G-Poppers … July 6th, 2018

G-Pop just spent a week with family members–some coming in all the way from China.

It put him in both a joyous and a reflective mood–joyous to see all the cubs from the Bear Clan returning to their cave, but reflective because he did some deep wondering about what this whole process of living is all about.

It comes down to two words: influence or affluence.

In other words, are we on a journey to influence the planet and people around us in a positive way, or is it all about accumulating wealth, houses, status and family members, thus showcasing our affluence?

You certainly can be affluent without having influence on anything, and as we well know, you can express your influence and not have two quarters to rub together.

Influence: doing stuff.

Affluence: getting stuff.

Amazingly, there is no award for our children when they are spiritual, but we give them money if they make us look like amazing parents by scoring that goal, thus passing on the impression that the best way to gain affluence is to minimize influencing, but just “learn the rules and win.”

As G-Pop sat and stared at his children, he wondered how many were out to influence the world and how many had already decided that the journey is about becoming affluent.

Of course, you must have enough goods and money that you don’t appear to be a deadbeat and a burden on others. But can that be a stopping point? When you finally discover how to cover your budget, eat well and have some extra cash to help others, can you stay ashore and not launch out into the sea with all the cutthroat pirates?

G-Pop decided a long time ago that he wanted to influence the Earth instead of merely being affluent. It’s amazing how good a plate of beans tastes, and how little buttered lobster is required in that moment.

It just depends how hungry you are when you show up.

 

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this inspirational opportunity

Sweet, Salty and Hot… October 6, 2012

(1,660)

Live from October 1st filming

At last night’s gig, we received a “chili” reception.

What I mean is, they had a chili cook-off before our show. Fortunately for us, they set aside some of the magic potions for us to take back to our motel and enjoy. As I sat down in front of my bowl, I thought about how marvelous chili really is.

The first magnificent thing about the concoction is that it’s simple. Three major ingredients–beans, meat and tomatoes. If you don’t have those three elements in your chili, you may have come up with something that is in the household, but not in the immediate family. It takes beans, meat and tomatoes to make a basic chili.

Now, some people like their chili sweet, others salty and certainly there are those who prefer it hot. Each one of these groups would insist that their particular preference is the actual definition of chili, but truthfully, the mixture is best presented by the inclusion of  … beans, meat and tomatoes. Otherwise you end up with goulash or Sloppy Joe. Whether it is sweet, salty or hot, it is still called chili and therefore gets included on the menu.

As I munched on my meal, I thought about how much better off we would be if we approached our Christian faith the same way. In other words, once all the ingredients are in place, whether you like your faith sweet, salty or hot makes little difference. As long as you don’t mess with the holy three, you’re in pretty good shape.

And what would those three be? What would define a good Christian experience, establishing the necessary pieces to call it such?

1. We “bean” with Jesus. (I apologize for the pun. It was available, I was weak, I took it.) How can you tell that someone has “bean” with Jesus? They consider him to be the example for living instead of just the sacrifice for sin.

2. We “meat” the requirement of loving one another. (Again, my apologies.) Referring back to Jesus, he established this as the criterion for knowing whether someone was his follower. If they do not show love one for another, they have started their own club, just displaying a cross on their steeple.

3. No tomato is better than any other tomato. Hop in the pot and join the stew. Anyone who makes distinctions about human beings and judgments based upon any feeling of superiority has ceased to follow a Christian philosophy and has amalgamated into their thinking some sort of cultural preference that shuts out those folks that Jesus loves.

There you go. That’s how you make a Christian. Those are the ingredients.

Now, to continue, some people like it sweet. Their God is love and will always love, in a loving way, the whole world, which needs a loveable hug.

I don’t care if it’s sweet, as long as they’ve “bean” with Jesus, “meat” the requirement of loving one another and accept all the tomatoes off the vine.

There are those who like it salty. They’re interested in points of doctrine, deep theological discussions and will even dabble in some of the psycho-babble of our time, linking it with Biblical implications.

Who cares–as long as they stir in the beans, meat and tomatoes?

