Our Father, Who ART … April 28, 2012

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God worries me.

I mean, after all the years of Him fidgeting over my foibles, maybe it’s my turn to do a little worrying. What worries me about God is that in an attempt to keep free will intact and faith functioning, He puts promotion of His concepts and even His identity into some pretty pitiful hands. So what really troubles me is that I am asked to believe in some One or some Thing that is so ill-defined that the minute I try to concretely establish my devotion in a particular direction, one of these “authorities” will step in and tell me that I am erred in my assertion.

There is no doubt about it–God definitely needs a better public relations firm to represent Him.

Because some people portray His Holiness as being a business man–“business as usual.” “How’s the corporation of the universe coming along?” “Let’s take a look at the bottom line.” “We’ll be able to increase profits if we lay off a few people, send a typhoon and eliminate the competition.” Am I the only one who has trouble envisioning Our Father as Donald Trump? Do I really want to worship some CEO who’s always plotting whether it’s time to fire me?

Then there are others who would lead you to believe that God’s a politician. Matter of fact, I think they would insist that He’s opened up some branch office of heaven right outside Washington, D.C., near the Beltway. So the minute you think you know what His position is on some particular issue, it may change to gain a political advantage over His enemy, who is obviously anyone who is not conservative–or wait a minute–that could be liberal. So even though I want to be extended grace, I want it because I did fall short of a great ideal and need to repent–not because I’ve been deemed to be in an adversarial party or because some deal has been struck in the back room of a committee, changing the rules. I don’t want God to be a businessman, and I certainly don’t want Him to be a politician.

A preacher?? Do I really want to believe that Our Father is religious? I think of the religious people I’ve known in my life–and many of them have had attributes of generosity, kindness and purity, but with that has come an extremely grumpy side–prone to being judgmental. I can’t afford Our Father to be judgmental. I don’t want to live in a household that wants me to cry over spilled milk. And I don’t want to believe the Ten Commandments dictate whether I will be loved on any particular day. I really don’t appreciate my whole life being broken down to an anecdote followed by three points with a closing benediction.

But on the other hand, I don’t want Him to be a doting daddy. I don’t need to imagine Our Father walking around heaven showing the angels the latest pictures of me on my vacation in Virginia Beach. I do hope there’s no room in glory where every trophy, blue ribbon and A+ I ever received on a paper is on display. I need more than that–more than confirmation that everything I do is all right, or condemnation that everything I do is less than acceptable.

I think there are folks who think that Our Father is nothing more than a manufacturer–kind of like He had this great idea for a new universe, put it together, started to market it, lost interest and is now just looking for someone to purchase it so He can unload the problem. I do not want to believe that I don’t matter. In my more generous moments, I don’t want to believe that YOU don’t matter.

Likewise, I would not want to go along with the folks who insist that God is a great scientist. Is it really all just an experiment? Are we just specimens, brought in to test new products? In other words, is one lab rat just as good as another? Is He looking for answers at the bottom of a test tube? Or is He really interested in all of my inward parts?

I’ve gone up and down the list of possibilities of what God might be like–paralleling the avocations and occupations of our earth–and at the end of my search, I’ve only come up with one acceptable, pleasing alternative:

Our Father, who ART…

That’s it. God is ART. He’s an artist. There it was, all the time, buried in that Lord’s Prayer–and we thought it was just a transitional verb.

It makes sense, doesn’t it? What do we know about artists?

• They’re always trying to create something. Doesn’t that sound like God?
• They’re willing to evolve. Hell-o?? You see what I mean?
• They’re looking for beauty in everything, including a pile of trash, which they turn into performance art. That’s me, baby!
• They’re a little Bohemian–not stuffy and staunch, like Aunt Mabel following Sunday services.
• They’re interested in other people’s creative ventures.
• They always believe there’s something that could be done from scratch to make things enlightened.
• They are struggling. Don’t you want to have a God who is still trying to find ways to improve the situation?
• And they are neither liberal nor conservative, just … thinking. If thinking is against the law of any organization, you probably shouldn’t join.

God is an artist. That’s it! He would like to make a profit, like a businessman, but if He doesn’t, He’ll open up another can of tuna. He’s willing to enter the political world to try to get his art more recognition–but as long as a little child stops, stares and smiles, He’s pleased. He wants to proclaim the great joy of birthing a new, glorious project, but doesn’t sit around and criticize others who don’t catch the vision. He dotes a bit over His creations, but also is very well aware of the place where a little bit more blue would have been preferable to the moss green. He is a manufacturer, but resents the notion that any one of His creations could be exactly duplicated on an assembly line. And He has a process–a faithful of procuring of the energy from within His soul to produce His art–but He wouldn’t call it a formula, like a scientist does.

There you go.

