Little CHILDREN, not brats...

"Too many people confuse 'simple, childlike faith' with 'simplistic, childish faith.' Theology-even professional theology-does not deny the necessity of humble acceptance of God's message to humankind in Jesus Christ and the scriptural narrative about him. It does, however, push beyond blind and unquestioning acceptance of any and every interpretation of that message that happens to sound spiritual and comforting." -Roger E. Olson (Who Needs Theology?: An Invitation to the Study of God)

I have a feeling that sometimes, just sometimes, God looks down at His people and shakes His head. I'm not saying He regrets our existence; I feel like He thinks that we missed the entire point of His Word.

In Matthew 18, Jesus told us that we must become like little children to make it into the Kingdom of Heaven. And from the looks of it, some of us got the right idea; others, I feel, took the little children aspect a little too seriously.

"Our God is awesome!" "We worship One God, and His name is Jesus!" "Pentecostal is the only way to God!"All those Trinitarian three-god-worshippers can go to..."

You get the point.

What I'm getting at is that I feel that portion of Scripture has been horribly misquoted on more than one occasion. We're not little children in the sense of humility and undying devotion; we're more like the spoiled brats who refuse to clean up after themselves.

The same book I quoted at the beginning refers to this mindset at "folk theology." People are more comfortable hearing the same message in different formats and singing the same empty worship songs every Sunday than truly thinking outside of the box when it comes to God.

Is it heretical to question? Absolutely not. But don't say that to the folk theologians. According to them, the mere mentioning of hermeneutical discrepancies makes you a heathen, for the Bible is true, no questions asked! If Pastor said it, then there's no reason to doubt it.

Yes, I am being extremely heretical to some of you now, but just so you know, I'm not doubting my pastor's legitimacy; I simply want to understand it better and if the message doesn't mesh, it will most likely stick out.

I think what Jesus was trying to get across was the importance of humility and surrender, not stupidity and self-glorification. He wants us to follow him with childlike wonder, not complete disregard for everyone and everything around us.

As for me, I love Christ and every day is an attempt to be more and more like Him. And to do this, I must humble myself, but I don't have to become a complete moron to do so. Instead of treating the Word like a joint by taking a puff and passing it on to the next person (analogy, people, analogy), I want to learn more from it and know why I believe what I believe.

That is all. No heresy, no blasphemy. Just someone who lives to understand His Word a little better each day.

A Modest Proposition

As the weddings begin to pour in this summer, it makes me think, not on the two people being joined in holy matrimony, but rather the participants, seeing as how I will be a groomsman in one of the many wonderful unions this summer. It's a happy moment for everyone who saw this moment coming for the two people being wed and a bittersweet one for those who wish they would've made their move on either the bride or groom sooner.

But I sense discrimination in all of this. Not that the bride has to do a majority of the planning or that groom does nothing hardly, bur rather this factor: the flower girl. She prances down the aisle spreading flowers every where. And above all, she's a girl.

Here's my modest proposition (because I don't wish for Jonathan Swift* to rise from the grave and sue me): flower boy. I'm not suggesting he put on the girls' dress for this occasion, unless you choose to do so. Don't worry: he and his therapist will be laughing about it twenty years down the road.

But boys don't aren't graceful like girls; they don't know how to handle flowers.

I come with a rebuttal to that argument that consists of a three sets of two words: Valentine's Day. Mother's Day. Birth Day. We've been handling flowers for a long time, and during these times, we're usually being gentle with them. This time, we'll be throwing them, which I'm pretty sure we'd be good at doing.

In short, I think it's time for a revolution, where everybody has a choice to do what they want to do in the wedding. If the men want to be bridesmen and the women want to be groomsmaids, then so be it. If the ring-bearer wants to be a ring catapulter (given he/she has good aim), then let them. The bride and groom already having their fun; it's time that the other participants are given a choice to do what THEY want to do.

I wish to start this, beginning with a flower boy.

*Jonathan Swift is the author of the essay A Modest Proposal which serves loosely as the inspiration for this post. He's the guy who wrote Gulliver's Travels, if you're still lost.

"But have not love.."

"If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give away all I have, and if I deliver up my body to be burned, but have not love, I gain nothing." I Corinthians 13:1-3

Brother, sister, Mr. Big-Shot-Preacher, Mrs. Never-Do-Wrong, I have news: it IS all about love.We have a message to share, a task to be completed, an objective to be reached, but if there is no love, then it is nothing. If we focus on the ramifications of sin rather than the grace that washes it away entirely, then what is our purpose?

They already know; we've let them know many a time through our arrogant display of self-glorification and our shameless rebuking.

We ask ourselves: why doesn't a dark world accept the Light? Because we've placed it too high for them to reach. We've turned it into an exclusive club membership that only the perfect and spotless can attain.