And certainly, there are those who like it hot. They want the message to burn all the way down to their innards, believing the Word of God to be infallible, without question, searing away the evil in our world and establishing the good.

More power to them–as long as they accept Jesus as the source of wisdom, they love one another without question and they include everybody in the gift of salvation.

You see? Chili is like being a Christian. If you get the basic ingredients in place, flavoring it is just fun, and I don’t mind if you flavor it one way or another, as long as you can still see the evidence of those three main ingredients: Jesus, loving one another, and an open door to everyone.

They sent home a couple of different kinds of chili with us. I ate one of the warmer varieties, which stung my tongue, and Jan opted for the more benign, kindergarten variety.

But you know what? We both had chili.

And just like in the Christian experience, when you get it right and all the ingredients are in place, there’s one thing for certain: it’s a gas.

The producers of jonathots would humbly request a yearly subscription donation of $10 for this wonderful, inspirational opportunity

Korny, Part II … March 24, 2012

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I wasn’t a dork.

I mean, I had survived ninth grade health class and perused numerous dictionaries and Bible commentaries seeking definitions and explanations. So I knew what “fornication” was. But in that moment, confronted by this pious parson, I experienced a temporary “icing over” of the cerebellum. Maybe it was because I was exhausted, hungry, confused, embarrassed–or just generally surprised that this stranger would ask me about my sex life. But I stalled long enough that the minister thought he’d better elaborate a bit on his original question.

“What I mean by ‘fornicating’ is, we just don’t want any hanky-panky.”

God forgive me, but my young thought waves immediately went to Tommy James and the Shondells, and I nearly burst out into a chorus of “My Baby Does the Hanky Panky.” Fortunately I resisted that impulse, took a deep breath and responded.

“You see, pastor, it’s not that we don’t know that they’re girls and I’m a guy. Matter of fact, when we first met we flirted a lot. But you can’t travel with someone, work closely together and even think about something resembling ministry and have in the back of your mind thoughts of ‘jumping their bones.’ Let me put it to you this way. It’s not very smart to steam up the shower because then it’s hard to see yourself in the mirror.”

I thought it was a pretty cool answer. He just gazed at me, a bit confused–similar to the look my dog gave me when I first purchased a frisbee and suggested we play.

“Okay,” he said. “Just be good.” He turned on his heel and left.

The girls gave a cheer. I silenced them because I knew there was a chance he might return in the next ten minutes, to try to catch us in the first fruits of “hanky” or the throes of “panky.” When he didn’t return, we immediately addressed our hunger. We were starved and all we had left were eight Zesta saltines and three-quarters of a can of Tab. We hunted through the basement for any provisions. At length we found a large can of pork and beans and half a loaf of Wonder bread with six slices not yet sprouting any “green.” We also found a single burner with a frayed cord, which we carefully plugged in the wall so we could heat our beans. We warmed the beans, found a spoon, spread them over our bread, crumbled up crackers on top and had beans-and-cracker sandwiches. They were delicious. (Sometimes I think it’s important to actually reach the point of starvation so you can remember how good food really tastes.)

Dinner was over, and even though we tried to talk and giggle, we quickly grew sleepy. I let the girls have the only couch available. They nestled up, foot to head on either end, and I threw some old coats on the floor and prepared for a night’s sleep.

I couldn’t. Sleep, that is.

The girls were gone in moments, so I quietly rose to my feet, kind of inched my way through the dark to the staircase leading to the sanctuary. It was so quiet. It’s kind of half-spooky and half-heavenly to be in a church late at night. Reaching the sanctuary, I went to the piano and sat down. It was a little chilly so I shivered, placed my hands on the keys and gently played. I felt inspired; I felt empowered. Here I was, sitting in Nebraska in the middle of the night at a piano, doing what I wanted to do, free as a bird, literally full of beans.