I feel so much better. I don’t have to worry about God anymore. It was especially becoming distressing to me in this day and age, when atheists and agnostics are beginning to arrive in more attractive packages. When I grew up the only recognizable atheist was Madeline Murray O’Hare, who greatly resembled the witch who ate Hansel and Gretel. But now we have comedians, actors, politicians and cool people denying “Our Father.” All you have to do to get the best parts of a Creator is remove all the worst parts of promoting Him. I would tell Bill Maher that our world is better with Our Father.

I don’t need religion–which brings in the businessman, the politician, the preacher, the daddy, the manufacturer or the scientist. I do require Our Father, who ART. I want a friend who likes to make things from scratch and proudly display them as part of His own soul. I want a beatnik Creator–so that at some point, after I’ve shed this mortal frame, I can greet Him, give Him some skin and say: “Cool, Daddy-o.”

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MJ …

Question 3: Can I keep going if it doesn’t get better?

April 27, 2012

 

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

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I met her quite by accident.

I had finally manipulated my way into getting a guest spot on the Teddy Bart Show in Nashville, Tennessee. It was one of those regional talk shows common in the 1970′s and had quite a following in a three or four state area. At least, that’s my memory. The show had never invited a gospel group onto perform before, so it was quite a victory to be appearing on the venue.

It was great. After the performance, I received a phone call from some unknown gentleman who told me that he was a representative for Marijohn Wilkin. I knew the name because she was a fairly well-known songwriter at the time, having just penned, performed and promoted the songs, One Day at a Time (Sweet Jesus) and I Have Returned.The man on the other end of the line said that he had set up a meeting for me with Ms. Wilkin for that very afternoon. He gave me directions and informed me that I needed to be there promptly at 1:30 P.M.

Well, you can imagine–I was thrilled. I had gone from being a Central Ohio boy whom nobody liked because I wouldn’t “work a job” and persisted in pursuing music, to being a fellow who had a group that won some contests, transforming into a bit older guy who had one of his songs signed by a group called The Rambos–a popular gospel group at the time. And now, having just appeared on the Teddy Bart Show, I was being pursued by a successful artist and writer for further consideration.

So as requested, promptly at 1:30 P.M., I, along with my group, arrived at Buckhorn Publishers on Music Row in Nashville, walking in the door like I kind of owned the place and announcing myself to the secretary. She stared down at her appointment book in bewilderment, disappeared into a nearby office and I realized there must be some problem. After what seemed to be an interminable delay, a slight woman finally appeared from the inner office, wearing a scarf on her head, dangling earrings and greatly resembling a gypsy princess. Her voice was husky–like she had been up for two or three nights straight, screaming at a parcel of kids. She was a bit gruff, so she kind of scared me, but through the hoarse voice and gruff mannerisms, I received an invitation to come into her office with my group.

She proceeded to explain that no appointment had been made for us and that the gentleman who called on the phone was an old alcoholic buddy of hers who occasionally pranked innocent boys and girls from Ohio who came to Nashville looking for fame and success, throwing her name around to make himself look important. I was humiliated–devastated. I was in a strange lady’s office who had the entire garb and persona to cast a spell on me.

She didn’t. Instead, she asked to hear our music. We stayed there for the next four hours and talked, laughed and cried. She became my friend. She was my producer. I spent hours and hours at her lovely home on the outskirts of Nashville, talking about music, playing music, meeting famous people and swimming in her pool–warmed to a perfect 98.6 degrees.

I remember many things about that experience, but one of the things I will always take with me is that Marijohn would occasionally fall apart. She wouldn’t show up at work and they would tell me that she was at home, trying to get over “a spell.” When I inquired further, I was given no information, and the attitude was that I should keep my nose to myself. I don’t do that very well, so I decided to drive out one time during one of those spells, to find out what was actually going on. During the drive, I had all sorts of imaginations–drug addiction, alcoholism, and … well, I was young. My brain went kind of nutzoid.

When I arrived, she was alone in her living room with her legs propped up–reading. She welcomed me in and I knelt down next to her, took her hand and asked, “Marijohn, what’s wrong with you?”

She quietly set her book aside and removed her reading classes, looked me in the eye and said, “Son, I have cardiovascular disease. Every once in a while it just hurts to move, think and breathe, and if I just shut down for a season, I appear to get better.”

I asked her if there was anything they could do. She said they were doing that–and more–but still, there were times where nothing worked as well as general “stoppage.” She also said she used those times to write, think and pray–and to look deeply into her soul. She jokingly told me that without the cardiovascular disease she might avoid all of those things.

I felt like I had stepped on holy ground. The room was so quiet, so preciously charged with spiritual energy, that I was unworthy to be there and was an interruption instead of a blessed presence of visitation. She sensed my awkwardness and said, “I’m glad you came. But you must understand–if it weren’t for this problem I have, I would never have written One Day at a Time (Sweet Jesus). I may have never have written anything at all. I would not call this condition my friend, but it is an enemy that fools me from time to time by providing me with unexpected gifts.”

