Sit Down Comedy … April 12th, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog

(4013)

If I were a woman or if I was a woman or if female and grammatically was sure which one was correct, I would need to understand that progress toward equality cannot be achieved through buying into some gender affirmative action.

Female Affirmative Action

For black Americans, affirmative action seemed to be a generous, practical means by which to even the playing field between the races. What actually occurred was an underlying cynicism about whether any person with darker skin had achieved success legitimately.

When you set aside the muscle mass of the male of our species and balance it with the birthing capabilities of the female, everything else runs pretty even. We still have a few jokers that hang around, insisting that females are more emotional than men. (They obviously have never visited the losing locker room at the Super Bowl.)

Pretending Women Are Superior

But the error lies the notion that we can bring peace between the genders by balancing things out artificially and pretending that women are superior.

We contradict this immediately with the “Me, Too Movement,” telling our feminine counterparts that they can bring up accusations from years, even decades, earlier, and because they were tongue-tied or intimidated in the moment, it is perfectly all right for them to delay their objection until now.

It is not.

In the realm of human interaction, there is actually a seven-day limit on lodging an objection or in making your point. If you can’t do it in the moment, then take a day. If after a day, you’re still uncertain on how you feel about what occurred to you, call a friend. Get input.

If you decide to remain silent out of embarrassment, then find someone you feel is empowered who can aid your voice to have greater volume.

But whether a man or woman, if you have not lodged, within seven days, your objection about how you were treated, how you were perceived or how you were allowed to conduct your affairs, then you must understand that rallying the “Me, Too Movement” to kick female affirmative action into gear, which supposedly allows you time eternal to come forward with your charges, is the best way to build a wall between the genders which will never come down.

If a woman, I would have to decide:

• Do I have a voice, or do I need someone to give me a voice?
• Do I have a legitimate complaint, or shall I wait until my complaint has worn out its statute of limitations and then thrust it forward, insisting that it still bothers me?

Even the phrase “Me, Too” is a statement of weakness rather than strength. It portrays to everyone around you that you do not possess the confidence to speak alone but must wait until there are many voices to gain spunk.

This will not work.

It doesn’t matter whether it’s Republican or Democrat, man or woman.

Each one of us has a right to be confronted by our accusers in a timely fashion

If we do not avail ourselves of this opportunity within seven days, we must be willing to take the blame for our own anemic trepidation.

I grant you that it falls the lot of both sexes to open their ears and hearts to the sentiments of the other, but it certainly requires a step of faith, courage and intellect for women to receive the equality due them by taking it in their hands instead of “wishing and hoping” from the sidelines.

 

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

---

Subscribe to Jonathan’s Weekly Podcast

 

Unto Us … December 1, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog

(2081)

Some people just don’t get it.

They seem to be completely adverse to the notion of a “baby God,” born in a stable, to bring peace to the world.

Maybe it sounds too much like a “hippie philosophy,” or reeks of humanism. I don’t know. But this is what I’m sure of–or at least, convinced of in my own mind: God didn’t cheat.

When He decided that a more human approach was necessary to convey His love and message, He put Himself through the entire process, beginning with birthing, circumcision and diaper rash.

The story of Jesus is not a supernatural one. It is a naturally superone.

It isn’t God stuffed inside the skin of a human being, but rather, a human being who allowed God to come in.

On this Advent Sunday, which welcomes in the Christmas season, some individuals will remind you that the most important thing about the Christ is his death, to bring us salvation for our sins. They are so anxious to nail Jesus that they’re willing to tear apart the bassinet in order to build the cross.

But as the prophet said, “Unto us a child is born.”

Yes. It’s for us.

Jesus was a little brother who took the hard knocks of human life without exception, to become our older brother. But it all began with Mama’s milk, burping, and a helluva lot of crying.

I love Christmas because it reminds us that God didn’t take any shortcuts in finding a path to become one of us–even choosing to be conceived, born and becoming a child needing to grow in wisdom, stature and in favor with everyone.

So Merry Christmas. And in this season, stop looking for the supernatural and find magnificent ways … to make the natural more super.

