The Y Word … July 23rd, 2019

Jonathots Daily Blog



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Eighteen, nineteen

Certainly twenty

Full of vigor

Vim aplenty

I remember

I retrace

I recall

My youthful face.

The Y word that should never be spoken or written again is:


How is it possible that a word that can be followed by either “energy” or “indiscretion” is so revered in our society that we fearfully abhor the sight of an aging countenance in favor of one bright and ready, but still filled with foolishness?

And it truly is ironic that arguably the two greatest Presidents we’ve ever had, Lincoln and FDR, certainly did not exude youthfulness, beauty or even a measure of health.

I am not suggesting that the older you are, the smarter you are—nor am I connoting that possessing a youthful spring in your step for as long as possible is not desirable. But when the window for musicians and entertainers begins at thirteen and ends just short of thirty, and the younger the executive the more convinced we are that he or she will be full of innovative ideas, and with the startling realization that investing in anti-aging cream is always a sure shot, it is time for us to realize that we are both addicted to youth and also enslaved by immaturity.

I do not want to hear if someone is youthful.

I do not care if the President of the United States can take the stairs into Air Force One two at a time.

What I want to be sure of is that the birthday candles have nothing whatsoever to do with the fire in the soul, the energy in the brain and the willingness of the heart.

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Cracked 5 … August 22nd, 2017

Jonathots Daily Blog


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Things God Thought About Creating Instead of Humans

A.   Computers–could have skipped one million years of murder, adultery and bad sitcoms

B.   Carb-free pasta. Certainly a better choice.

C.   Talking monkeys. Washington, D. C.??

D.   Paint with a brain–artsy-craftsy

E.   Grass that makes music, instead of musicians making music using grass


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Christmas Council … December 25, 2013

Jonathots Daily Blog


council in heaven

God was angry–more with Himself than anything else. The connection He had once made in a Garden had failed to bloom.

So he called a Council together–of a heavenly sort.

Yes, the God of heaven and earth called the best of the sky and the land together to discuss a problem: what shall we do with humankind?

The noble notion of creating a fleshy creature in His image had deteriorated to wars, fear, anger, lust and mainly, most appalling of all, perpetual indecision.

  • The angels were invited to this Council.
  • Philosophers throughout history who had passed on to reward.
  • Lovers
  • Writers
  • Musicians
  • Craftsmen
  • Architects
  • And even the handful of professional religionists who had actually made it to the other side in spite of their predilection for “straining at the gnat and swallowing the camel.”

It was a lively discussion.

The angels were completely perplexed by why creatures who had been endowed with such insight spent all of their time using their wits to destroy one another.

One of the angelic messengers inserted, partly tongue-in-cheek, “If they want to destroy each other, why not give them an assist?”

The philosophers insisted that the problem was poverty and ignorance, some earthly travelers plagued by one, others cursed by both.

The lovers insisted on romance and the poets proclaimed the satisfaction of deeper thought.

One brave former priest challenged the Almighty by suggesting that human beings might be more spirited if the conversation with the heavens was not so one-sided.

On and on the debate raged.

God quickly realized that certain words were leaping from the discussion–repeated constantly:









After the passage of time (though being in a supernal location, such tick-tocking never actually occurs) God announced His decision.

“Human life is a theory. At least, that’s the way humans are approaching it. And I believe they’ve come to the conclusion that success at such an endeavor is completely impossible. I believe they require a picture–an example, as it were. Yet I know some of you think it would take a king. But actually, what we need is a kingdom that can live inside the emotions and soul of every son or daughter of Eden.”

“Some of you think he should be a Jew, born of the House of David. But I’ve grown weary of relegating a special position to one race of people.”

“A philosopher? Perhaps…but with a simple idea: Love your neighbor as yourself.

“A man? A woman? The better parts of that union: a child.”

“A politician? Truly, wise as a servant, but may I add, harmless as a dove.

God paused for a minute before He continued.

“Members of this august Council, what we need is a human who gets it. A human being who understands his own limitations while believing that limitations don’t really exist.”

God stopped his speech and looked into the faces of the assembled. They were puzzled.

“You see? Now you all look human.”

There was a laugh in heaven, as there always should be. Now the key was to bring the laugh to earth.

So one night God joined His spirit with a woman, to birth a baby who became a child and never lost the glee for living, teaching us that we, too, must become as little children.

God called the experience Christmas.

We called it Jesus.


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Click for details on the SpirTed 2014 presentation

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

click to hear music from Spirited 2014

Ed … March 5, 2012


I was twenty-one years old. My life was a mish-mash of contradictions, colliding into one another, creating what seemed to be a big ball of excitement, which occasionally deflated to just no game at all.