I continued to play until a particular series of chords stirred a melody in my mind. I just sang the word, “Jesus,” over and over again, as the chords changed beneath me and the melody submitted to the revisions. I don’t know how long it took me, but soon I had written a new song. I was a little embarrassed because this new composition really only had two words–“Jesus” and “everything.” But it was so pretty. I wondered if I just thought it was pretty because the night was so dark, lonely and peaceful.

So since my eyes had adjusted, I ran down the stairs and woke the girls up, telling them I had a new song. To their credit, they were such troupers for the cause that they were overjoyed, climbed the stairs with me, and we sat in the dark that night, learning a new song together, all of us overwhelmed by the tranquility of the moment and nearly in tears over the simplicity of the melody.

Amazingly, six months later, with many blessings and hard knocks along the way, we found ourselves in a recording session in Hendersonville, Tennessee, at the House of Cash. It was time to record that song that had been written a half a year ago in that small church in Nebraska.

I turned to the girls and said, “What do you say we do it the way it really happened?”

They were a little confused until I reached over and turned off the light in our booth, and with the soundtrack playing in our ears, we joined hands together in the dark and sang that song we had written that night: Jesus Everything. It was so simple; so free of pretense, so completely out of the box from the normal fare of the day. It went on to be one of the most popular songs on our album, receiving air play all across the country.

But to me it will always be that moment of freedom when I climbed the stairs in an old, clapboard country church in Nebraska and let the words and music pour from my heart. Jesus. Everything.

The pastor would be happy to know that there was no fornicating in his church that evening. But we did have a threesome around his piano at his altar that produced some equally exciting results. We were young, we were free, we were creative … and we believed we had the ear of God.

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Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.

http://www.janethan.com/tour_store.htm

Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.

Useless.

Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.

A Chili Reception … February 20, 2012

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Suddenly it all made sense.

 

As I gazed into the container tenderly caressing my luncheon possibility, I realized how it all came to be. For you see, this weekend I found myself in Rose Hill, Texas, during the annual, nearly world-famous chili dinner, which also featured everyone wearing western clothing and cowboy hats–and of course, in addition, Janet and I were there performing. (I don’t say this as a lamentation. For after all, even third billing does get you into the party.)

 

The people I met were fantastic. Now, I do understand that the word “fantastic” doesn’t really mean anything, similar to such other descriptions as “wonderful,” “really great,” “neat,” “interesting” and one of my favorites–“appropriate.”  So let me tell you what I mean by fantastic.

 

I discovered that the people of Rose Hill,Texas, made a great pot of people, so it should have come as no surprise that they concocted an equally inspired pot of chili. And what struck a chord in the music of my heart was how much the ingredients that go into being good chili-makers are also necessary in the process of generating good human beings.

 

Because when I arrived at my motel room to enjoy the chili I had purchased from the establishment, I immediately recognized three outstanding attributes of the concoction:

1.  It was obviously put together by humans who possessed willingness. How do I know that? Because of the way it was presented, the flavor and the texture. Somewhere along the line in “Chili Making,  One,” somebody turned to all the constituents and said, “Listen, we’re going to take this first year and learn what everybody likes, and we darned tootin’ better be willing to change.” My dear, sweet friends–don’t ever forget that willingness may be the most important ingredient that goes into making either chili or people. Because if you’re not willing to change, you’re going to end up digging your heels in and having only friends who are related to you and are therefore stuck with you, and serving a pot of chili that no one likes but you and yours. I say this to you because this particular batch of chili that was given to me was so thick with meat that it could have passed for Sloppy Joe or good barbecue. Somebody told these folks that the best part of chili is the hamburger meat, and rather than arguing with their customers, they decided to comply.

