vegetables, shredded paper, sawdust, drier lint, dog poop, dead flowers, tree bark, and leaves.
A whole lot of dead leaves.
And those wigglers make some of the greatest natural soil on the planet.
Soil that nourishes carrots, tomatoes, celery, broccoli, and potatoes. Soil that feeds the grain that feeds the chickens that make the eggs everybody eats for breakfast. Soil that sustains the fields of grass that cows munch on to make milk and bulls chew on so we can eat meat.
And behind it all is the invisible hand of The Creator.
When a beautiful woman gets a beautiful rose, He sees the great buffalo thundering across The Plains, expending energy gained from a feast of grass and the waste expelled in the cycle of renewal as it soon becomes soil and nurtures romantic love, in the form of a rosebush, between a couple. And, later, that man and that woman have children of their own who are also made in God’s Image.
How do I know God has a sense of humor? Because only He could take stinky dog poop and turn it into a beautiful rose. (Sorry, Ladies! Heh.)
And only He could take my battered and broken soul stranded in some skin and bones and turn me into a wise and insightful spiritual inspiration–at least, some people say that’s what I am.
But everything beyond the galaxies and under the sun He has created for His Glory. And God has a wonderful habit of raising the dead, even in the natural world. Earth supports and sustains life precisely because it has this cycle of birth and death and rebirth. And yet, this cycle is not a stage of life; it is life.
When you put a seed into the ground, it doesn’t grow into a plant unless it dies first. And what you put into the ground is not the plant that will grow, but only a bare seed of wheat or whatever you are planting. Then God gives it the new body He wants it to have (1 Corinthians 15:37-8).
And though I am now nothing more than a mass of flesh and bone and muscle and tissue and blood and sweat, the fading flower of my existence shall soon be transformed in an instant and I shall bloom for all eternity before The Throne of God.
Our earthly bodies are planted in the ground when we die, but they will be raised to live forever. Our bodies are buried in brokenness, but they will be raised in glory. They are buried in weakness, but they will be raised in strength. They are buried as natural bodies, but they will be raised as spiritual bodies. For just as there are natural bodies, there are also spiritual bodies (42-4).
And I want to stay so focused on that simple fact of my faith that I have built a new compost heap.
Smaller. Easier to manage. Perfect for the wigglers.
They take death. And give life.
Sound familiar?
A Blessing of Light
In Hebrew, his name means “flash of lightning.”
But in his father’s language, which happened to be Swahili, his name means “blessing from God.”
To me, he is both.
He is Barack Obama.
And he is only presidential candidate who has willingly and openly supported The Americans with Disabilities Restoration Act.
To most people, that doesn’t mean a damn thing.
But to me, and to my family, a presidential candidate who supports the rights of Americans with disabilities is a beacon of hope on a long journey through an endless night of prejudice and discrimination, a darkness filled with shallow insults and unnecessary limits.
Because I’ve lost 60% of my hearing. So far.
To me, Barack is a “blessing of light.”
And when you have to wait 214 years for a free country founded on the premise that all men are created equal to grant you the right of reasonable accommodation…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When the only option your white grandfather has after 66 years is to donate his remains to medical research because discrimination never afforded him a decent burial…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When the only jobs your intelligent, hard-of-hearing mother can find after your father leaves are pumping gas and washing dishes…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
And when your mother is falsely accused of stealing and loses her job because her boss is a thief and a cheat who blames the deaf woman because she has no protections under the law…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When your friend invites you to a Christmas service and you can only understand ten words out of the whole sermon because the church doesn’t have assistive listening devices for the hard-of-hearing or sign language interpreters for the deaf, but you think you heard the pastor say something about “eternal salvation”…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When your first name is “That”, your middle name is “Deaf”, and your last name is “Guy”…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When you go to a five-star restaurant and the waiter spends more time staring at your hearing aids than he does telling you about the daily specials…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When you hard work all week and fill up your car at $3.75 a gallon and the clerk behind the counter calls you “Channel 5″…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When you have to get a new vibrating alarm clock that costs $75…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When you pay $300 for two visual alert smoke detectors and you know hearing people can get two smoke detectors for $20 at Wal-Mart…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When your $5,000 hearing aids are “on sale” for $4,200…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When The United States Supreme Court rules that it is legal for a school not to provide a sign langauge interpreter for your deaf child because she only understands 57% of what the teacher says with hearing aids…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When your IQ is 148 but people think your stupid because you can’t hear as well as they can…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When your grade point average is 3.75 on a 4.0 scale in graduate school and your college professor tells you that writers need to be able to hear in order to be able to write…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
When you sit in the office of an ear, nose, and throat doctor to find out why your hearing loss is getting progressively worse but he tells you not to have children because he thinks you are genetically inferior…and your daughter died seven months ago…you will know why Barack Obama is a blessing of light.
And when you say all of these things because you’ve finally had enough and people still think you’re talking about a political issue instead of a personal matter that affects you every single day…you will know why I do not have the patience for meaningless political rhetoric.
Will he win the presidency? I certainly hope so. Because he is the only candidate who has promised to make an effort on behalf of people with disabilities.
People like me.
And I. Have had. Enough.
But for those of you wondering…I do not want the federal government to hold my hand when I cross the street. I just want a crosswalk painted on the road and a sign that reminds driver to yield to pedestrains so I can cross the street safely and without fear of losing my livelihood.
