Jesonian … July 14th, 2018

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(3733)

In Luke the 7th Chapter, a Pharisee named Simon invited Jesus to dinner.

Why?

As the story rolls out, it becomes obvious that it wasn’t a “special” invitation. Jesus arrived to a very generic, all-male environment, believing that he was a special guest, but was ushered in to be seated as if he’s one of hundreds at a Golden Corral Buffet.

You see, Simon wanted to be “the guy.” He wanted to be that fellow who was open-minded enough to extend an invitation to Jesus. But at the same time, he was sure to portray that he was not getting on board with the Carpenter’s crowd.

Nasty politics. Insincere feelings.

So Jesus plopped down to have dinner, thoroughly ignored.

Except for one woman. She was a whore.  Luke makes it clear that she was not an out of work prostitute, nor one who had decided to forsake her profession.

Matter of fact, we are led to believe that she had just come from the job site to see Jesus. She probably still had the smell of a man on her. She certainly had the look of evil to those religious men who had presumably gathered to consider the turn of some phrase uttered by a prophet a thousand years ago.

She brought a gift–ointment. She brought her tears, and she used her hair to dry those tears as they drizzled on his feet.

It was a sensual experience.

It was so intimate that the Pharisees, especially Simon, became infuriated that Jesus did not stop the awkwardness of the moment.

They whispered. “If he were truly a prophet, he would know what kind of woman she is…”

When Jesus realized they were critiquing the woman’s gentleness and mocking her right to be considered, he spoke up.

First, he asks Simon’s permission to speak to him. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t offer counsel where it is not wanted. He asks for the grace to share.

And then he explains the three essentials to reaching people–whether it’s for God or for business.

He tells Simon, “When I came here you offered me no water, you gave me no kiss and you provided no oil. Yet this woman has given me the water of her tears, has kissed my feet with her warmth and anointed me with oil she brought in her alabaster box.”

Water. Kiss. Oil.

All humans need all three of these.

We need water to be cleansed. We need water to drink. We need water to be refreshed, instead of having things withheld, leaving us thirsty.

Simon thought they were going to have a great conversation over dinner about their disagreements. Jesus said, “You don’t get it, dude. It’s about water. It’s about offering a kiss.”

Intimacy.

I, for one, am sick and tired of ministry that has no connection. It takes more than three or four scriptures being read aloud for us to feel caressed.

The human race has not failed. Rather, the messengers of God have settled for meetings in dark rooms to discuss minutia.

The woman gave Jesus a kiss and he said it was good.

There is no ministry without intimacy. If you don’t plan on looking deeply into someone’s eyes, drying their tears and hugging them, then quit. Save yourself the aggravation of performing religious duties that have become meaningless.

And finally, it was the oil–the oil of gladness, the oil of healing.

It touched Jesus.

How magnificent is it to know that you are a woman who has just risen from the bed of being with a lover, and worked up the gumption to come to Jesus’ feet humbly, admitting your confusion, and know that you moved him?

Ministry is not about theology.

Ministry is not about church.

Ministry is not about praise and worship.

It’s about bringing the water for cleansing, the kiss for intimacy and the oil for healing.

Jesus did not come to Earth to explain Heaven.

Jesus came to Earth so we once and for all could make sense of Earth.

*****

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Catchy (Sitting 51) A Woman at the Well (Doing)… June 3rd, 2018

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(3692)

Matthew stepped out of the shower and dried himself with the $300 fluffy towel provided by the casino as a part of his luxurious accommodations. He stared into the huge mirror, surrounded by the finest lighting available, to accentuate and showcase the beauty provided.

After peering into his face for a moment, making sure the wrinkles were not opening up tributaries, he stepped back to eyeball his penis. It was respectable–at least, he thought so. And the women he was with last night seemed impressed. Matter of fact, she was out in the other room, waiting for the two of them to have breakfast before she took her money and scooted.

Taking a second look at his friend from “south of the border,” it did appear a bit bedraggled and weary. But what would a penis know?

His brain was stumped over a decision–talc or no talc? He liked talcum powder. It felt good–cool, with just a bit of a sting–but it never disappeared. For the entire day, you walked around like some sort of ghostly apparition, leaving white clouds of dust behind as you shimmied through the room. So he took some lotion and put it on his private area, which felt equally as good, but was more sticky than spooky.

