On to my third installment in the Left Behind series commentary! :)

The Indwelling
Okay, this is the one where Nicolae Carpathia comes back from the dead (cheese, cheese, cheese!), but it also happens to be one of the best written novels in the series--again, for character development. The dialogue is punchier, the plots are (thank God) more realistic, and the spiritual aspects of Rayford's and Chaim's journeys toward (or back) to faith are at once poignant and three-dimensional. The death of Chaim's staff at the hands of the GC is at once shocking and brutal, and the novel bestows on it an appropriate tone, worthy of the characters we have come to know and love since Apollyon. Even Fortunato's character development, the transition from eager "resurrected" devotee of Carpathia to antichrist's right hand man, is striking, disturbing, and real.

Some dislike this novel for covering only 3 days--personally, I think their complaints are unwarranted. Given the tautness of the story, and the changes that take place in the characters over these three days, it is appropriate (and, I think, a credit to the authors) to use time as a device through which to telescope, or zoom into, the interior motivations and foibles of each of the novel's main characters (good and bad). In particular, I enjoyed David Hassid's pissing match with Guy Blod--and his qualms (and inner turmoil) over how to conduct himself toward Blod in a mature and Christian way. (At that point, he became very 3-dimensional for me, in a way that he hadn't been in previous novels of the series.)

My one complaint is that while Carpathia's resurrection is (appropriately) scary, he doesn't really seem to have changed. Except for a little obnoxious misquoting of New Testament verses, and a pledge to bring "great tribulation" on the Christians of the world, his new status as a walking zombie (for lack of a better term) seems to be the most disturbing of his "new" qualities. (I was actually expecting a more "grand" entrance from the "new and improved" version of Carpathia--like Paul Etrades from Dune, calling the people of his world to worship him and come together under his godhood for a great galactic struggle. :))

Aside from this complaint, however, I think this book is definitely one of the top 3 in the series--and a good read on its own as well.

The Mark
More of Carpathia's "new" character seeps out (his killing of James Hickman's informant is one of the most shocking and brutal of the series), and more 3-dimensional character development occurs as well, especially for David (whose heartbreak at the loss of his paramour is so poignant that I found Hannah's attempts to get his attention rather insensitive). However, what this novel lacks in pace (almost every reader I've spoken with has made the complaint that almost nothing significant happens in the 400+ pages of this book), it also lacks in the depiction of its characters.

I was particularly disturbed at the extent to which Hattie Durham, who finally (after 7 books :)) makes a faith committment, fades into the shadows. Going from main character to annoying mascot--what the hell?? It almost seemed, particularly in the wake of the next book, that the authors had spent so much time developing her as an evil stubborn bitch that they didn't know what to do with her now that she was making some healthy faith (and relational) steps. To me, it was a golden opportunity for the authors to describe a destroyed life in recovery (by the power of God), but instead, they chose to describe a rather energetic (and barely tolerated) woman.

Personally, I felt Hattie deserved better than that.

Cameron's rescue of Zeke is predictable to the point of cliche, and Rayford's conversation with Zeke about his father's death didn't sit well with me. I kept thinking, "It's good advice, but is this a conversation that two flesh and blood human beings would actually have?" On the other hand, David's conversations with Mac, Abdullah, and even Hannah about his fiancee's death seem very real and very gritty.

The main problem with this book (other than Hattie) is that nothing happens. The mark of the Beast--and the new agenda of Carpathia--are covered in chapters 1 and 2, rendering everything that comes afterward (in particular the mass execution sequences in Greece) an exercise in going through the motions. And Carpathia still doesn't seem all that different, even with the execution of one of his subordinates (and his newfound ability to live indefinitely without sleeping)--there's no grand vision, there's no plan to move the masses into a holy war, and there doesn't really seem to be any power at all (which, I suppose, is the authors' point).

Personally, I would have expected something quite darker and scarier--for example, the recipients of Carpathia's mark becoming as "undead," and as evil, as he is. (It certainly would have made Chang's position far more frightening--and real--than it is at novel's end.)

(analysis to be continued)

BTW, I wanted to let all my faithful readers know that I have already landed a job interview (I am so stoked!), so those of you out there who pray, please pray for my strength and security, and that I will have favor.

On with my analysis of the Left Behind series!

Soul Harvest
Definitely one of the strongest of the Left Behind novels, Soul Harvest contains gritty, three-dimensional character development, snappy dialogue, and a pace that leaves the reader hungry for more. The dark side gets darker, the evil "GC" gets more brutal (check out Carpathia's revenge plan against Hattie Durham--damn!), and the "good guys" find it increasingly hard to maintain any semblance of freedom. Worse, Rayford is confronted with a personal setback that costs his faith dearly--his is the most emotionally "taut" portion of the story, although Cameron's search for his wife is no less so.

Prepare for realistic plot development (thank God) and realistic character behavior. Our "heroes" do not turn out to be as emotionally resourceful as they'd planned, especially with God's war of words (and actions) with antichrist heating up--and Hattie Durham makes some surprising moves in a positive emotional direction.

Apollyon
Aside from the (shockingly bad) premise that the masses of the world can only be "reached" through a Billy Graham-style evangelistic crusade, this novel has a lot going for it. :) (Oh, and Hattie Durham's sudden "I want to be a global assassin" kick--what the hell???)

Overall, character development sucks in this novel--our "heroes" become two-dimensional, our "villains" become two-dimensional, and even God doesn't seem to have a very three-dimensional presence, beyond casually raining destruction after destruction on the Earth. The horror of the locusts from Revelation 9 is quite graphic--and provides one of the two sources of real character development in the book (dear God, as if Hattie Durham weren't enduring the floodgates of hell opening up on her life already!). The other source is, of course, the death of Ken Ritz, which is very adroitly handled by LaHaye and Jenkins--in its wake, we see the main characters facing and dealing with the intrepid complexities of life (for example, Cameron finding comfort from the men who subsequently burn two soldiers to death with fire from their mouths). For the first time, we see the "good guys" dealing with the immediacy (and potential brutality) of death at the hands of their enemies, and it is quite a sobering moment for them.

The change that occurs in Rayford, beginning from the end of the previous novel, continues--and provides one of the most compelling elements of the story.

Assassins
I'm not a big fan of novels with random, roving points of view--and this one is no exception. Carpathia dies . . . who cares? No one knows who killed him . . . so what? And Mac and David Hassid are running an underground operation (or 10) behind closed doors at Carpathia's new palace . . . should we care?

This novel contains so much gunplay, random assassination attempts, and even more random violence that I left the book wondering not "who killed Nicolae" but "what the hell just happened?!" The only person whose death seems anywhere near appropriately handled is Floyd Charles, the refugees' resident medical expert (Cameron's reaction in the car is priceless--"WHAT?!"). However, the other characters' deaths (or near misses) are rather slipshod--Dwayne and Trudy struck me as tragic losses, but only because they were innocents dragged into a deadly situation, not because they had achieved any depth as three-dimensional characters. The GC officers who die at the hands of the horsemen of Revelation 9, the disloyal GC subordinate whose family is assassinated, and (of course) the bane of our "heroes"' existence, Pope Peter the Second, are simply getting what they (richly) deserve.

Moreover, LaHaye's interpretation of the latter half of Revelation 9 seems rather odd to me--where does he get that the horsemen described in this passage kill only those who have not repented of their sin? (From what I see, it says only that they kill a third of mankind--seems pretty indiscriminate to me.) On top of that, they break their own rules with the "collateral" death of Jonas, which is, in my opinion, a rather clumsy way to get Chaim to reconsider his movement toward faith.

By novel's end, I was more glad Nicolae died than anything else. (Oh yeah, he's supposed to come back from the dead in the next book. Yippee . . . )

Oh, and isn't it hilarious how Nicolae's prayer to Satan is so "shocking" and "offensive" (or presumably should be to the Christian reader)? I hate to burst your bubble out there, Left Behind fans, but when I was a self-styled Satanist, I prayed prayers like that all the time. (And so did, and do, many other self-styled Satanists as well.)