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

Click for details on the SpirTed 2014 presentation

Please contact Jonathan’s agent, Jackie Barnett, at (615) 481-1474, for information about scheduling SpiriTed in 2014.

click to hear music from Spirited 2014

Have Yourself a Mary Christmas… December 25, 2012

(1,740)

1. Don’t be afraid. God really IS love.

2. So therefore, God uses young and old alike. He picked a teenage chick and an old dame to birth two children of promise.

3. Your partner will come around. Don’t expect people to understand the seed that’s been planted inside your soul. If they love you, they’ll find you–and end up listening to an angel of their better natures.

4. Outsiders are critical. That’s why we call them “outsiders.” People who are frightened of change are either overly curious, jealous or prejudiced. It’s not that you can’t please everybody. If you’re trying to please people, you won’t end up with anybody.

5. It never happens the way you think. Everyone would love to birth their idea to great applause, notoriety and success. Yet every great idea has to spend its time stuck out in a barn somewhere.

6. Be prepared to travel. When your new idea of blessing and what you’ve birthed through your talent and faith is not immediately received by the hometown folks and is even attacked, you might want to slide on your shoes and see how you will fare in another locale. Remember, God never told you that what’s in your heart will be received by those who are closest to your heart. God just told you it’s important.

7. Leave a little bit of your own personality imbedded in the miracle. Sometimes we think that Mary was just a birthing chamber for Jesus. But she was his mother. So even though he had his Father’s soul and wit, the young Nazarene had his mother’s humor and determination.

If you believe that Mary of Nazareth was a one-hit wonder which will never be duplicated again, you will probably be willing to sit back and watch our generation flounder without the needed infusion of renewal, renovation and revival.

But if you realize that she was just a young girl who was willing to let the Spirit touch her in a unique way and then see it through instead of giving up, you can take a little bit of her spirit with you every day.

Yes, I have a little bit of Jesus in me–because of Mary. So on this beautiful day, when we celebrate the birthing of the Prince of Peace, let’s remember that his mother made it all possible.

So have yourself … a Mary Christmas.

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

Taxing the World… December 17, 2012

(1,732)

Let’s assume the story is true. For the sake of today’s essay, let’s agree to believe that the tale told by Matthew and Luke in their gospels is factual.

Caesar decided to tax the world. There’s always someone trying to do that. We live on a globe that is continually bombarded by frustrated individuals who feel that one more annoyance, one more trial, one more war, one more evil or one more excess isn’t going to make any difference one way or another. They are deliverers of straw for the backs of camels–never quite sure if this present shipment is going to break all of our backs.

They are just people who tax the world. They don’t bring anything to the party–they just fuss. They extol the virtue of “debate” and perfect it to the greatest levels of dissension, all in the name of a cause which rarely is developed because there is no time left over for progress. That part of the story makes sense to me–Caesar taxing the world.

Then there are people. Good-hearted, yet not good-natured folks, who end up spending all of their time bitching about the taxes. They try to free themselves of the bondage to the latest Caesar but because they are always complaining about the actions of the government or the mis-deeds of the disenfranchised, they openly admit they’re at the mercy of these merciless politicians and ne’er-do-wells. So Caesar bewitches and the mass of humanity…well, “we bitches.”

It is a nasty, immovable gridlock of meaningless conversation lending itself to deadly delay, opening the door for tragedy to slip into the back windows of our lives because we are too busy discerning the unchangeable. Yes, there are those who tax the world and there are those who bitch about the taxes.

So it was over two thousand years ago in Bethlehem, Judea. It seemed that the most important thing going on was the present affliction being levied on the masses by the Romans, who were trying to raise money to pay for a war in Britannia against the Angles and the Saxons.

And then there was a handful.

In the moment, they seemed meager–a carpenter and his pregnant, besmirched wife, arriving too late into town, not having made preparations for lodging and ending up stalled in the stable; shepherds who certainly wanted to complain about taxes, but found themselves interrupted by more angelic possibilities and needing to make a choice, and wise ones from the East, who were probably mocked by their neighbors as star-gazers with their heads in the clouds, who evidently were completely oblivious to Caesar’s latest imposition.