2. The second thing I noticed about my delicious lunch was that they separated the beans from the rest of the chili, placing them in a different container, just in case you didn’t like beans with your chili. You could put in as many beans as you wanted to, and adjust it to your liking. A chill went down my spine as I reveled in the knowledge that I was in the presence of people with awareness. Because after you have a willingness and you know there may be a need to change, you must have the awareness to acknowledge and follow through on the better choice. After all, we all know people who tell you what they should be doing, yet we are fully cognizant that they have no intentions of ever doing it. Not the good folks of Rose Hill. They separated their beans from their chili. So if you wanted chili with beans, you could stir them in to your heart’s content. And if you wanted it more “meaty” than “beany,” you could keep your beans on the side and nibble like a hamster. It also amazed me that the chili just had a little zing to it, but not enough pepper in the pot to scare away novices and those of delicate palate. You can always add more hot sauce, but it’s difficult to take it away. I was almost tearful about the amount of awareness the good folks of Rose Hill had put into their recipe. They had a wilingness to change and an awareness of the better choices.

3. And finally, as I sat there and ate my chili in utter delight (with a FORK, may I add–that’s how thick it was), I realized that some absolutely enlightened people had put a tremendous amount of affection into each and every bowl. Now, what is affection? “I will love myself enough to love you. I will not serve you a bowl of chili that I would not want to gulp down myself. I will put the best of what I have into what I do in order to guarantee a smile on your face.” And my grin was made even broader by the fact that the amount of food they gave me was enough to turn into a second meal sometime later in the week–due to their generous concept of a serving.

 

I so appreciated the folks in Rose Hill, because as we worshipped God together, they had a willingness–knowing that all of us need to change. They fostered an awareness. In other words, if you gave them a better choice, they were ready to move in that direction. And they generated legitimate affection–they loved themselves enough to include me.

 

And the beautiful thing is, it even showed up in their chili.

 

So as I finish my stay in this part of Texas, I will always remember the “chili reception” I received in Rose Hill–certainly not in the sense of being given the cold shoulder, but because fine folks had the willingness, awareness and affection to receive my message–and also to put the same loving kindness in their chili.

 

So if you ever come to this area of Texas, don’t forget to enjoy some Rose Hill chili. It is tried, tested and proven to be people-friendly. And let’s be honest–if we’re not people-friendly, it’s very difficult to get God’s approval anyway.

   

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Got a question for Jonathan? Or would you like to receive a personal weekly email? Just click my email address below and let me know what’s on your mind! jonathancring@gmail.com

 

  **************

Below is the first chapter of Jonathan Richard Cring’s stunning novel entitled Preparing a Place for Myself—the story of a journey after death. It is a delicious blend of theology and science fiction that will inspire and entertain. I thought you might enjoy reading it. After you do, if you would like to read the book in its entirety, please click on the link below and go to our tour store. The book is being offered at the special price of $4.99 plus $3.99 shipping–a total of $8.98. Enjoy.

http://www.janethan.com/tour_store.htm

Sitting One

 I died today. 

I didn’t expect it to happen.  Then again, I did—well, not really.

No, I certainly didn’t expect it.

I’ve had moments of clarity in my life.  Amazingly enough, many of them were in the midst of a dream. For a brief second I would know the meaning of life or the missing treatment to cure cancer.  And then as quickly as it popped into my mind it was gone. I really don’t recollect dying.  Just this unbelievable sense of clear headedness—like walking into a room newly painted and knowing by the odor and brightness that the color on the wall is so splattering new that you should be careful not to touch it for fear of smearing the design. The greatest revelation of all? 

Twenty-five miles in the sky time ceases to exist.

The planet Pluto takes two hundred and forty-eight years to circle the sun. It doesn’t give a damn. 

The day of my death was the day I became free of the only burden I really ever had.  TIME.

Useless.

Time is fussy.  Time is worry. 

Time is fear.  Time is the culprit causing human-types to recoil from pending generosity. 

There just was never enough time. 

Time would not allow it.  Remember—“if time permits …”

Why if time permits?  Why not if I permit?  Why not if I dream?  Why not if I want?  Why does time get to dictate to me my passage? 

It was time that robbed me of my soulful nature.    It was time that convinced me that my selfishness was needed. 

I didn’t die. The clock in me died, leaving spirit to tick on.  

So why don’t we see the farce of time?  Why do we allow ourselves to fall under the power of the cruel despot?  Yes, time is a relentless master—very little wage for much demand.

I died today. 

Actually … a piece of time named after me was cast away.