(analysis to be continued)

Today I am operating on approximately 1 hour's sleep after my second clubbing experience, which turned out to be (as I thought) far more intense than my previous visit to the Lizard Lounge . . .

The difference: Rather than a digital/video DJ (a machine) there were live electronica performances from 9pm to 4am.

I had originally thought of bagging this trip, particularly when I looked outside my apartment window and saw that monsoon season had apparently inaugurated itself in the DFW Metroplex, but I figured, hey, what the hell. :) (After all, I had a plan to stay all night in Dallas and use their transportation system to get back to Fort Worth--rather than paying $100 for a cab, which was an expense I didn't really need at the time.) I made my way to the Lizard Lounge, retraced my route to the Metro Diner (a 24/7 eat-in establishment across from Baylor Medical Center, just up the road), and stood waiting at the front doors for 30 minutes, listening to two dance DJ officianados talking about the genre and the resident DJ scene in Dallas.

A crowd had already lined up at the doors by the time they opened, an improvement from last week (see previous posts on the topic), and when I walked in, the atmosphere was explosive. Two DJ's were already dishing out live electronica--one in the main dance hall and one in the video lounge (basically a dance floor) adjacent to the main room. People were coming in, the UV lights were on (yes, UV lights), and there was no movie screen--only a lighted stained-glass window where the screen had been the week before.

At one point, I turned around and realized that I was one of approximately a dozen people in the room. I wondered "Where the hell did everybody go?", so I went to the video lounge to check out the action there. As soon as I saw the floor crammed with pulsing, gyrating human bodies moving to the trance beats, I said to myself, "Hmmm, maybe this is where the action is at." Then I said, "Eh, I'd rather watch the other DJ", so I walked back out into the main room again.

Approximately an hour later, the light show began in earnest, and people were steadily streaming in (I could see a rather large crowd gathered at the bar). Then, it happened . . .

As more and more people filled the main room, and as the headline DJ closed his set (and the next DJ began a new one), the atmosphere became electrifying. Very shortly, it was standing room only, and I could hear people screaming applause as the DJ's cranked out progressive house music. At some point, a woman started dancing on the dance floor, joined by a man, then another man, and then the club became a pulsing, throbbing den of humanity. It became impossible not to join in, not to dance, not to allow the music, the moment, and the atmosphere become alive inside of me.

The first time I had come to this club, my "dancing" was confined to simple upper body movement while sitting in a chair.

This time, I was moving my entire body--my feet, my hands, my hips, my head--to the rhythm of a night that seemed like it wouldn't end. (Ladies and gentlemen, those of you reading this who know me in real life should be shocked beyond comprehension at what I just said.) I was part of this . . . I was in it . . . and it was part of me.

I never actually got out on the dance floor (primarily because I was staying in the back, near my leather jacket, to make sure no one stole it :)), but I danced, and I didn't care what anyone thought of it, or how I looked. I was one with the music, and the music was one with me, and that was all that mattered--and all, it seemed, that would matter.

The night had so many highlights--I want to share them in brief (and obviously my spiritual and bodily awakening counts as one):

1. The only time that I spoke with someone (a woman this time) was when I was asked if I had a cigarette lighter. (In fact, I have been asked that question so many times--inside and outside the Lounge--over the past 12 hours that I'm thinking about buying one, just to promote fellowship and conversation with other people.) Oh, and there was the woman who bumped into me while I was dancing and said "sorry, doll" (I thought it was really cool that she called me "doll," of course :)).

2. Glow-sticking--I saw lots of it. It's quite an amazing art form, in fact. Several guys in the main room were swirling glow sticks in the air with the skill of martial artists--reds, greens, blues, leaving a rope-like effect on the eyes as they swished through the air. The winner of the award for best glow-sticker goes to a couple who took turns using their very bright blue and green glow sticks on the dance floor with the skill of master nunchukers (they would have given Michaelangelo from the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles a run for his money :)).

3. Lesbians and gays--they were in attendance. I saw two gay men stroking each other affectionately at the table next time (early in the evening), and I saw two women dancing with each other on the dance floor, kissing, and doing the bump-and-grind together in a very erotic fashion.

4. Early in the night (I believe it was toward the end of the first or second DJ set), one of the women jumped one of the men on stage where the DJ's were playing, and engaged in a five minute kissing and full body wraparound session that was so atavistic it knocked him to the ground.

5. This was followed an hour later by another 5 minute make-out session that involved a woman virtually slamming into a man she saw walking in her direction (in this one, the woman pretty much hopped onto the man's chest, wrapping her legs around his waist, and the two of them fully embraced, completely oblivious to everything that was happening around them).

6. More kissing--this time at the table next to mine. A couple took a standing position by the table, and the woman (a striking blonde) engaged in an erotic kissing session with her lover . . . which evolved into an erotic bump-and-grind with him sitting in a chair and her . . . on top of him. (I thought she was about to go topless for a couple of minutes--they were totally on the edge of making something happen.)

7. (Yes, there is a 7.) Remember my post about the go-go dancers, and how there weren't any last time? Well, this time they made an appearance. :) Two did a dance directly over the stage, one did a dance around a pole off to the side, and . . . then there was the blonde in a short mini-skirt who outdid them all (and got major-league catcalls from the crowd). It was around 3:15am, and I looked up and noticed her dancing lightly around the pole I mentioned . . . then I stood up when I saw her wrapping her legs around the pole and doing an erotic dance that left me speechless (well, more speechless than I was :)). It was then followed by an erotic dance with a man who walked onto that portion of the stage with her, in which she proceeded to wrap her legs around him--after which 3 other (female) dancers joined in, until what I saw could best be described as a gyrating, throbbing assemblage of arms, legs, and bodies, a mass of human sexuality.

8. The crowd didn't really begin thinning out until the last go-go dance (4 girl ensemble described above) ended--and then the only people that were left were a dozen or so stragglers who kept dancing, slowly and exhaustedly, as the DJ pounded out beat after beat of drum and bass. Some, however, had been dancing quite energetically for several hours straight--including one Asian man who did things with his feet I thought were impossible.

9. (I forgot to add this one.) Speaking of feet, there was a woman who came in (and stayed for approximately 30 minutes or so) who used her shoe lights as glow sticks of a sort. It was quite interesting to watch her dance--she definitely had skill, and knew how to use her feet well.



I stayed (again) until dawn, and carried out my plan for getting back to Fort Worth without having to spend $100 on cab fare (or anything else). I had breakfast at the Metro Diner (see above) as I had planned, and I found the place to be quite homey and friendly (it reminded me of a couple of the small town dives where I grew up). While I was there, the staff were talking about some of the more colorful customers they had had--including a man who decided to use the straw they had given him to snort cocaine. (She said it took a couple of big men to get him to leave the premises--he was, apparently, rather high.)

I made my way to the Dallas Union Station after that, and nine hours later . . . here I am. :)

I'm not sure if I'm going to go again next week or not--it depends on how caught up on sleep I am (and how much hearing I've recovered--shit, that drum and bass was deafening), and also it depends on how I feel my body is coping with a (now) weekly cycle in which it loses one night of sleep. Still . . . Above and Beyond is playing, and apparently, it's going to be a standing-room only crowd . . .

We'll see . . . :)

I'm currently looking around for a part-time job, and (God help us all) I'm doing it online, so prayers and encouragement are appreciated.

You know, it's been half a year (or a little over half) since a church I had been attending for 6 years disbanded--and during that time, I was an avid fan of the Left Behind book series (you know, the book series that outlined, in detail, what Christians (or some Christians) believe will happen at the end of the world?). Since my deprogramming from the cultural and religious ideologies of the Christian Right, however, I have come to see these books as not only exploitative (i.e. playing on religious fears and fixations for profit) but also, in my mind, a tad dangerous. And as my current church is now engaging in a deconstruction of The Da Vinci Code, I suppose I should probably engage in a similar deconstruction of Tim LaHaye and Jerry Jenkins' trademark synopsis of the end of the world.