Yes, there were a few people who decided to birth a new idea.

It is a lesson for all of us. For I will tell you bluntly–CNN and FOX News don’t care one whittle that I write a daily column on the Internet, that I was able to reach tens of thousands of people this year through my travels or that I am recording a new album of music. They are following the latest story of “whoever is taxing the world.” They are also quite interested in those who want to bitch and complain about how over-taxed the world is by problems and difficulties. If you want to send in a tweet or email lamenting some evil in our world, you might get your twelve seconds of fame flashed across the bottom of the screen.

But just as it was in our original story back in Bethlehem, those who are trying to birth a new idea are relegated to obscurity and stuck in a barn somewhere.

But also, just like those so many centuries ago, you have to decide whether you want to be there for the birth, whether you want to worship or whether you want to be one of the wise people.

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

Johann, I’ll Be “Bach”…. June 30, 2012

(1,562)

Babies aren’t cute.

I felt it was my responsibility to step in at this point and dispel what seems to be a universal misconception. When you factor in their bald, often-misshapen heads, with eyes that are threatening to cross and drool that spouts from their mouths like a Texas oil-well gusher, you really cannot insist that these creatures possess the stamp of approval from Cute, International. And that is without mentioning the weapons of mass destruction they often leave in their diapers for unsuspecting parental victims.

And of course, they cry a lot. Inconsolably.

That being said, I do have to admit that the four little sprouts I had the privilege of fathering were reasonably attractive. But recently I discovered that we are going to be birthing a new grandson. Before I discuss this new little boy–who has already been named Johann–I would like to give you a brief history of my experience in having children.

My first son was conceived on our senior prom night–obviously, not by design. He was born nine months later and we were married five months prior. The doctors were concerned that my wife was going to be startled by this first birth, so they put her under, losing a great ally for pushing out the newborn package. Forceps were required, rendering my first-born with the appearance of a child that possibly should have been placed in the “rejected” pile.

My second son was born a year-and-a-half later, since my wife and I had no concept of birth control–and we were white and possessed no rhythm. She was not sure she was in labor, so she walked down the street to see my mother, who was working in a loan company that she owned and operated. When my wife didn’t come back immediately, I became concerned, so I trotted my way down to the loan company, only to arrive as my child was being born in the back of this institution–on a couch normally reserved for nervous patrons seeking financial assistance for home improvement. It was the talk of our little town, as literally hundreds of people lined up outside that loan company to see the baby who was born “abnormally”–outside the hospital.

My third son was unique in the sense that my wife was nervous about informing me that we were going to have a third one, so she waited until she was six months pregnant to tell me. So my enthusiasm only had three months to hatch, and then on top of that, she called me and told me that she was in labor, so I drove the thirty miles to the hospital and arrived just after the baby was born. Her entire labor was forty-three minutes.

At this point, we decided not to have any additional children, which didn’t make any difference in the scheme of things. At the worst possible time, while we were traveling around the country with our children, one of whom had been severely impaired by a hit-and-run car accident, my wife once again discovered she was pregnant–this time informing me. But as it turned out, she was not correct on the exact time of her conceiving, so the baby arrived two months early by her count, but absolutely correct by the other mother involved (nature). The blessing was that I actually got to be there for the birthing of this one.

My two granddaughters, Isabella and Lily, were born without my presence. My grandson, Wyeth, was born in China, where I also wasn’t, and my other grandson, Justice, was born before my son was married to the woman who is his mother.

So as I head off this week to Nashville, Tennessee, to continue my tour, I am also directing myself towards the possibility of being in the town where my latest grandson, Johann, is due to be born soon. Understanding my history, I am sure some unusual occurrence will prevent me from having full access to the event. But I am still optimistic over this latest arrival. I know some grandparents would object to a child being called Johann–because we Americans are so fixated on the top-twenty names for the little ones. But I think we need some distinctions–and having a unique name is a great conversation starter. And conversation is the ultimate starter to all things good.

And Johann certainly has great tradition, with the sprouting of beautiful music from Johann Sebastian Bach.