He had absent mindedly been listening through the door, hearing nothing, when suddenly there appeared to be a conversation going on in the adjacent room. He turned off the bathroom fan so he could hear better. There were two women talking.

Who could it be? Who was talking to…? Uh…

He couldn’t remember her name. It was Russian. The name. She wasn’t Russian–she was almost San Fernando Valley. He could not remember. God, he hated it when he didn’t know the escort’s names. Because “sweetie, honey, dear” and “precious” would only take you so far before you started sounding like discarded dialogue from “Wuthering Heights.”

Maybe if he listened through the door he could catch her name from the person she was talking to. Who in the hell could it be?

Well, there was only one way to find out. He combed back his hair (which was still hanging in there, though threats of evacuation continued). He donned one of the thick, white, terry cloth, Penthouse robes and stepped out the door. As he did, his guest from the previous night was speaking.

“…and I especially like the story of the woman at the well…”

“Me, too.”

The “me, too” voice came from Soos, who looked up at Matthew, smiled and continued her dialogue with the unknown Russian.

“What I like about that story, Borish…”

Matthew blinked and nodded, mentally repeating the name three times in a row, hoping it would permeate his skull.

Soos continued. “Jesus knows everything about this woman–knows all her problems and failings, that she’d had five marriages, and she’s living with a man now, but he offers absolutely no condemnation.”

Borish sat for a moment. “I never thought about it that way,” she said. “Matter of fact, he commends her for telling the truth in her own non-truthful way, when she said she wasn’t married.”

Soos laughed.

Matthew couldn’t stand it any longer. “Soos–what’s going on? What are you doing here?”

Soos leaped to her feet and ran over to Matthew, giving him a hug. “I was worried about you. I hadn’t heard from you in some time, so I decided to take advantage of the fact that we have a jet, and fly here to see you.”

Matthew walked over and sat down in a large, expensive chair, crossing his legs modestly.

“Well, you knew I wasn’t dead,” he said with a bit of snip.

Borish looked at him with disgust. “Is that any way to talk to an old friend?”

Matthew looked over at Borish. “Just imagine how I might treat new friends,” he snarled.

This did not sit well with the young woman.

“Are you going to insult me?” she asked.

Soos stepped in. “What a great question! Do you plan to come out of the bathroom–your freshly showered self–and insult the whole room until everyone is convinced of your superiority and dominance?”

Matthew sat still, a bitter taste in his mouth. He hated to get bettered–especially by a woman.

Soos continued. “I was talking to Borish about Jesus.”

“Yeah, I gathered that,” said Matthew. He stood up and walked toward the door. “Where in the hell is our breakfast?”

“What did you order?” asked Soos.

Borish smiled, perching up on her knees like a young girl. “I’m starved!”

Matthew whirled around. “Well, don’t act like I didn’t feed you! We had steaks…you know. Before.”

Soos couldn’t resist. “Before what?”

Borish looked at Soos with big, wide eyes and said, “Mr. Matthew here hired me for the night. You see, I’m a prostitute.”

Matthew grabbed a magazine nearby and threw it down on the table. “Why did you have to say that?”

Borish giggled. “I was just practicing being honest–like the woman at the well.”

Soos laughed. “Well done!”

“Is it Sunday?” asked Matthew, striding over to his desk. “No, here’s my calendar. It’s not Sunday. So why are we talking about him?”

“Because he’s good seven days a week,” said Borish.

Soos applauded and the two women hugged.

Matthew moved over with the stealth of a roaring lion, sat back down in his chair and said, “I didn’t hire you to be glib.”

Borish looked up at Matthew. “I don’t know exactly what glib means, and I know that probably thrills you. But I have a life. It’s not a life people would approve of–and certainly the Sunday people who talk about Jesus would not believe that I could be a believer. But I do my best. But I have always wanted to try to do better.”

Soos looked at Borish, tears in her eyes, then over at Matthew, who was doing his best impersonation of a slab of granite.

Soos erupted. “Matthew, you’re just a goddamn son-of-a-bitch. If you want to have your faith crisis or your penis introspection or your drunken binges or your spending insanity, go right ahead. But there are some people who realize they’ve been given two nickels and are trying with all their strength and might to make it spend like a dime.”

Matthew frowned at her. “You see, that’s the trouble with you Christians. You talk in circles, expecting people to follow you. Just because your leader spoke in parables doesn’t mean they make sense today.”