Left Behind
The eignature book in the series, Left Behind is also the worst-written book in the series (the others don't get much better). Needless repetition, pointless dialogue (in particular a conversation about abortion that goes nowhere and has nothing to do with the book's plot), and character development that is at times faulty mar what otherwise is an intriguing look at a future in which the charismatic pre-Tribulation rapture actually happens. Of particular interest here, however, is the premise (quite openly articulated) that a person's claim of Christianity does not necessarily imply his/her belief in Christianity.

Tribulation Force
At the end of Left Behind, three men and one woman come together to form a sort of spiritual (and psychological) resistance group against the forces of darkness which are gathering in the wake of the pre-Tribulation rapture that has left the entire human race paralyzed and in desperate need for leadership--any leadership. However, as the book progresses, it becomes clear to the reader that much of their "suffering" is quite tame (demotion, sudden threat of unemployment, etc.), and in some cases (for example, Rayford's ex-lover's campaign of terror against his family) self-inflicted. Moreover, as the book progresses, it becomes harder and harder to dislike the character who, by this point, has become the signature "bad guy" of the series--Nicolae Carpathia. After all, aside from a double murder (of victims who, it seems, desperately deserved it) and occultic brainwashing of the men and women who will become his lieutenants, Carpathia doesn't seem to be doing anything all that bad. (By contrast, God doesn't seem to be coming off too well here and in the previous book--turning an entire world into a living nightmare by zapping his people away from their loved ones, sending two emissaries of doom who breathe fire on their enemies and mar a historic move toward world peace, and allowing a world war that destroys London, Washington D.C., and New York.)

However, this book does have its good points--most notably, the love story between Cameron and Chloe and the heart-breaking story of Ben-judah's transformation and the terrible cost it brings to him in terms of isolation from his community and nation.

Nicolae
For those of you who, at the end of Tribulation Force were wondering what the hell was so off-putting about the protagonists' arch-enemy, Nicolae Carpathia, this book definitely serves as answer. Not only do we learn that he apparently orchestrated and incited World War III in a bid for power, but between his endorsement of mandatory euthenasia for the "defective," his creation of a global secret police force aimed at enforcing "pure thought," and his callous dismissal of Hattie Durham, his (and Rayford's) ex-lover (also pregnant with his child), Carpathia lives up to the name "antichrist"--and becomes the villain we all love to hate. :)

The writing gets better here, although there is some rather pointless repetition of things that happen in the preceding novels and a lengthy (and tedious) digression regarding church architecture and DSL installation. Also, the conversations about abortion seem a little too heavy-handed to me. (Isn't it convenient that Hattie Durham becomes the signature pro-abortion advocate, while the "good guys" are the pro-lifers? Personally, if I found out someone I knew was carrying the child of the antichrist, I would at least try to understand her trepidation about giving birth to that child. :))

At the end of this novel, God (again) doesn't come off very well, and the earthquake that destroys so much of the world seems rather callous and brutal--almost as if it were part of some sort of egomaniacal pissing contest between God and the antichrist to see which of them can do more damage to the world one of them created . . .

(analysis to be continued)

The Pointer Sisters
"Slow Hand"

As the midnight moon, was drifting through
The lazy sway of the trees
I saw the look in your eyes, lookin' into mine
Seeing what you wanted to see
Darlin' don't say a word, cause I already heard
What your body's sayin' to mine
I'm tired of fast moves
I've got a slow groove...
On my mind

I want a man with a slow hand
I want a lover with an easy touch
I want somebody who will spend some time
Not come and go in a heated rush
I want somebody who will understand
When it comes to love, I want a slow hand

On shadowed ground, with no one around
And a blanket of stars in our eyes
We are drifting free, like two lost leaves
On the crazy wind of the night
Darlin', don't say a word, 'cause I already heard
What your body's sayin' to mine
If I want it all night
You say it's alright
We got the time

'Cause I got a man with a slow hand
I got a lover with an easy touch
I found somebody who will spend some time
Not come and go in a heated rush
I found somebody who will understand
When it comes to love, I want a slow hand

If I want it all night
Please say it's alright
It's not a fast move
But a slow groove
On my mind

'Cause I got a man with a slow hand
I got a lover with an easy touch
I found somebody who will spend some time
Not come and go in a heated rush
I found somebody who will understand
When it comes to love, I want a slow hand

George Michael
"I Want Your Sex"

There's things that you guess
And things that you know
There's boys you can trust
And girls that you don't
There's little things you hide
And little things that you show
Sometimes you think you're gonna get it
But you don't and that's just the way it goes

I swear i won't tease you
Won't tell you no lies
I don't need no bibte
Just look in my eyes
I've waited so long baby
Now that we're friends
Every man's got his patience
And here's where mine ends

I want your sex
I want you
I want your sex

It's playing on my mind
It's dancing on my soul
It's taken so much time
So why don't you just let me go
I'd really like to try
Oh i'd really love to know
When you tell me you're gonna regret it
Then i tell you that i love you but you still say no!

I swear i won't tease you
Won't tell you no lies
I don't need no bibte
Just look in my eyes
I've waited so long baby
Out in the cold

I want your sex
I want your love
I want your.. Sex

It's natural
It's chemical (let's do it)
It's logical
Habitual (can we do it?)
It's sensual
But most of all...
Sex is something we should do
Sex is something for me and you

Sex is natural - sex is good
Not everybody does it
But everybody should
Sex is natural - sex is fun
Sex is best when it's... One on one
One on one

I'm not your father
I'm not your brother
Talk to your sister
I am a lover

C-c-c-c-come on

What's your definition of dirty baby
What do you consider pornography
Don't you know i love you till it hurts me baby
Don't you think it's time you had sex with me

What's your definition of dirty baby
What do you call pornography
Don't you know i love you till it hurts me baby
Don't you think it's time you had sex with me

Sex with me
Sex with me
Have sex with me

C-c-c-c-come on.

I found out (via their web page) that the night I attended the Liazrd Lounge was a less representative sample of what normally happens there than I had originally thought.

Among other things, this club features go go dancers, who perform every Friday and Saturday night.

They were not, however, in attendance when I was there.

(kind of interesting to find out that what was so overwhelming and transformational an experience for me was probably the tamest, and most unrepresentatively calm, experience I could have had at this club)

The last statement (from my last post) was my epitaph--and my bane.

Living without love, my friends, is a horrible way to live. I cried most of the time when I was alone and there was no one in the room (or in the house) to hear me--and I shouted to the heavens sometimes for a way to end my pain. I saw other people embracing, laughing, holding hands, or kissing each other, and I wanted, longed, for someone to share those things with. Most of all, I despised myself for a long time (many years, in fact) for (in my mind) abandoning people and relationships I cared about in favor of someone else's standard--a standard I did not believe in (and never have).

All of these things flashed through my mind the instant I entered the club and sat down, and a deep source of inner tension and self-hatred unraveled inside me.

I came out of the club having been overwhelmed by the things I had seen and experienced--and during the next 2 days, I discovered that I had been irrevocably changed as a result. Something was different about me--I had "become" something other than what I was when I first walked in the doors of the Lounge on Friday night.

It came across at first as a motherlode of confidence that I had never exhibited before around other people (I have had more enjoyable, and more open, conversations with people I know in real life than I'd had in the 2 weeks previous to my outing), and I also noticed a feeling of "connectedness" to my body, an awareness of myself as a physical being, which I had never before possessed.

I was qualitatively different in my personality, my character, and my attitude toward life. I was . . . me.