So even though I don’t think babies are cute, I do think they’re really important. They are God’s way of reminding us that we are not doomed to our own mediocrity. New possibilities are offered all the time, and as long as we can survive the onslaught of drool and poopie, we might just be able to raise up the next human being who will teach us how to love one another.

So before I arrive in Nashville, Tennessee, to have some sort of experience with this new grandchild, I would like to state the three hopes I have for his future:

1. Johann, don’t imitate the world around you. Society often tends to be erred, and then adds the curse of stubbornness and pride to keep change from happening earlier. Ignore the masses; listen to your heart.

2. Be unashamedly creative. Being creative is not gay. Being creative is not feminine. Being creative is finding God in every situation.

3. And finally, my dear grandson, Johann–would you go ahead and be bold and brave, and do better than us? To achieve this, you will have to be able to possess the better parts of our efforts and forgive us our trespasses. Don’t let your genetics rule your dreams, nor follow the traditions of family and nation simply because they seem to be so prevalent.

So there you go. I am off to pursue a birth. There is no star to follow, which is fine, since I am not a Wise Man; there is no history of inspiring stories to propel me on my merry way. I am happily looking for a new experience with a new human being. And I hope in the process that I may be able to find the very first baby in the history of mankind that truly is … cute.

   

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

Fearfully and Wonderfully… April 4, 2012

(1,474) 

The Psalmist declared that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made”–fearfully in the sense that the same energy that can empower us can also blow up in our faces, scattering our dreams into oblivion; and wonderfully made because even though we continue to gain great insight on the human condition, we still remain the final frontier for discovery.

Over the past several days I have presented human life in six twelve-year packages. Let’s take this morning to sum it all up and also conclude what might be better choices in applying these precious dispensations of time.

From birth to twelve we have the chilled-hood–a time when boys and girls are so similar that it is often difficult to tell them apart–both visually and certainly in ability. But it’s also a dangerous time, when the prejudice can be planted in the young, fertile soil, promoting a lifetime of  begrudging appreciation. For understand this–prejudice is not an idea. It is a disease. And once you allow children to be infected by this germ by alienating members of the opposite sex, then the disease of bigotry continues in their lives and they will find it difficult not to apply the same principle to people of color and people who vary in size. What’s the best thing you can do for your children? Teach your boys to rejoice over being equal with girls and your girls to enjoy equality with boys–AND that this could be the norm for our species, not the temporary. Yes, the message of chilled-hood is that we don’t require antagonism between boys and girls, which can lead in the future to the disease of prejudice, turning us into bigots. Let me be bold–there is no one who thinks that men and women are different who does not also have the inkling that black people and white people are from separate worlds and that the size of a human being determines their value and intelligence.

And when thirteen years of age comes along, in that phase I dubbed addled essence, an introduction of the drugs of testosterone and estrogen permeating the bloodstreams of emerging adults, it is a great occasion to draw a line in the sand and insist that these “addled essence” individuals tolerate tolerance. I love that phrase. What do teenagers hate to do? Enjoy things they didn’t come up with. So the greatest thing we can do for those between the ages of thirteen and twenty-four is place them in situations where they need to tolerate tolerance. In other words, they need to understand that their future primal relationship will be with someone different from themselves, and the more they learn to understand, the greater the compatibility will be. To the addled essence, we require that you tolerate tolerance.

And when twenty-five years of age rolls around and the human being moves into the phase of “you’re kidding,” where procreation seems more important than being creative, we should remember that birthing your own life, and THEN another, is the key to being an excellent parent. Nobody can help anybody else be happy if they are discontented. So before you bring another human being onto the face of the earth, make sure of your own joy about being here yourself.

We move on to years of  thirty-seven to forty-eight. I dubbed this Re-Spend-Ability. The solution here is really quite simple. Love and money don’t mix. Do you want to talk about your love, your romance and your relationship? Terrific. But no signs of the dollar should ever come into the discussion or you will taint the beauty and sanctity of love. And honestly, when it’s time to talk about money, a pencil, paper and a calculator is sufficient rather than memories of your honeymoon and misgivings about whether you are appreciated and heard. The best way to sustain a long, living love affair is to make sure that love and money are never in the same room together.