He took a breath. “What are you trying to say? That I need to be nicer to the young whore? Doesn’t that come with the tip? Isn’t that me ordering strawberries and cream with Belgian waffles? Why do I have to believe that everybody who comes into my life is just as good as the last person who came into my life, who seemed, by the way, to possess more dignity? I don’t mind that she’s a prosptitute. Matter of fact, she’s damn good at what she does. Truthfully, she made me see God last night between the sheets more than she’s doing this morning. But I’m not going to pretend that she’s something she’s not.”

He stopped abruptly. He obviously had much nastiness to spew but he resisted.

Borish rose, walked over to Matthew and knelt beside his legs. “You don’t need to explain to me who I am. I got that. Not every morning of my life ends up in a beautiful casino penthouse with a kind gentleman who has ordered me breakfast. I spend just as many mornings looking in the mirror, trying to figure out what kind of make-up to use to cover the bruises. I know I’m a fool. I know I’m crazy. I know that every time a door opens in front of me there could be a monster waiting. I don’t know what else to do. I have needs. I have a child. It sounds like an excuse–even to me. But until I can get over making that excuse and be willing to live a little simpler, and maybe rely for a time on the kindness of family, or some strangers, I will be doing this.”

Matthew stood to his feet and walked away. Soos came over, knelt beside Borish and hugged her.

“My dear,” said Soos, “you don’t have to do this even one more day. What that gentleman over there has failed to tell you is that we have lots of money. And we have lots of Jesus. And if you’re willing to learn, we’ll give you a job–so you can take care of your daughter, but you can become a woman at the well of doing, instead of a woman who’s afraid of what’s gonna happen next.”

Borish looked at her in disbelief. They embraced. They cried. They stood up and started to make plans.

Matthew turned to them, enraged. “Would the two of you please get the hell out of here? I don’t want to lose my cool. I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want you to get the hell out of here–and by the way, get the heaven out of here, too. I am sick to death of it. I shall eat my breakfast alone.”

Soos looked over at Matthew, confused, with a squinted face. She chose not to speak. She put her arm around Borish and said, “Why don’t you and I take in one of these breakfast buffets at the casino? We can make some plans.”

Soos and Borish walked by Matthew–Soos careful to place herself between the raging bull and the hapless lass. When they reached the door, Matthew spoke.

“Listen, I’m just trying to tell you…”

Soos interrupted. “Please do yourself a favor. Shut the hell up. Understand–there are people who love you, who still love you, even though you’re an asshole. There are some beautiful things going on in this country. Most of them are not at the bottom of a bottle or happening in this room. We’re waiting for you. Whenever you’re ready.”

Matthew gazed at Soos in complete disgust. He didn’t know what to say. So like men often do when they’re devoid of thought, he said something nasty.

“I hate you.”Donate Button

 

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Catchy (Sitting 38) Tulips (Two Lips)… March 4th, 2018

Jonathots Daily Blog

(3601)

Matthew awoke with a pounding headache, sore throat, a mushy brain and a hangover that seemed to have hung on for weeks. He was lying in a fancy circular bed covered with satin sheets, in a bedroom which looked like a tribute to the color red.

He tried to focus on where he was. After about thirty seconds of trimming away frustration, he uncovered the fact that he was in Amsterdam.

Suddenly it all came back to him. He had spent the night before sharing a bong with a young female Chinese capitalist–an oil speculator from the United Arab Emirates, and a Lutheran minister from Southern California. He vaguely remembered their discussion as one punctuated with verbosity, absent much profundity.

Then, leaving the gathering of the “three wise ones,” he headed into the street and found himself at the De Wallen–often referred to as the “Windows” street of Amsterdam, because in window after window, prostitutes posed, availble for purchase–a Christmas display of female flesh.

As he remembered more, he recalled coming upon a window with a tall blond girl with spiked hair and deep-set, dark eyes. For some reason, he had decided he had to have her. So he stepped into her room. She pulled the curtains for privacy and he made arrangements with her–with one stipulation. He wanted her to be with him all night.

It was an expensive necessity, for the last thing in the world Matthew wanted was to be kicked out of his bed of pleasure because his time was up.

And it was pleasurable. Perhaps a little predictable and unemotional, but the woman he chose was certainly adept at the craft of love, if not the feeling.

Still lying in his bed, he turned his head and saw her sleeping next to him. What was her name? He knew she told him, because he commented on it. All at once, he remembered his own joke.