Then, on Sunday morning, I came to church--and as the worship service started, I sang so loudly and confidently that the woman in front of me turned around afterwards and said, "You have a beautiful voice." (After the church service, I went on to have a 2 hour conversation with a man I had just met--and for those of you reading this who know me in real life, that should come across to you as a miracle of biblical proportions. :))

I felt taller, more confident, more aware of myself and my surroundings, and more happy than I had ever been in my entire life--and this state of being continues today (and, I suspect, will continue permanently). And I've noticed that having this experience has given me access to other people in a way that not having it didn't--I can talk with my friends at work now about things like dancing, drinking beer, and the local music scene (even though I didn't drink any beer--or anything else) (and even though I didn't actually dance on the dance floor itself--instead, I sat in my chair and grooved to the house beats from there).

(I am such a loser . . . )

:)

I have something in common now with almost every student, and every person, I meet--and because I chose to go to one of the top clubs in DFW, I suddenly seem to have amassed a degree of "coolness" among my friends and associates that I didn't have before. (It's kind of ridiculous, actually--I feel like I've joined some sort of special "coolness" association just because I stayed out somewhere until 3am and paid an obscene amount of money for cab fare in order to get home.)

Most of all (and this is important), neither I nor anyone else at the club did anything wrong. There were no people doing crystal meth, there was no stripping (though, in my mind, there should have been:)), and there was no pressure for people to do what in their hearts they knew to be wrong or harmful to themselves. I never touched a drop of alcohol all night, and no one seemed to mind.

Mostly, the people there were interested in one thing: having a good time.

Now, if you're a conservative Christian, and you're reading my blog, you probably want to say something like "well, people can have a good time without drinking or engaging in promiscuous sex." I agree with you--I had a transformational time Friday night, and I never even spoke with one of the women there (and, as I said earlier, never drank). However, I also respect the fact that others came (and wanted to come) intending to become inebriated, or to dance with someone who might share a passionate night of love with them. After all, this world has too many assholes looking to destroy others for their own gain--or to satisfy their own beliefs--and maybe, just maybe, it is less important that people search for meaning in "acceptable" ways, than that they search for meaning at all.

I wanted to add to the previous post, remembering what I said about this being a spiritually and emotionally transformative week for me.

Last week, I realized that many of my issues constructing a stable gender identity were rooted in experiences and frustrations I had had as a teenager, college student, and graduate student. I grew up in a conservative Christian home, and it was understood that "partying" was something a good Christian boy or man didn't do--and after my brother's rebellious teenage years, there was more pressure on me to be "the good kid" or "the level-headed one". I had friends who drank, who smoked pot, who engaged in promiscuous sex, who had homosexual lovers, who said things like "shit" and "fuck" and "damn," or whose families were not as "pristine" as mine . . . and I had a special bond of loyalty with them (some of these people I had grown up with since elementary school) that I felt unrighteous breaking.

Unfortunately, the pressure I felt to be a "good kid" and the emphasis I placed on being successful outweighed those concerns (in my mind). I chose to break those bonds of friendship and loyalty . . . and in so doing, I became worse than the people I was no longer fellowshipping with. A hard-hearted person is someone others tend not to appreciate or open themselves up to--and cutting off friendships and relationships in order to (in essence) preserve your reputation is the epitome of hard-heartedness.

I needed love, and I wanted love--but I forgot how to share it.

Ladies and gentlemen, your spiritual DJ is back on the microphone!

:)

(You know I've always wanted to say that.)

It has been a very important, and very transformational week for me spiritually and emotionally, and I wanted to go ahead and share some of the insights I've gleaned--and some of the more colorful moments as well.

It all began with my clubbing odyssey (yes, you read that right). For years, I had heard about the Dallas club scene--it was (and is) labeled by the conservative Christian community here as "evil," "wicked," and "of the devil." It was a silent (yet ever-present) force of danger in the eyes of the Christians I talked with and befriended in the months and years after I received Jesus Christ.

Some had partaken in the club scene themselves, and these were the ones I most (and least) understood. Memories of strip clubs, dance halls, and Saturday night party places can be haunting for some (particularly if those memories are associated with violence or an emotionally disturbing experience), and I suspect that their reticence toward supporting a night scene in which they had once been part stems as much from personal pain as it does a sense of misplaced loyalties. I understand that for some, healing involves removing oneself from a situation associated with terrible memories, and I respect (and always have respected) the Christians who have seen their "pasts" as things of pain and sorrow and wish, for reasons of their own, to move on.

I was always curious, however, about this mysterious (and yet centrally important) element of DFW life, so this semester I decided I would go to Dallas' world-famous Lizard Lounge. I promised a friend of mine several weeks ago that I would go that Friday--unfortunately, that was the week when another friend of mine (see posts below) threatened to kill herself. Then last Friday, since TCU was closed and I had the day off, I decided to spend the day (and evening) traveling to Dallas and looking for the Lizard Lounge.

As anyone who lives in DFW can tell you, downtown Dallas is far less friendly (and far more unsafe) than downtown Fort Worth, as a rule. Not only are there more (and more dangerous) panhandlers, but there are quite a few psychotic people here and there, as well as gang members who are far less willing to forgive and be forgiven than their counterparts "down the road." However, it is for this reason (among many others) that Dallas has always fascinated me whenever I have visited it--it is, to me, a slice of home, a city no different in character than any of the major cities where I grew up on the East Coast.

I made my way to Dallas early in the evening so I wouldn't have to run around at night trying to find this club (which could have gotten me killed)--and after 3 hours of mindless wandering from street to street (and asking one of the parking officials where it was, to a response of sheer incredulity), I finally decided to head back to the commuter train station I had used to travel into the city (narrowly avoiding a beating from a panhandler who tried to waylay me in the process). I made it, and boarded the train, chiding myself for stupidly wandering into a new (to me) city without having bothered to find out where my destination was.

Last night, I tried again (I got into town later than I had planned)--and after an hour of wandering through (mostly empty) streets and parking areas after dark (and narrowly missing a carjacking attempt--by inches), I finally managed to find (as I was busily cursing myself, the universe, the city of Dallas, and God) the Lizard Lounge. I entered (for free--they promised a free cover for the first 2 hours) and readied myself for an experience that would completely blow my expectations (and senses) away.

The sound system, the music, the darkness of the club--I was overwhelmed by the power of raw sexuality, celebrated and openly expressed. There was so much potential here . . .

The problem was that in the 30 minutes I stayed in the club, I was the only person there.

After enjoying the music (which was not DJ'd--it was a CD), I decided to head back to the train station so I could catch the last train back to Fort Worth. As I left, I saw a handful of people walking into the building, one of the girls screaming at the top of her lungs, and one of the women at the counter said something that I later realized was "this is probably going to be kind of a lame night."

During the next 30 minutes, I made a frantic dash to the train station . . . just in time to see the last damn train to Fort Worth rolling on its merry way down the tracks without me. (Obviously, as you can imagine, I was yelling, "SHIT!" at the top of my lungs.) (There was a lot of screaming going on last night. :))

After talking with a rather skillful panhandler who had a winning smile and a hustle second-to-none, I made my way back (using well-lit streets) to the Lizard Lounge, with the intention of spending the night there (it was open until 4am). What I saw when I got back . . .

The sound system, the music, the darkness of the club were still inviting, even more so now that a few dozen people had entered the main "lounge" room, some of them dancing. The light show had begun, and I expected that soon, one of the Lizard Lounge's DJ's would begin spinning some kick-ass beats capable of driving me off of my comfortable lounge seat and onto the dance floor. The vibe of the place was primal--there was an air of expectation that something at once barbaric and wonderful was about to happen (or could).

Unfortunately, the DJ did not begin his set proper until around 11pm or so, when some people had gotten tired of waiting. And when he did, he made the mistake of resorting to rock and roll or '80s heavy metal songs at points in which dancers were beginning to establish an atmosphere of (for lack of a better word) electric joy in the room. After a (long) seat of house beats, the crowd peaked around 1am and begin to steadily thin out afterward, so that the Lizard Lounge closed approximately 1 hour early.