Just around the age of forty-nine, estrogen in a woman and testosterone in a man begin to wane, hinting towards a loss of the feminine mystique and the macho persona. People get scared so they start picking at each other and blaming each other for their condition–dissing in action. What is the goal? To get older but not old–because even though as a man you are losing some of the ability to run races and lift boxes, and as a woman you are not going to be giving birth to children anymore, what you have gained is experience and wisdom, which enables you to keep a cool head in times of crisis. Can I repeat the by-line for this group? “Get older, not old.” And the best way to stay young is to be current and funny.

Which leads us to our last twelve-year period, which for many people extends even into their nineties. Eco-quality–where nature and human creation were meant to come into peaceful unity, returning us back to our chilled-hood spirit of cooperation. It has a simple and delightful slogan: learn and play. Unfortunately, most people who find themselves in the post-retirement era become grumpy and unwilling to learn, and think playfulness is immature. But if you can escape the urge to be cranky, you can realize there is still much to learn because a whole world of possibility is being invented right in front of you. And there is more time to play because you aren’t lifting boxes and don’t have to wipe the runny noses of your offspring.

There you have it. Now let’s put all the by-lines together and see what we come up with:

We don’t need the seed of prejudice but instead should learn to tolerate tolerance, birthing our own life to joy before we welcome another into our fold. Separating love from money while getting older but never old, we finally arrive at the true wisdom of the human journey, which is to learn and play.

It is a great system that first removes the antagonism that exists between the sexes, which relieves the pressure to be superior and frees us to live a life of true spirituality, which is:  “NoOne is better than anyone else.”

**************

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.

You’re Kidding… March 30, 2012

(1,469) 

“As it was in the days of Noah, so shall it be …”

So begins Jesus’ description of life on Planet Earth just prior to the end of the world. He lays out a visual example of a culture that has become preoccupied with “being married and given in marriage.” Does he really believe that the sign of the Apocalypse is matrimony?

No. There is nothing immoral, unspiritual or unnatural about falling in love and getting married. But when that experience encompasses your whole being, taking over your will, your sense of discovery and your vision for life, then it becomes a numbing sensation and a killing field.

Yes, along about the age of twenty-five or twenty-six years, the addled essence, who has failed to learn about peaceful co-existence between the sexes, starts getting the itch to couple, settle down and “start kidding”– in other words, having children. Maybe college didn’t turn out the way they had planned. Those first attempts at business didn’t bring in the million dollars. The trip to Hollywood to become famous just ended up becoming expensive. The parents failed to die and leave the life insurance. So as it turns out, these people in their mid-twenties suddenly discover they are going to have to live out this thing called life in full color.

But because they weren’t allowed to be part of a chilled-hood, which taught them to enjoy equality with the opposite sex; and were then ushered into an addled essence, where they became adversarial with the other half of the species, they arrive at this position in life poorly prepared for communication, lacking spiritual depth and too emotionally vulnerable to link up and be a contributor in a relationship.

So they find a mate, they convince themselves they’re hot for them, they get married and soon a child follows. They start “kidding.” And since they know nothing about  a chilled-hood from experiencing it themselves, they become overly protective of their children—worrying about health issues and frightened of finance.

I see them every week in my church programs. The woman carries the baby, hoping everyone will notice how lovely her genetic contribution turned out to be, as the man trails two steps behind, lugging stuffed animals and the diaper bag, with glazed eyes, as if he had been struck by unseen lightning. Where they should be coming out of a worship experience discussing the beauty of living waters, they stand in the vestibule in protracted discussions about baby formula and zwieback.

They feel noble to have continued the tradition of child-rearing, complete with all of its sighs and despair—and unfortunately, also a sense of vacating all original aspirations. It is a lost generation; a missing link of humanity–age twenty-five through thirty-six. They have lost their identity, their belief in what is righteous, and how it affects their daily lives, which has caused them to lose their perspective–and their ability to keep their cool and relax in what they’ve accomplished.

This causes them to lose respect—first for themselves, for abandoning their talent, and then for their mate, for hastening their retreat. Unfortunately, this leads to them losing their love. Because we all know when respect departs, love begins to pack its bags.