Because I know that jaywalking isn’t just illegal–it is dangerous.
And I simply want the right to cross the street safely, without fear of repurcussions, so that I can keep my dignity as a human being and stand on my own two feet as a man. And if the federal government paints the crosswalk and puts up the sign then it saves all of us a whole lot of money and lawsuits and hassles in the long run.
Nobody needs to build a bridge over dry land.
Shadows In The Rain
In certain cultures, blindness is considered a spiritual gift. It is believed that when one cannot see the physical world, the attention shifts to the spiritual world, to the unseen. So spiritual insight is gained at the cost of physical sight, but that gift is so great, so valuable, and so precious that it far outweighs the curse. It is only when one cannot see that one truly begins to see.
I have lost 60% of my hearing. Ten years ago, it was 40%. Ten years before that, 20%. A decade previously, well, I could hear just as well as anyone. But, at this rate, I am losing about 2% of my hearing per year. And, honestly, I don’t mind. Because, as strange as it may seem, the more of my hearing that I lose, the better I listen. I don’t read lips, of course, but I use my eyes to gauge visual clues. For all our talent and all our technology, we still speak one word at a time. This is not so with sight.
We hear sequentially, but we see simultaneously.
The five senses work so well together that when one is lost, the others compensate. For instance, blind people can have a heightened sense of smell. Deaf people can have a greater visual acuity–Sign is a completely visual language, after all–and they can also have a heightened sense of touch. I am not Deaf; I am hard-of-hearing, but I remember when Star Wars was re-released on the twentieth anniversary. I could feel Darth Vader breathing. And not just in the soft cushions of my seat; I could feel Vader inhale and exhale in the hard cement beneath my feet. With my shoes and socks on. It sent chills down my spine.
There are also…other advantages.
For instance, several years ago I went to see a friend of mine who was married. He was in his backyard spreading stones beneath his porch to alleviate the floodwaters that would accumulate in his backyard every time it rained. I remember him working harder than necessary for such a hot day. And when his wife, who was bipolar, asked what he wanted from the grocery store he snapped at her. After she left, he and I talked. But soon he started complaining about the stones and the floodwaters. Even the men who had brought the stones and dumped them in the wrong place. He hated his father-in-law, too. And his brother. Probably, I wasn’t too far behind.
So I said, “How’s your marriage?”
And he snapped, “What the hell has that got to do with anything?”
“Just asking. How are things going between you two…intimately?”
“She just needs to take the list with her or she’ll buy things we can’t afford or forget something. The doctor screwed up her meds and it’s going to take her a while to adjust.”
“Is that all?”
“What the @#$% are you asking me this for?”
“Just wondering.”
The next thing I knew, he took the shovel and swung it like a baseball bat against the concrete foundation of the house. ”We made love last night. I thought it was great, but afterwards she started bawling her eyes out like somebody died. Try making love to your wife and then watching her bawl her eyes out afterwards!”
Needless to say, the rest of the afternoon made for quite a conversation.
He had never before talked about the intimate details of his marriage. And I honestly don’t know how I knew something was off. I just…knew.
I listened–to the pace and tone of his speech, his vocal inflections, word choice, and how he chose to use those words and when. There were also avoidance tactics like no eye contact, changing the subject, and deflecting his anger by discussing insignificant and irrelevant matters. And long before he swung that shovel, his body language gave away his stress with his tense shoulders, not to mention that he was working harder than necessary.
That is just one example from ten years ago; there are many more I could mention, though it would obviously be unwise of me to do so. But Carl Jung called this sixth sense intuition. In most cases, it defies logic. But the insights are often true, though it takes years to develop the talent. And besides, what we say can never adequately convey what we mean.
A contradiction? Sure.
But in matters of humanity, what isn’t?
It is very easy to condemn a crack addict as a thief, a felon, and a loser you would never associate with. But that man was still made in God’s Image. To say that he wasn’t made in God’s Image is to say that God made a mistake. Well, God doesn’t make mistakes. So to condemn a drug addict with judgmental eyes is to commit the sin of idolatry–which, by the way, is the first command in The Mosiac Law: ”You shall have no other gods before me.”
Besides, if you look long enough, you just might discover that that crack addict was sexually abused as a child. Or that the alcoholic you make it a point to avoid lost his mother when he was just ten years old and that he spent the next seven years of his life going through twenty-five different foster homes. Sometimes, the pain is so great that the only escape one can find is in drugs and alcohol. Is it any wonder Christ taught His followers not to judge?
After years of being so judgmental and so arrogant, silence has taught me to listen.
“…was blind, but now I see.”
Because, I know that somewhere behind that crack addict…and somewhere beneath all that drinking…is The Image of The Almighty God, to whom I shall one day give an account.
Can you see the artistic masterpiece of God’s Image through the graffiti of a fallen world?
Can you see the shadows in the rain?
Sunshine & Rainbows 1
[Formerly "Hope Youse Guys Can Forgive Me!"]
I think it’s about time I lightened up a little bit. Not much. But a little. Just enough to spread a few laughs. And get myself into some serious trouble.
Anyway. If you haven’t seen the original videos, click here.
Part One: Mini for Mandy
Part Two: Trouble for Tam
Credits.
Camera Operator SHARLENE
Technical Assistance BRENT
Writers TOTALLY IMPROV
Hoping She Laughs Really Hard MICHELLE
Not Playing With A Full Deck THENOREASTER