(Sad but true--sometimes even nationally recognized night clubs have an "off" evening . . . )

Here are some of the highlights of the evening, however:

1. I saw several men and women breakdancing, a phenomenon I haven't seen (out in public) since the 1980's.

2. I got to see a man on the dance floor working it with 3 (that's right--3!) women, 2 of whom were lesbians. At one point (they were standing directly in front of me at the time), either the man or the non-lesbian woman got too close to one of the 2 lesbians, and her partner yelled at the top of her lungs, "Keep your hands off my girlfriend, bitch!"

3. I saw (obviously) several women shakin' their money-makers, but the most memorable of the bunch was a supremely well-built dirty blonde who made her way to the upper dance stage (which was directly in front of the main projection video screen) and totally got into "superfreak" mode, to the delight (and catcalls) of over 100 male and female bystanders.

4. As the crowd was thinning out, 2 couples (also directly in front of me) began doing the bump and grind, kissing as their bodies writhed in unison. (I was trying not to watch, so that I wouldn't get a black eye from one of the men, but it was an incredibly erotic experience.)

The most significant thing I saw or experienced, however, had nothing to do with the music or with sex--at around midnight, a random guy wanted to borrow my ashtray (which I wasn't using). He proceeded to introduce himself, and during the next hour, the two of us sat and chatted--just chatted. He was surprised that I had made it to age 33 and never clubbed before--I was surprised that he was an economics major (with his long red hair and goatee, he didn't look the part).

In all of the raw sexuality of the place, the mood, the crazy people doing crazy things, here I was having a normal conversation with a normal human being.

That's ultimately what the club scene is all about . . . normal human beings relaxing, having a good time, and engaging in conversation with one another.

Does it matter that this conversation takes place over a bottle of cold beer, or in a dark, crowded room filled with gyrating, pulsating human sexuality? Does it matter that the words "God" or "Jesus" aren't mentioned in this conversation?

I don't know, my friend--but I do know this . . . last night, I met a fellow wayfarer on the road of life, and in that moment, I knew friendship. I hope he did as well.

Today I was in Barnes and Nobles (among other things), looking at a series of books on archaeology written by Graham Hancock. For those of you unfamiliar with Hancock's work, the essence of his perspective as an Egyptologist is as follows:

The Great Pyramids of Giza (and the Sphinx), as well as a number of other puzzling ancient landmarks around the world, signify a time when the Earth was (literally) deluged and laid waste by a massive (Earth-shattering) cataclysm. Furthermore, there is evidence, he believes, to suggest that the human race before this deluge was as technologically and scientifically advanced as ours--and that they understood the cataclysm that ended their civilization to be a periodical event affecting Earth's crust. (Those of you who have heard anything about the ancient civilizations of the Americas know where this is going . . . ) It is his hypothesis that these periodical shifts occur every 10,000 years or so, and that the next one is (drum roll, please) scheduled to occur on December 23, 2012.

Personally, I have no evidence to justify, corroborate, or disprove his claims (after all, I am not an archaeologist), but to me, this brings up a topic that seems to be an underlying pulse beat within my generation (and beyond): the end of the world.

The Christian Bible talks about the end of the world. And the Bibles of many other long-established religions also discuss it--some in more detail than others.

Personally, I have no well-defined views on the topic--but I do have this sense inside of me (that I can't explain) that the time of humanity's technological ascendancy on this planet is short. Perhaps it is time for whoever it was who put us here to give us all a collective ass-kicking for the way we have treated this world--our wars, our genetic tampering, our arrogant manipulation of the environment, and our wanton disrespect for ecological balance (to say nothing of human life). The book of Genesis says that the Flood God wrought upon the world was a result of mankind's corruption, wickedness, and violence (see Genesis 6:5-7, 11-13), and surely this describes us as well.

We have come up with more (and more efficient) ways of destroying each other during the past 200 years than in the preceding 2000--and human depravity doesn't seem to be on the wane anytime soon (witness the use of a perfectly innocent jumbo jet to do mass murder a few years ago, among many other things that have happened in the years before and since). If it isn't oil, it will be biological warfare, and if it isn't biological warfare, it will be the sky, and if it isn't the sky, it will be the massive "corrective" shifting of the tectonic plates to account for all the drilling, land-mining, tunneling, and nuclear testing we have done over the past few decades. And if all of those things don't do us in, it will be the wanton disparity between the richer and poorer nations of the world, a disparity that will not remain forever.

I don't pretend to have any idea of what's going to happen over the next 7 years, or even over the next 7 minutes. :) Perhaps we are living on borrowed time--and perhaps, as disappointing as it may be to some, we have nothing to fear.

All I know is that at any moment, and especially this moment, in human history, it is we who carry the seeds of our destruction--and, perhaps, of our salvation.

from The Last Boy Scout

[Joe has just found out that Mike was sleeping with his wife]
Mike Mathews: Look Joe, it just happened.
Joe Hallenbeck: Sure, sure, it just happened. Could happen to anybody. It was an accident, right? You tripped, fell on the floor and accidently stuck your dick into my wife. "Oops, I'm sorry, Mrs. H, I guess this just isn't my week".

A lot of people don't like this movie--after all, it has one of the most depressing plotlines of any action/adventure film (both when it came out in 1991 and in the years since then). It has always remained one of my favorites, however, not simply because of its script and acting (both of which were top-notch) but because to me, it demonstrates the nature of forgiveness and reconciliation as unconditional acts.

Like many of us, Mike Mathews attempts to verbalize his misdeeds in as positive light as possible--unwilling to confess and understand the responsibility he has for his actions and how he treats others. "I was just following orders," "She made me do it," and "You don't know what kind of life I've had" have been some of humanity's most infamous refrains, used to rationalize a variety of deliberately evil actions such as genocide, wife-beating, and serial murder. Those cries often fall on deaf ears, and rightly so--after all, anyone who has the mental and the emotional capability of deliberately doing harm to someone else is responsible for that harm, no matter what kind of experiences or life issues he or she has dealt with.

I've been guilty of this myself. In my effort to keep my gender identity issues a secret from others, I have made a practice of pushing others away, sometimes rather forcefully. Whatever issues I was going through, I didn't (and never have) had the right to inflict harm on someone else, and whatever issues other people have dealt in their lives, they are still responsible for whatever pain they inflict on me.

(I wonder if sometimes the very reason we end up fighting one another in war after war is because of our tendency to refuse to admit when (and where) we are wrong.)

Forgiveness and reconciliation do not stop there, however, as the following exchange from the movie indicates:

Jimmy Dix: I figure you gotta be the dumbest guy in the world, Joe. You're trying the save the life of the man who ruined your career, and avenge the death of the guy that fucked your wife.

Let's face it . . . a guy like Joe isn't very popular, especially in a society that believes in concepts like "3 strikes and you're out," "irreconcilable differences," and trying juveniles as adults. Credit ratings, tax records, criminal statistics . . . there are so many ways for people to "screw up" in our society and be ostracized permanently.

Stereotyping, in my opinion, is one of the worst ways to exhibit unforgiveness. It allows us to ratify our own personal prejudices and notions, and to remain distant (and ignorant) of others.

I have been met from time to time with quizzical stares and well-intentioned (but critical) questions in the wake of my reconciliation with someone who, 2 and a half years ago, deeply hurt me. I've been told everything from "Just be cautious that nothing like that happens again" (as if I wouldn't be :)) to "well, I guess that's very Christlike of you." I'm sure some of the people who know about this situation (which I will explain at some point) see me as a complete idiot--and maybe they're right.

After all, it's not like the person I reconciled with deserves to be treated fairly after what he/she did to me. On the other hand, though, neither do I--and yet, I have always, in similar situations, hoped that other people would forgive me.

Forgiveness is something that seems unappealing and weak in our culture today--it doesn't endear itself to a world in which "accountability" (yes, I am still on a tear about that :)) and "righteousness" are prized above things like love, respect, and tenderness.