“Did you say girdle?”

She didn’t find it funny, but since she was a hired employee, she choked out a giggle. Her real name was Gerta.

As he gazed at her, he wanted to wake her up. He wanted to talk to her. Actually, he wanted her to give a damn about him. He felt a bit feminine–like a young girl who gives away her cherry, hoping that her lover would want to hang around for the rest of the “Sunday.”

All at once she stirred. “Are you awake?” she asked in the most crackly, sexy voice he had ever heard.

“I am,” he whispered, trying to be equally as appealing. Unfortunately, his voice sounded more like he had bronchitis.

“Did you sleep well?” she asked with her thick German accent.

“I did,” Matthew replied. He realized the conversation would go nowhere unless he inserted greater input. “Gerta, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure,” she said, turning over and exposing her perfect breasts and beautifully bronzed skin.

Matthew gasped. Gerta laughed. She pulled the sheet up so as to take away the temptation to stall conversation.

Matthew took a deep breath and inquired, “Am I a good lover? And please–tell me the truth.”

Gerta burst into laughter. “This is always what the men want to know. Usually they want me to score them in comparison–sometimes even by nationalities.”

Matthew was quite offended. “Well, I don’t want anything like that. I’m just horribly insecure at this point in my life, and I would like to know, deep in my heart, that my penis is doing well.”

Gerta sat up with her arms dangling in front of her and asked, “Do you want the truth or do you want me to make you feel extra, extra, extra good?”

“Wow,” said Matthew. “That’s scary shit.”

Gerta frowned. “I’m not familiar with ‘scary shit.’ Would that be an unexpected bowel movement, or a discoloration?”

She was dead serious. Matthew had his own fit of laughter. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize it was so American. Scary shit just means it’s really, really, really scary.”

“I see,” said Gerta, as if cataloguing the phrase into her brain trust. “So, which is it, big boy? Do you want the truth, or do you want me to make it more padded and less, as you say, scary shit?”

She said it so cutely that he wanted to kiss her.

“I guess I want the truth,” said Matthew.

“The truth is, you’re average. Average looks. Average penis size. Average length of time it takes you to reach the top of your mountain. And average minutes for you to fall asleep afterwards.”

Matthew pretended to wipe sweat from his brown. “Phew… And here I thought I was a loser.”

There was a pause while both of them stared at a small shaft of light that had figured out how to wiggle through the dark curtains.

At length, Matthew said, “Thank you for staying all night.”

“Thank you for the money,” said Gerta.

“Why are you a prostitute?” he suddenly asked.

“Why do you ask foolish questions?” she countered, slinging her legs over the side of the bed, standing to her feet and scurrying into the bathroom for a quick pee.

“I’m sorry,” said Matthew, speaking through the wall. “I think being a prostitute is…unusual.”

She emerged, having donned panties, and slipping on his ragged t-shirt. She still looked beautiful.

“Listen, sir,” she said, sitting on the side of the bed. “Being a whore is unusual. Being a prostitute is a job. But that’s neither here nor there. I’m in my last two months.”

Matthew sat up, shocked. “Your last two months of what?”

She reached over, grabbed a cup of water and took a sip. “I am a contracted prostitute. You see, here in the Netherlands, everything is done by law, to keep things proper. So my contract is up in two months, and even though I’ve renewed three or four times, this is my last.”

“What will you do?” asked Matthew. “I’m not trying to be nosy, but since we’ve exchanged bodily fluids, I thought a little questioning might be permitted.”

She didn’t smile. It was obvious she did not find her work to be a matter of silliness. Her eyes suddenly lit up. It was like they began to dance across her face in jubilation.

“A month ago I went to Paris and participated in the Carlos Movement.”

Matthew nearly fainted. Never in his mind’s eye could he have envisioned laying in the bed of a prostitute in Amsterdam, trying to recover from a night of excessive marijuana, and hearing the name “Jubal Carlos.”

She proceeded on. “I went there on a lark. I was sure that since it was a religious movement, that once they found out I was a prostitute from Amsterdam, from the De Wallen, they would be condemning of me. So I walked up to one of the workers who appeared she might be the most prickly one, and I said, what do you think your Jesus feels about me? I’m a prostitute from Amsterdam.

“This worker took my hands and said, ‘Well, I know what he thinks. You’re the one he’s been waiting for.'”