I already had two children, even though I had no visible means of supporting them. You see, I was a musician—a songwriter and singer—bound and determined to continue to be so, in the midst of objections from family, friends, landlords and bill collectors.

It was a confusing time because I had nights of great success, when I would perform onstage with some of the top gospel acts of the day, only to return home to an eviction notice hanging on my door. The big gospel acts loved me because I was willing to bring in my group to warm up the audience for them, and didn’t charge them anything. I was pleased and overjoyed to share for the exposure. Also, I was a lot of fun.

I picked up a few dollars here and there doing vocal coaching and arranging music for local gospel quartets. Yet I was a contradiction in terms. I was talent with no audience—energy dissipated into a vacuum. And I was supposed to be an adult and father of two children, but constantly required a wash cloth to dab the moisture from behind my ears. Just to give you a further idea of the weirdness going on in my life, on the day that I signed one of my songs for publication with a Nashville recording company, I was standing in my small apartment, reading the letter, when the lights went out as the electric company turned my power off for lack of payment.

In the midst of this back and forth existence, I met Ed. He was the pastor of a small church who invited me to come in and share with my group, and he immediately took a liking to me. Well, actually it was more than that. He was so impressed that he asked me if I would help him record some of the songs he had written. So he booked a local studio, requesting that I produce the session and gather and rehearse the musicians. I listened to some of his songs. They were really nice. But remember—I was twenty-one, and on top of being a bit irresponsible, I was also an insecure brat. So privately, to the other members of my group, I chose to make fun of Ed’s material, because for a brief moment, it made me feel big and very important.

But I agreed to do the album with Ed. He was thrilled. He immediately started to work on his voice and songs in preparation. Ed was in his mid-thirties and on the fourth or maybe fifth reincarnation of his dreams, feeling that this present opportunity could be his last. I didn’t understand—I was too young to fathom running out of time.

 Ed got ready and I agreed to meet him there. After making the promise, I went out, and with a combination of babies, traveling and dodging my landlord, I soon forgot Ed. A bit nervous, he called me from time to time and I lied and reassured him that everything was on target and all he needed to do was bring a good voice and relax—that we would have great results.

I meant well. I think there was a part of me that believed that at the last minute I would snatch out some sort of musical miracle and dazzle both Ed and myself with the completed, mysteriously hatched juggernaut. But on the morning that I was supposed to meet Ed at the studio, I had done no arranging, gathered no musicians and had further discovered that I had an appointment and needed to travel to Nashville,Tennessee.

I didn’t even call him.

When I arrived in Nashville several hours later, there was a phone call from Ed. I don’t know how he had tracked me down to my motel, but he asked me where I was. I lied. I told him I was a couple of hours away but I was coming—and looking forward to the session.

I don’t know what I hoped to achieve—maybe I was just treasuring a few more seconds of Ed’s adoration. Two hours later the phone rang and it was Ed. He explained that the studio was charging him for all the time he was waiting for me and he wondered what my estimated time of arrival was going to be. It was time to come clean.

“Listen, Ed, it’s kind of weird but kind of funny, too. You see, I got all tied up in stuff and I forgot that our project was in this month—well, anyway. I had to go toNashvilleand that’s where I am, so I won’t be able to do this today. See if you can reschedule.”

There was silence on the other end. Then Ed finally spoke. “That’s all right,” he said. “Some of the guys here have agreed to help me put my album together. I appreciate your time.”

Ed hung up. I thought about his words. He appreciated my time. I had no time for Ed. Matter of fact, my dear friends, I never gave myself enough time to even feel guilty about what I did to Ed. I went back to pursuing my goals and allowing Mother Nature and my heavenly Father to teach me gradually, over the years, how to be a human being instead of the south end of a donkey.

I thought about Ed today. It’s been thirty-nine years since it happened. I don’t even know if he’s still alive. Years and years ago, I heard through the grapevine that he did make that album, though, and that he was very pleased.

But I thought about him today—because it’s important for me to do so. My life has moved on and I’ve grown. I would never, ever treat a child of God that same way again. Some folks would say, “Why dredge up bad memories? Why put yourself through it? Why reflect upon things that are negative?”

It’s because they’re MY bad memories. They were a painful part of my journey to who I am. And they’re only negative if I stubbornly continue to repeat them.

Yes—the musing of the masses is that it’s useless to feel guilty. I disagree—because quite honestly, friends, guilt is sometimes the only thing that really makes us feel at all.


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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.

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.


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.

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