However, forgiveness can also be a bullet that changes the world for the better.

The Chameleons
"Soul in isolation"

I can hear you breathing down the hall
Soul in isolation
I can hear you crying through the walls
And if I had a mind to now
I could call to you
Or I could simply shut you out
No more would you cry

I'll give you my time to kill
But you'll never never
Break my will
Or I could sink a sleeping pill
And in the morning could be
Sleeping still
But most of you are much too ill
Way beyond a surgeon's skill
In bondage to a dollar bill
What more can you buy?

Oh, when you think on it
We're all
Souls in isolation
Alive in here
I'm alive in here

Come here
A word in your ear
You can't go back to the trees

Big bad giant standing tall
Crushing all the creatures
Great and small
I'd like to see this giant fall
When will it come

Words that rattle round my head
Struck by lightning someone said
A diamond bullet through the head
Hits me right in the brain
Are they right in the brain?

Will I see the jailer's face
Did my mother bring me to this place
Will I live to see his face
Will others come to take my place
In total isolation
Surrounded by crowds
Too many tears
From too many clowns
Isolation
Surrounded by crowds
In another world
Head in the clouds
I'm alive in here
I scream
But you still don't hear
I'm alive in here
I'm alive
Turn on the light

When you think on it
We're all souls in isolation
I'm alive in here
I'm alive

We're always searching for something
Searching
Dear dear dead days I'm longing for you
Sweetest virgin
Now deflowered

Last night, I had a very enjoyable (and unexpected) chat the friend of mine who tried to kill herself a week and a half ago. She was more melancholy, more sarcastic than usual . . . and she told me what was going on.

I don't feel I'm at liberty to share what the issue is, but suffice it to say I was glad to see her in person and glad to see that she was emotionally stable.

What I want to talk about today is a little word one often hears spoken in evangelical Christian circles called "accountability." Accountability groups (and accountability partners) have become popular within evangelical Christianity over the past several years. The concept is quite simple--men pair (or group) with men, and women pair (or group) with women, in settings conducive to the discussion of personal, private issues (such as sexuality, home life, etc.). Most men think it's a wonderful concept because it allows them to talk frankly about their lust for women without risking social or relational embarassment.

My first encounter with an accountability group occurred shortly after I joined TCU's chapter of Chi Alpha (which was then run by the since shamed and defamed James Stalmaker). I was invited to join an "empower group" meeting, and when I got there, I was quite impressed (and surprised) at what I experienced--this was a student-led Bible study group that involved a time of prayer and worship, then a time in which students were taught important concepts from the Bible. I enjoyed it--I enjoyed the atmosphere, the men and women I met, and their faith and honesty.

At the end of the Bible study, the male and female leaders announced that we would gather in small groups (men with men, women with women) to talk about how our week was going. It made me a little nervous--but I figured that since I had already stayed for the orchestra, I might as well stay for the final notes. :)

I remember the men taking turns (in a circle) sharing what they were feeling and struggling with that week. Aside from the first person (who probably was going for the first time himself), all the men in the group spoke about masturbation--and all of them spoke about it as if it were something to be ashamed of. (To give you a sense of where I was, I actually found the session to be quite liberating because it was the first time I had heard Christians (and Christian men) talk so openly about their fantasy lives and what they felt about their bodies and sexualities.)

Meanwhile, the cadre of very eligible (and very attractive) young women who attended the small group with them (and attended the Chi Alpha meetings) constantly complained about not being able to find anyone willing to date them.

As the weeks and months passed, I began to find these meetings more depressing than liberating. I would constantly hear other men talk about masturbating once a week, getting horny (and frustrated) at all of the women at TCU who dressed so provocatively during the spring and early fall seasons. (BTW, side note--TCU has been listed as one of Playboy's top 10 universities for several years.) I would constantly hear stories of defeat and futility and shame--and men who, in many cases, were too repressed to engage in healthy relationships with women--or who eventually preyed upon the first co-eds they saw.

It began to hit me, especially after failing in some significant relationships of my own with women (and wondering what the hell happened) that I wasn't getting very good relationship advice--and certainly not getting very good sexual advice.

(In some ways, it really was like the stereotypical high school bad boys' sex talks in the locker room, except in reverse. The sex talks may have been conducted by Christians (with Christian themes and values represented), but they exhibited equal parts braggadacio and ignorance, just like their more secular counterparts.)

In the wake of these experiences (and many others), I have come to realize that "accountability" is a concept that is misunderstood in evangelical circles. To be "accountable" to someone means to be beholden to them in some way--for example, a citizen is accountable to follow the laws his government enacts (and pay her taxes), and a bank teller is accountable to her supervisors for the content of her records and her professionalism. I am accountable to the head of the TCU Center for Writing for my performance as a writing center tutor, and they are accountable to me for my paycheck.

Accountability, in other words, is a business concept--it has nothing to do with Christian-on-Christian relationships.

Am I accountable to my brother in Christ for having a bad attitude, or a disreputable personal life?

No--I'm accountable to God, and whoever is directly involved in my actions, and no one else. It is not my brother in Christ's business to know who I date, how many times I masturbate, and how many men's (or women's) magazines I have unless I choose to tell him--that is personal information, and doesn't concern him (unless it involves his daughter or someone he knows). If I'm not pursuing a relationship in the "correct" way, that's my responisibility, and the responsibility of my partner.

Honestly, I think a lot of churches resort to accountability groups because of the superficiality of their internal relationships. After all, everyone knows that the last place anyone should be honest about his/her desires and beliefs is the church, and therefore, a lot of people (when they come to church) hide who they really are, out of fear that others will find out (and ostracize them). I have shared with people I know online (and in real life) that some of the closest, most intimate friendships I've had have been with non-Christians--and I think this is a phenomenon to which a lot of people can relate.

Friendship . . . it's an ugly word to a lot of people. Friendship involves love, compassion, time and energy, and most of all, intimacy.

This is what people are looking for when they walk in the doors of a church, or a student ministry, or a Bible college. They're looking for someone to take an interest in them, and accept them for who they are, and say things like "I love you" and "I care about you."

Christianity's greatest Achilles' heel is that its promised riches are love and mercy . . . and its realities (so often) are pain, brutality, and condemnation. People see what Christianity is supposed to be (according to the Bible), and they see the waste, heartache, and bloodshed of what Christianity has been--and to them, the reality gives the lie to the greater truth pronounced in those Bible pages.

Friendship is something that cannot be based on rules or artificial circumstances (after all, do any of you recall deciding who your best friends would be?)--it has be based on sincerity, and a connection of the heart. If we cannot muster the capacity to be each other's friends and loved ones . . . then I seriously doubt that our Christianity (whatever kind it may be) is worth a damn.

Last night, I spent some time in downtown Fort Worth.

I always find city life fascinating, especially at night, and this was no exception. I spent most of my time at Barnes and Noble, just walking around and looking at the bookshelves--and listening to people. Of course, there were a few assholes loitering about here and there--people who, for want of sense, felt it necessary to speak at the top of their lungs about inane things (distracting other customers and townspeople)--but there were some fascinating bits and pieces of conversation here and there.

What I mostly remember was an impromptu conversation between a couple of store employees and their friends about God, literature, and the relationship between the two. The bits and pieces I heard from this conversation were interesting, not simply because I agreed with a lot of what was said, but because it seemed that, for once, I was hearing people talk about their faith and beliefs in a natural setting, unencumbered by agendas or the pressure to "convert" someone.

In fact, I saw a great many people enjoying themselves, sitting on the floor reading in pairs or groups, talking excitedly about an idea they had come across in their reading or a book they had liked, or simply enjoying the evening together. I ran across a father and son who were looking for a copy of Alternative Press (a music magazine) that I happened to be holding in my hands. The three of us admired a photo spread of the Dresden Dolls that had decidedly sadomasochistic overtones . . . something I never imagined could happen even a couple of years ago.