Matthew closed his eyes. Had to be Sister Rolinda. No doubt about it. When he reopened his eyes, he saw that Gerta was crying.

“I don’t know why it struck me so,” she said, “and why it still moves my heart this morning, but the idea of Jesus waiting for me just overcame all my barriers. I danced, I ate, I embraced, I drank some wine and I listened to the message of Father Carlos. At the end I came back to the woman who said those words to me, and I told her, ‘I’m glad Jesus was waiting for me, because I have been waiting for him for a long time.’ She hugged me until I nearly broke and led me into a deeper understanding of a new beginning. So I came back here, gave my…notice? Is that what they say in America? Anyway, now I’m waiting.”

Matthew frowned. “You still didn’t answer my question. What will you do?”

“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. They asked me to join the team. They want me to fly around and share my story. I can’t think of anything more exciting.”

Matthew tried to lighten the moment. “So… Now you’ve been with Jesus. How would you rate him?”

Gerta stared at Matthew as if looking through his backbone all the way to his soul. It made him uncomfortable, so he tumbled out of the bed, searching unsuccessfully for his underwear. He slid on his pants and shoes, requested his shirt, plopped it on, and headed to the door.

He paused and turned back to Gerta, who was cradling her breasts. “What if telling your story is not as exciting as being a prostitute?”

Once again, she gave him that deep, all-knowing glance. “What if it’s not as painful?” she responded.

Matthew nodded his head, opened the door and entered the streets of Amsterdam, immediately hailing a cab. While waiting for his transportation to come to the curb, he was thinking.

How did this simple idea get all the way to De Wallen Street in Amsterdam?

The taxi rolled up, Matthew climbed in, and the young man sporting a big smile, who spoke in broken English, said, “Good morning, my brother.”

Matthew replied, “Take me to the airport.”

Seated in the back, Matthew looked up on the dashboard, where there would normally be a picture of the driver along with his license. In its place was a handbill with a photo of Jubal Carlos, and, in what appeared to be German, the words: “Live from Berlin.”

He glanced into the rearview mirror and saw the eyes of the cabbie.They were those eyes–bright, hopeful and mysteriously enlightened.

Matthew shook his head and whispered to himself, “Jesus Christ. He is everywhere.

 

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Dear Man/Dear Woman: A Noteworthy Conversation … October 15th, 2016

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Dear Man Dear Woman

Man: I’ve been really looking forward to talking to you about all this craziness in the political scene.

 

Woman: It’s really wacky, isn’t it?

 

Man: Yes, but I get tired of evaluating other people’s actions. The whole discussion got me thinking about my own conversations, interactions and dialogue with women. Am I saying the right things?

 

Woman: Do you think there are right things to say?

 

Man: Yes, I do. Matter of fact, I would like you to explain how some of the common phrases exchanged between men and women–well, how do they sound to you?

 

Woman: Well, I wouldn’t exactly know because we’re not in the moment.

 

Man: I get that. But can we try to discuss it?

 

Woman: Sure. Give me an example.

 

Man: Let’s say I just met you for the first time, and I walked up and said, “You’re so beautiful.” What would you think of that?

 

Woman: I think I would giggle inside. I wouldn’t be offended. But I also would know that you were coming from a school of thought which taught you that women need compliments in order to be opened up.

 

Man: You see–that’s great! Thank you. How about this? “I find you attractive.”

 

Woman: Actually, what you’re saying is that you see me as attractive, but you have no idea if my whole being is attractive to you or not.

 

Man: A third one. “Do you find me interesting?”

 

Woman: You’re asking me if you pass the “eyeball test.” In other words, is your face, body and physical being acceptable enough to catch my attention?

 

Man: How about, “Can I buy you a drink?”

 

Woman: Kind of weird.

 

Man: “Are you alone?”

 

Woman: Kind of stalker-creepy.

 

Man: “Do you think we could get together?”

 

Woman: Sounds like you suffer from over-confidence and have spent too much time speed-dating.

 

Man: I’ve heard that women like a more direct approach. Like this; “I think we should have an affair.”

 

Woman: Maybe when women are sitting around a table having consumed some alcohol, they pretend to be brave enough to field such an inquiry, but if a guy actually did that, we probably would desperately need to laugh out loud.

 

Man: And I would assume that laughing at a man is not a good sign, right?

 

Woman: Not unless he’s telling a joke.

 

Man: So what if it was a thoughtful question, like, “Are you experienced?”