As the child gets older and realizes that he or she is able to manipulate the household through tantrums because the parents have lost all will to resist, we continue the dastardly process into addled essence, culminating with parents holding on with prayers and hopes for things being better tomorrow. Teenagers rule the world–a planet that needs more mature insight.

We lose the You’re Kiddings during this season of procreation. We have no contact with them outside of complimenting their children, discussing daycare, or the best places to buy rounded-tip scissors for pre-school. The weightier matters of justice, love, mercy, understanding and compassion are set aside, to spend most of the time festering over work schedules and who’s going to get up in the middle of the night to change diapers.

Yes, the time in their lives when they should have the most energy, optimism and generosity of spirit is completely encompassed by the idea of being married, given in marriage and “kidding around.”

What is the process of birthing children supposed to do for us? Well, our forefathers and mothers had children because it was cheaper than hiring farm hands. They expected these little ones to start working immediately—as soon as they finished nursing. Now, we might find this to be uncaring or even mean-spirited, but somehow or another we need to land between being completely overwhelmed by the action of making other human beings, and merely thinking of them as ranch hands. See what I mean?

Here are the four steps I think are necessary for this particular age group—IF they’ve had a chilled-hood, enjoying equality with the opposite sex, and have escaped an addled essence, where their future life partner is viewed as adversarial:

1.  (And I do mean number one) Honor your children by honoring your dreams. You do not do anything for your off-spring by returning to your home exhausted because you’re working a job that has no resemblance whatsoever to what you really want to do. One of the transitions we need to make in this country is to understand that local representations of our culture are much more effective than nationally promoted ones. What I mean by that is, maybe you planned on being a great business tycoon and flying off to New York to work with Donald Trump. But now two babies have arrived and trumped your plans. There is still no reason why you cannot stay in your home town of 75,000 people and entrepreneur an idea that is regionally successful, granting you satisfaction over the yearnings of your heart. You may not end up being everything you thought you were going to be, but you will certainly be a snapshot of what you always wanted. You will turn your children on with your enthusiasm.

2. We should be spontaneous in love, but solid in principle. That means sometimes our little geniuses, who came out of our birthing cycle, need to be disciplined. It doesn’t matter how cute they are. It doesn’t matter how good the excuse is. We express love best in our homes when we have principles by which we live that are followed through with–even in the difficult times. Most members of the You’re Kidding generation think their main function is to make their children happy. Actually, their job is to create a stable sense of ethics and provide a direction that will ultimately bring forth happiness.

3. Stop worrying. And that goes for all the impersonators of the process, including over-discussing, looking at the Internet too much, having conversations with other young parents who are equally as baffled as you are, or listening to experts who are more concerned with selling a book than they are with making your child a dynamic human being. How do you know when you’re worrying? When you have learned all you can on a subject, applied the better parts of it and still continue to think, talk and fret over it, you are worrying. The best you can do as a parent is learn, do–and trust God for the rest.

4. And finally, these youthful birthers of a new generation need to teach their offspring that lying is the only sin. I believe this with all my heart. As long as we make mistakes and own them, grace covers a multitude of sins. Yes, grace covers every sin but lying. Lying is avoiding the grace of God to pretend like no mistakes have happened. If you punish lying and reward truth, the truth will eventually make your children free. It doesn’t mean they won’t go through difficulty, but it does mean they won’t be afraid to come to you and admit their frailty. If we can take this generation of shell-shocked human beings who have stumbled into marriage and child-bearing, and free them to still be wide-eyed with wonder over their own pursuits, as they include their children in their lives instead of making those little ones their only focus, then the energy from these individuals can once again revitalize our country.

Because if we can’t take the You’re Kidding generation and allow them to escape the preoccupation of babies, birthing and bundling, then in no time at all, they reach thirty-seven years of age and enter the next twelve-year phase, when the new enemy becomes …  money.

I shall call this group Re-spend-ability.

**************

Listen to Jonathan sing his gospel/blues anthem, Spent This Time, accompanied by Janet Clazzy on the WX-5 Wind Machine

 

**************

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.