Personal barriers, cultural barriers, and even spiritual barriers seemed to dissolve in the store while I was there. It was like someone had posted a sign on the door saying, "Come as you are--we take no pretenders."

Contrast this personal freedom with the Christian evangelistic group I ran into on the street corner outside the store.

This group of people had a distinctly anti-social and aggressive approach to the people they met--even going so far as to stand in a line blocking people from going around them. (They tried this with me, but I budged past them, saying "excuse me" as rudely as I could. I heard their preacher yell "Jesus saves!" after me at the top of his lungs.) They didn't really talk with anyone--they just handed out pamphlets and waylaid whoever they could with a speech or series of rapid-fire questions.

I'm sure these people thought they were doing wonderful things and helping people find their path to God . . . personally, I thought the store owners had every right to request that they use another street corner. :)

I have never felt comfottable with "street evangelism," and when I participated in it (as, sadly, I did shortly after becoming a Christian), I always had the sick feeling inside of me that I was doing more to hurt people than anything else. Every street preacher I've ever come across has struck me as an obnoxious windbag with all the charm of an insurance salesman (and half the wit). There's something so . . . wrong . . . about standing on a street corner and harassing people in the name of God.

It's so . . . showy, self-centered, and flamboyant.

The only "street evangelists" I have ever been able to respect are the Gideons. They have a calm demeanor, they tend to talk to people like they're intelligent and capable of making their own decisions, and . . . hell, those little green Bibles they hand out are freakin' cool. :)

More than that, though, the ones I've run into seem to have remembered that a conversation with someone is not something to be afraid of.

I suspect that most "street evangelists" engage in their practice as a way of manufacturing a way to talk about their faith that doesn't involve dialogue with people who can (and in many cases do) challenge what they believe. Perhaps it is, in part, an unconscious reaction to the instability that accompanies the acceptance of Jesus Christ into a person's life--after all, it is a faith decision that entails, at its core, some readjustment of perceptions, values, and priorities, so it is not hard to imagine someone coming to faith in Christ, being unsure about who he/she is, and being susceptible to programs or agendas that are advertised as "spiritual" or "Christian" activities.

Personally, I believe your "evangelism" derives from who you are, and from the character you exhibit in your everyday life. If these are lacking, then you may want to reexamine what you really believe.

I know, the previous post was a Michael Jackson song (and oh, how ironic . . . ), but to me, it is the most painful, the most vivid, and the most true anthem of a generation that has lost its childhood.

As you've noticed on this blog (that is, if you've been reading for a while :)), I'm not afraid of talking about pain. Dark, painful memories are hard to relive sometimes, but dark, painful memories are part of what has shaped who I am.

I think a lot of Christians are afraid to talk about things like the occult, or witchcraft, or loneliness, or suicidal urges, or sexual experiences that break the bonds of what people consider to be "safe" or 'acceptable" . . . because they're afraid of the dark, painful parts of our existence--and perhaps, because at some level, they're afraid of who they are (or even who they've been).

Walking around in shame and secrecy all the time isn't freedom, my friends--it's self-hatred.

And the Christ I read about in the New Testament (and the Christ I am learning to know every day) wouldn't want people to be afraid of (or hate) themselves. It wasn't in his character--and it wasn't in the way he acted toward people--and if you are a Christian, you believe (or should believe) that he not only was, but is, and always will be God, so you should consider his character (the character of your Creator) as one worthy of emulation, right?

Self-hatred isn't freedom.

Religion isn't freedom.

Freedom is freedom.

We live in a happy society (and a happy church) where no one wants to talk about pain . . . no wonder churches are losing people in droves.

Michael Jackson
"Childhood"

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for the world that I come from
'Cause I've been looking around
In the lost and found of my heart...
No one understands me
They view it as such strange eccentricities...
'Cause I keep kidding around
Like a child, but pardon me...

People say I'm not okay
'Cause I love such elementary things...
It's been my fate to compensate,
for the Childhood I've never known...

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for that wonder in my youth
Like pirates and adventurous dreams,
Of conquest and kings on the throne...

Before you judge me, try hard to love me,
Look within your heart then ask,
Have you seen my Childhood?
People say I'm strange that way
'Cause I love such elementary things,
It's been my fate to compensate,
For the Childhood I've never known...

Have you seen my Childhood?
I'm searching for that wonder in my youth
Like fantastical stories to share
The dreams I would dare, watch me fly...

Before you judge me, try hard to love me.
The painful youth I've had

Have you seen my Childhood....

It seems so condescending to me (and always has) that teenage problems and teenage issues are often considered to be "childish" or "minor" within the Christian community. It almost seems like conservative Christians aren't willing to face the fact that while they see teenagers as "kids," teenagers see themselves (and rightly so, I think) as budding adults, with very adult issues.

For example, take the PSA I heard on the one Christian radio station in Fort Worth I will still listen to (89.7 on the FM dial :)). The first thing this PSA mentioned (as if it were a conclusive statement) was that, according to a "recent study," 60% of cases involving teenage depression and suicide are related to "drugs and promiscuous sex" (I believe I quoted their words exactly).

First of all . . . they never bothered to mention the exact study itself (and I was listening for that), so I don't know if it was conducted by a reputable research team, or if it was conducted by some conservative thinktank with its own agenda and point of view.

Second of all . . . anyone who is (or remembers being) a teenager knows, intimately, that teen depression and suicidal tendencies are more likely to cause hyperactive sexual activity and drug abuse than they are to be a side-effect or by-product. I think of many teenagers I knew (and have known) who without the aid of escapes like narcotics or random hook-ups would either have gone insane from the emotional turmoil inside them or commited suicide.

Adolescence is a horrifying time of life for everyone who goes through it. It involves massive physical and psychological changes, and it involves massive shifts in social alignments as a result of those changes. The human body, to say nothing of the human soul, can only take so much without reacting in some way to these pressures--in many cases, this involves depression and thoughts of suicide. (To some extent, I think these feelings are a normal and healthy reaction of the body and soul to a degree of rapid physical, emotional, and social change they have not been prepared to handle.)

These are not "kid" issues--they are very adult issues. Sexuality is an adult issue. Physical change is an adult issue. Social relations are adult issues.

So why are teenagers treated so often like kids in Christian media? Why is it that conservative Christians are not willing (or often do not seem willing) to talk about these issues in a meaningful, adult manner, and recognize that "little Johnny and Sue" aren't so little anymore?

Why is it that when I hear PSA's aimed at "youth" (God help us all), I almost always hear an injunction not to do something--or a corrective statement (like the kind one would expect to be given to children)?

In my opinion, teenagers go through way too much--emotionally, spiritually, and physically--to be given short shrift, or to be dismissed as "whiny little kids". Let's be honest, ladies and gentlemen--if you suddenly started going through changes in your voice and your body, and you suddenly found yourself being constantly evaluated (and sometimes dismissed) by former friends on the basis of your appearance, and you had (along with all of these things) become overwhelmed with an array of powerful emotional and sexual drives you were unprepared for . . . you probably wouldn't be the easiest person to get along with either, would you?

And this assumes that you come from a functional, caring family environment . . . which, sadly, is not the case for a lot of teens in our society. Teens who were abused as children, teens from broken homes, teens whose parents couldn't give a damn if they lived or died . . . this is a phenomenon I became painfully familiar with growing up (to the point that I was almost ashamed to have come from such a stable home environment), and it is a phenomenon which, as evidenced in the college papers I have read, is a common undercurrent of heartache within our culture.

Just once, instead of talking about the Bible and how cool God is, I would love to see a church youth group talk about real things--like the hell of watching your parents divorce, or the emotional pain that colors a lot of teen relationships, or suicidal tendencies.

Hell, for a lot of youth groups, even talking about sex would be a start.:)

I remember (quite painfully, in fact) a lot of my church youth group experiences.