 

Woman: Are you trying to hire a plumber, or a prostitute?

 

Man: You see, this is a great discussion. And maybe you don’t have the answer to this, but what do you think would be good, as a way to opening the door of possibility to another person?

 

Woman: Forgive me, but I think corny works. And by corny, I mean just awkward enough to know that the line hasn’t been rehearsed a thousand times in the mirror. I would be interested in any person–male or female–who would simply ask me, “Would you like to talk?”

 

Man: I like that. Will women respond well to that?

 

Woman: Probably not. Because we females have become so jaded by the Neanderthal approach toward sexuality. I think it would be nice if a man would just say, “I’ve been observing your interactions with people of all ages and I find your approach interesting.”

 

Man: Doesn’t that sound a little bit like a stalker, too?

 

Woman: Maybe, but not stalking to kill. Just watching to learn.

 

Man: So as a woman, what do you want to receive in the initial encounter?

 

Woman: Equity. Equal footing. The realization that I have a life that is real and functioning, and that I’m not waiting for a man to come along and complete me. So I’ll tell you a great question. I would be really impressed if a man would ask me, “What is your calling?”

 

Man: That sounds too old-fashioned.

 

Woman: Good. Old-fashioned isn’t bad just because it comes from a different era. Old-fashioned is still around because it’s worked.

 

Man: What I got out of our conversation is that any inclination toward physicality, sex, romance or even hooking up needs to be removed from the tone of the words, or it’s too shallow to wade into.

 

Woman: Very good. And keep in mind, romance is the by-product of a mutual understanding.

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Jesonian: Doctor’s Report… November 23, 2014

 Jonathots Daily Blog

(2422)

Jesus and MM big

Jesus had a penis.

Not only do these two words, “Jesus” and “penis” somewhat rhyme, but they are also included by a doctor named Luke in his account on the life of the Nazarene, stating that at eight days of age, the little fellow was circumcised.

Let me explain that circumcision is normally associated as a procedure done to the male penis.

So it is rather doubtful if any denomination or theologian would question the authenticity of Dr. Luke’s report, but instead, would find anyone such as myself, who would highlight it, as being gauche or perhaps sacrilegious. (For after all, our greatest concern is not to discover the truth, but instead, to make sure it fits in with present thinking.)

But it is very important to us that Jesus had a penis. And if you happen to be a male yourself, you understand that this appendage comes with a package of possibilities and problems.

The Good Book does nothing to deter us from understanding this. It states that Jesus was tempted in all ways as we are, and that he was touched with our infirmities.

But the importance does not lie in discussing the propriety of the “Jesus penis,” but to realize that deep within his teaching is a sensuality that cannot be mistaken.

  • He referred to the church, which he founded, as “the bride of Christ” and to himself as “the bridegroom.” What’s that all about?

He made it clear in the Sermon on the Mount that “he who looks on a woman to lust after her has already committed adultery in his heart.” Is this speculation? Doctrinal intrigue? Or personal discovery?

  • He told Nicodemus that “we all must be born again.”
  • He brought everything of heaven down to earthly understanding. Thus the use of parables.
  • And even though the modern church focuses on the Eucharist, which, by the way, has us eating his flesh and drinking his blood–quite intimate–the shocking experience of that Last Supper was when he stripped his clothes away, wrapped a towel around his waist, and washed the feet of his comrades.
  • He felt no embarrassment in telling the multitudes that a man and woman were meant to cleave to one another and become one flesh.
  • He incurred the wrath of the sexually inhibited Pharisees when a woman who was a prostitute came and anointed his feet with her tears as she kissed them, wiping away the moisture with her own hair. That’s seductive.

His ministry was intimate.

  • So tender was his sensitivity that rather than healing lepers at a distance, he insisted on making a sensory connection by touching them.
  • He placed all the children on his knee and put his hands on them to bless them.

When you remove the sensuality from Jesus, you lose an understanding of the compassion he had for his fellow human beings.

And where did that compassion come from? Was it merely infused from a supernatural Holy Spirit, generating power from on high?

Or was it a man who had a penis, who was therefore made more sensitive to his brothers and his sisters?

Dr. Luke did us a favor. He let us know that Jesus lived a life with genitalia. Therefore Jesus pissed, he had wet dreams, he had erections and he had inclinations to lust–because the little fellow who rents the downstairs insists on all of that.