I excused myself, went out and got into my beat-up Volkswagen Beetle with the dent in the nose and headed back to Nashville. I learned something that day. Here was a woman who had no particular prospects of her situation ever getting better, who ignored bitterness, rejected complacency and eschewed self-pity–to continue to produce the gift that life had provided for her.

Since that day, my youthful frame has gained miles of carriage usage. I, too, have developed pains. I, too, have acquired “spells.” And every time I am accosted with my own mortal aching, I remember that morning in that living room, where I knelt by the side of a brave woman who looked on her affliction as an affection that lured her towards beauty.

I try to do it myself. I try to be brave. I try to put my feet up and let life go by for a few minutes, so that God can come in for just a little while.

Marijohn lived for many years. I suppose the cardiovascular disease finally caught up with her and took her for one eternal “spell”–to a place where she could perpetually be creative. I suppose that will happen to all of us eventually.

Until then, our only job remains to keep going–even if it doesn’t get better.

 

A Petty Party… April 16, 2012

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Apathy, lying and envy.

They are like three homely sisters perched on their beds late at night, brushing their hair, gossiping about all the faults of their friends and neighbors until they are adequately convinced they are better than everyone else and can ease into their beds to snore the night away.

A petty party.

It begins with apathy. “I don’t care to become better.” The only trouble with the doctrine of self-esteem is that it often stagnates the human spirit into accepting the present status instead of improving the situation. We are just “better” when we’re trying to do better. We are happier when we don’t accept sadness as “our lot.” We are more spiritual when we don’t settle for religion.

Because after we become apathetic, lying joins the party. “I will lie and do whatever is necessary to deceive people so that I look better.” Once you accept the fact that apathy is going to be your profile for ongoing endeavors, you immediately face a difficulty. The world around us demands improvement, so if we’re not going to actually improve anything, we’re going to have to lie about it. And if we do decide to lie about it, there will be a challenge to our claims–which brings us to envy.

What is envy? “I will destroy what you are doing–which is obviously better–with my lies.”  For after all, the accomplishments of a dedicated soul can be devastated in a  moment of time by a careless lie told by an envious bystander. It’s what concerns me about our country. You see, “patriotic” I understand–loving the freedom, liberty and “justice for all” that sets this nation apart as a beacon of the possibility of truth. What I do not understand is the apathy that creates lying and a nasty bit of envy, causing us to replace “patriotic” with “pettry-otic.”

Yes, we have begun to tear down other people’s ideas, the endeavors of governments not our own and the accomplishments of individuals across our world simply because they’re not American. Rather than setting a higher standard for ourselves based upon the luxuries and freedoms we enjoy, we have decided to lower our standards and simply criticize the rest of the world.

I refuse to join this petty party. I feel the only way I personally achieve greatness is by utilizing my gift, enjoying the fruits, and simultaneously analyzing how I can do it better. I am astounded that both Republican and Democrat are guilty of pandering to the American public with a political philosophy of, “I’m okay–you’re okay” instead of challenging this great nation to greatness. There is no excuse for a country with as much financial possibility as we possess to either be in debt or to lack in the creative abilities to place us at the forefront. But because we’ve decided that we don’t want to get better, and no one can tell us that we should, we welcome the spirit of lying, which causes us to become envious of other cultures, attacking them and finding fault with their ways. Here is the definition of greatness:

“I will continue to do what I know to do until I am shown something better and then I will gratefully receive it and include it in my life–to pursue better.”

If that is not the mission statement of our country, then we have lost our way. In this election year, I don’t know if there will be anybody with enough guts to say that we Americans have become lazy and have replaced the pride over past accomplishments for the pursuit of present ones. Will anyone have the truthfulness to tell the American people that we JOINED the banks and Wall Street in a financial gluttony that has left us all a bit destitute? Will anyone have the audacity to say how ridiculous it is that we are still fighting racial issues in our country after nearly four hundred years of struggle? And is there any politician who will be willing to speak aloud that American productivity has dropped as we’ve allowed apathy, lying and envy to replace workmanship?

As I stood in front of the congregation in San Diego yesterday morning, I gazed upon a group of people who had so much potential, yet are told by their society that they need not concern themselves with transformation, but instead are given the constant message that “they are all right because they are Americans and Christians.” Well let me tell you, being American and Christian comes with a truckload of responsibility. Being an American means to give freedom to everyone else if you expect it for yourself, and being a Christian requires that you love your neighbor everywhere just as much as you love yourself.

There’s a petty party going on. Criticism, sarcasm and frustration have triggered apathy, lying and envy in us instead of challenging us to ask that most holy question:

“Thank you Lord, for blessing me. Now … how can I do it better?”

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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.