We had several youth group members who were sexually active, several who endured difficult family situations (one was adopted), and several who were engaged in one form of self-hatred or another--and all of us, without exception, were engaged in a desperate struggle to figure out who we were.

Our best, most meaningful conversations, occurred when the youth group sponsors were gone (or out of hearing range). They wanted us to talk about God and about missions, but we wanted to talk about the hell we were undergoing and the very deep (and very real) issues we were dealing with.

I remember in particular a missions/service trip to Mississippi, during which all of us (including myself) broke the rules of traditional Christian etiquette--it has always been one of my most treasured memories, in fact. We slept in large rooms, without our sponsors there, and we talked about life and about the issues we were dealing with, and it was the first time I really felt connected to a meaningful group of fellow adolescents who cared about me.

However, it was followed up by a lecture from the group sponsors on how we weren't "setting a good example" as Christians--because we cussed, because we talked and joked about sex, and because we [insert your favorite Christian conversational sin here].

We didn't listen. (We never did.)

We kept doing what we were doing--and they tried to impose controls on us . . . which only forced us to rebel even further from an establishment we saw as uncaring, unfair, and ridiculously authoritarian.

Their God--and their beliefs--became a joke to us.

And I suspect this is something that happens quite frequently in church youth groups.

I wish they would have listened--I wish they all would listen. Because as far as I'm concerned, the conversations adolescents want to have (then and now) are much more interesting.

Cinderella
"Nobody's Fool"

I count the falling tears
They fall before my eyes
Seems like a thousand years
Since we broke the ties
I call you on the phone
But never get a rise
So sit there all alone
It's time you realize

I'm not your fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
Never again, no, no

You take your road, I'll take mine
The paths have both been beaten
Searchin' for a change of pace
Love needs to be sweetened
I scream my heart out, just to make a dime
And with that dime I bought your love
But now I've changed my mind

I'm not your fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
Never again, no, no
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool

I count the falling tears
They fall before my eyes
Seems like a thousand years
Since we broke the ties
Ohhh

I'm not your fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool
I'm no fool
Nobody's fool
Nobody's fool

I wrote a few posts ago that when I was a teenager considering suicide, Metallica's "Dyers Eve" was a soft, melodic companion. Actually, I meant the song before that one on their "And Justice for All" album--"To Live Is To Die".

(The whole album really kinda doubles as suicide music, in my opinion--definitely the darkest record they ever put together.)

I feel so much more relieved today . . . and at the same time so unsettled.

I'm just glad I didn't have to visit my friend in the hospital (or worse). I don't think I would have been able to handle that . . .

I called her yesterday and today (and emailed her several times) to check up on her. I'm sure she probably thinks it's annoying (and somewhat parental) of me--and maybe it is--but since I (again, for lack of a more stable frame of mind with which to express things in a civilized way) didn't fucking hear about this until a day after it happened, I feel I'm entitled to a little parental behavior just to make sure my friend is not on the verge of taking her own life anymore . . .

(What makes it worse is that I know that she, like me, is a very good actor, and is not above pretending things are okay for the benefit of others.)

This weekend (for obvious reasons), I have been flashing back to my own suicide attempt a few short months ago. It was right after my church (which I've mentioned in previous posts) disbanded and closed its doors, and I was on a razor-thin edge. The trigger for me was a rejection that I received at the hands of a girl I worked with at TCU (and was fond of)--it was the last straw of a pile of last straws, and I decided that since (in my mind) I was a beautiful person trapped in a shell of ugliness and unapproachableness, I was going to take a knife or a gun (or some other means of lethality) to that shell and murder it once and for all.

I didn't tell anyone about this, even people I knew on the internet (who were going through similar things), because I wanted it over. I didn't want to be helped or to be talked out of it--I just wanted to die.

I kept saying over and over, "This is going to be the last week of my life" because I needed to work myself up to actually doing it--and I made sure that everyone I talked to in real life saw a person in distress (because everyone knew about my church situation) but also a person who did not give off the telltale signs of someone thinking about committing suicide.

(It scares me to know how effective I was--no one knew what was going on until I started telling people months later.)

My preference was to get a gun and shoot myself in the head--unfortunately, as I realized, I needed to buy one first, and getting all the necessary paperwork and waiting the 10 days was too excruciating, in my opinion.

I tried (for several days straight) slitting my wrists with the only sharp knife I had--but my survival instinct kept kicking in, and not allowing me to break the surface of the skin. (I'm sure my neighbors kept wondering why I was shouting "Damn it!" in my apartment that week--if they only knew . . . )

I finally hit on the idea of drinking the bottles of Windex and dishwashing detergent I had in my kitchen.

How the hell I survived that week, I don't know, but I made it to Sunday, fully determined to get things over with by the end of the day.

I walked into my new church, having only attended for 1 or 2 Sundays, and sat down for what I was sure was going to be a completely irrelevant experience. I didn't want God to help me, and I actually told him, "Butt out--don't even try to give me a reason to live today."

During that service, the pastor (damn him, damn him, damn him) had a word from God about 2 or 3 people in the service (I was one of approximately 500 people there) who were at the end of their rope and on the edge of calling it quits. (I knew he was talking about suicide--there was no possible reason he would have said "2 or 3 people" if he were talking about a general exasperation with life.) He said he felt God wanted to say something special and individual to each of us who fit this description, and he invited each of us to stand while the congregation (and he) stayed silent, because he felt like God wanted to talk to us in person--no pastoral mediation, no music, and no well-meaning fellow Christian's opinions getting in the way.

I had "talked" with God before--I had felt his presence. But in that moment, as I stood, what I had experienced before, those pale moments of inspiration that had dotted my previous 6 years as a Christian . . . faded into complete obliteration.

The only way I can describe it (and this does not do what I experienced justice) is to say that, for the first time, I felt God residing inside of me. There was a love, an intense passion and joy, and a peace inside of my being that at once felt alien, electrifyingly powerful, and alive. God spoke to me--it was a clear message, and it was very specific in nature.

I wrote it down, barely listening to the pastor as he began speaking again, telling us that whatever God had said to us, we needed to hold onto it as a personal lifeline, and we would see what he said come to pass in our lives. I wrote the words God spoke into me down, and memorized them, and made sure never to tell anyone else what they were--I felt that what God said to me was between him and me alone, and not for anyone else to hear.

Believe it or not, ladies and gentlemen, a lot of what God said to me that day is on the verge of coming to pass--I didn't spend that morning listening to God in vain (I say this to myself a lot lately, more in stunned disbelief than anything else).

I wish I could say my experience was common or that it was something everyone in my position could relate to. In some ways, it is a very unusual story, with very unusual consequences.

However, in the wake of this experience, I have come to understand, more deeply than I ever have, the need for all human beings to experience the touch of someone who loves them.

A dear friend of mine (one I talked about a few posts back) attempted to kill herself this week.

As you can expect, I am--emotionally speaking--a wreck.

I cannot begin to describe what I'm feeling now--mostly relieved that someone was there to prevent her from going through with it, but also (for lack of more civilized etiquette) shit-fucking scared out of my mind, because I know she is inches away from trying it again.

I sympathize with her, I rage with her at the forces that have brought her to this point in her life, and I want to shake her as hard as I can until all the marbles in her head fall into place . . . all at the same time.

Most of all, I'm unsettled by the fact that I had to find out about it secondhand--that she couldn't feel free to tell me herself that she was at the end of her rope.

What does that say about me, that she couldn't feel free to be open and honest with me about a degree of emotional pain that was so real to her?

What does that say about society, that she (and many other people I have known, including myself) have felt compelled to keep our deep emotional wounds hidden away from others, for fear they'll think differently of us? That she couldn't talk to someone who had experienced the same things and would understand, or at least not have a personal agenda with her? What the hell kind of world do we live in where someone can't feel free to say she doesn't feel like life has meaning anymore?

God, I feel so helpless--and so scared.