We will be a better church when we realize that Jesus was born with no advantage, but because he allowed the Holy Spirit into his heart, it opened the door to a love of others that was accentuated by his sensory anointing. 

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Like … March 4, 2012

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Love is over-rated.

It is a panacea of promises often deteriorating into a garbage can stuffed with disappointment.Although it is pure in its intentions, it is tainted by the greedy and the needy, who unwittingly pervert its purposes. For after all, the Southern plantation owner loved his family and his state, whistling Dixie while simultaneously abusing a race of people. Adolph Hitler proclaimed his love for Germany while murdering its inhabitants. The early American settlers loved their freedom and the prospects of new land, as they rolled their wagons over the dreams of the Native Americans. Then we have the concept that it is possible–supposedly–to love the sinner while hating the sin. And finally, is there any adult who has abused a child who doesn’t perpetuate the myth of undying love for his or her offspring? Love is a tattered emotional blanket that we throw across a frigid humanity, self-satisfied that everyone is now warm.

Yet we know the Bible says that God is love, so why is our love so different from God‘s? What does God possess in His implementation of love that is so separate from our meager efforts?

God likes people. We don’t. Simple.

Yes, God likes people. What a magnificent word–like..  Mainly because it has two immediate applications: like–as in having affection, and like–as in perceiving a connection.

  • “I like you.” In other words, I have taken the time to find reasons to be favorable to your continued existence as a person.
  • “I am like you.” I have taken an equal space of my attention span to discover ways that you and I are similar instead of focusing on our differences.

There are also two reasons our love is tainted.

1. We believe that everybody is different. If everybody is different, we can’t find enough in each other that is like us to cause us to like one another. God rejected this concept. Matter of fact, the Bible makes two things clear–“God is no respecter of persons” and “God so loved the world.” Do you see it? He thinks we’re so much alike that He refers to us as “the world.”

2. Our love is ineffective because of our ongoing contention that we were “born” some way. It is the universal copout that keeps us from dealing with who we are and allowing ourselves the possibility of being born again.

So if I’m different from you, I can love you in the abstract and not like you in the present. And if I was born this way, all of my actions can be excused by my genetic fallibility. Somewhere along the line, we need to learn how to like one another. Like is the kindness and gentleness that props up the concept of love. Like is the willingness to adapt to the needs of others, even when our present thinking may be contrary to theirs. Like is considering the value of another person instead of contemplating how easy it would to function without them. Like is when we abandon the importance of our cause for the primary mission of respecting and honoring the human race.

We heard a talk show host this week call a young woman he had never met a “slut” and a “prostitute.” He did it because he loves America. He did it because he loves the tenets of his movement. He did it because he loves truth enough to call an ace an ace, a spade a spade and obviously, a whore a whore. What he said was, in his own mind, rooted in the concept of love. But because his statement lacked tenderness, humanity, concern, awareness or even vulnerability, it left his rendition of love empty of virtue.

I will tell you this–Jesus would not appear to be loving if he had just quoted scriptures or taught on the subject. I am a follower of Jesus because he had compassion, he was moved by people’s faith and he put children on his knee and embraced them, defending them against overly zealous grown-ups.

Jesus liked people. If Jesus hadn’t like people, not only would he be useless to us, but honestly, he wouldn’t be Jesus. So neither am I a Christian–a follower of Jesus–when I superficially place love in a position of predominance and deny my fellow human beings the opportunity to be liked by me.

My principle is very simple: it’s “like or hike.”

Plainly, if I can’t like someone, I’m going to give them the great gift of getting out of their way and allow them the freedom to pursue their dreams without my allegedly loving intervention.I am not going to sit around and question whether I agree with people, but rather, whether I can be of any use to them, encouragement to them, or edification to them. Can I offer them a good bathing in my likability?

Love will become a powerful word again and a universal energy when we insert “like” back into our vocabulary and actions. Like is when I have affection that admits I have a connection.

  • I am not black, but I know what it’s like for people to have prejudice against me.
  • I am not Hispanic, but I know what it’s like to be treated like an alien instead of welcomed like a new settler.
  • I am not gay, but I know what it’s like to be spied on and viewed unfavorably.
  • I am not a woman but I certainly know what it’s like to be treated with inequality.

If you’re not going to like someone, get the hell out of the way, because you can bring no heaven to them.

Let’s give love a chance. Let’s start by liking one another.

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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.

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