Why don't they want what we have?

I respond with another question: why would they want what they see? Fools announcing their offerings with the sound of a trumpet, standing on the street corners praying empty phrases, and fasting with disfigured faces.

They love the Shepherd, but are terrified by His flock.

"Love is patient and kind; love does not envy or boast; it is not arrogant or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrongdoing, but rejoices with the truth. Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things." 13:4-7

Have we forgotten what love is? When did kindness take a backseat to fear-mongering? We've muddled our original purpose with pride and elitism as a lost world watches on like a lonely, dejected child. Our popularity contests have not only alienated them, but made them bitter and resentful.

And all in the name of the One who loves them just as much. We have ignored the fact that He sent His only Son so they wouldn't perish, but have eternal life in Him.

"Love never ends. As for prophecies, they will pass away; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when the perfect comes, the partial will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I gave up childish ways. For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known." 13:8-12

Everything we put stock in will eventually vanish, but love is eternal. Prophecies and tongues can only last so long, for a day will come when all of that will meaningless. The declarations of prophets past will have been completed and tongues will be nothing but meaningless drivel.

Like children, our knowledge is only partial. And even as adults, our knowledge is not full. All we know, see, and think we understand is observed through a dark window, yet we take this and act like we have the one important revelation.

But love, this requires no in-depth observation. No analysis. No background checks. Our Saviour knew about us before we came into existence, yet paid for our wrongdoings in such a grotesque manner. All He requests is that we show this love to our brothers and sisters.

We can preach the greatest sermon or sing the greatest song, but have not love, it is nothing.

"So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love." 13:13

(Im)Perfect Creation

In the beginning, God created the world and saw that it was perfect. Every creation He brought into existence was flawless. Nothing that came from the work of His hand could be tainted by anything impure because His canopy of perfection hovered over it.

This is why, said the mentors of my youth, anything that displays a smidgen of filth is not of Him. Anything bearing the mark of transgression cannot be accepted into the Kingdom.

So why is it that I, a creation of the Almighty, am torn and disfigured? How can I be affected by my surroundings so easily if His artistic mark over me should shield me from all wrong? All of my life had I been taught that all who live in Him are stronger than others, but for some unknown reason, I've fallen behind in His grace to where I've failed to meet His standards. Why can't I do all things through Christ who strengthens me?

All counsel has told me that I am defective. I opened a door and now I am doomed to a future without Him. Everything made in His image is perfect, so I am therefore not of God. If I should ever want to be with Him in the end, I have to condemn myself and face the cursing of others.

But what about Jesus loves me this I know? Was there an asterisk on that lyric denoting Perfection Required that I skipped over? I try to fix this mess, but deep down, I know that no matter what I do to vindicate myself, it will never be enough. Those who constantly reminded me as boy that I was His child are the ones spitting in my face.

So here I stand, in front of a self-appointed judge and jury, helpless and damned. The place where I'm standing might as well be a witness stand with a sneering crowd in front of me, telling me what a failure I am.

With my flaws and indiscretions exposed for all to see, there's nothing I can do. Every inch of me is covered in labels tacked on by those who took it upon themselves to judge me by my errors. I try to me, but my feet are held down by the weights set in place by my accusers who told me I could never do His work because of my past.

Then the real Judge enters the room. The look in His eyes hushes the crowd and causes them to hide their faces in shame. The jury disperses and the fool who is attempting to play His part suddenly attains the appearance of a frightened boy.

Before long, many have left and the ones who have stayed suddenly have no more insult to throw at me. All they can do it sit and observe as the Master prepares to make His call on the matter.

I look at him in the eyes and what I see is a gentle stare that could calm even the angriest of men. But I hesitate because, like a wounded puppy, anyone who comes near carries a potential threat.

Then He reaches out his hand. I wince and shrink back, but before I can process anything, I feel something being released from skin. I open my eyes and am flabbergasted at what I see. One of the labels has been removed. And one by one, I watch as He takes each makeshift condemnation off of me and throws it on the ground.

Then He takes a key out of His pocket and puts it in the keyhole on the shackles binding my feet. After doing, He helps me up and whispers in my ear.

Go and sin no more.

I look up to see my accusers, only to find that they are gone. All I have is a sense of renewal, a hope of eternal life, and most of all, a promise of redemption. For so long, His followers have told me that He would not have any of me, that they were more fit than I could ever hope to be.

But now I have seen Him, and I know that He loves me. It's this validation that lets me know that no matter how many times I fall, He will always have His hand extended. I am not perfect, but nonetheless, I am His creation. And only He can judge me.

But when they heard it, they went away one by one, beginning with the older ones, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus stood up and said to her, "Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?" She said, "No one, Lord." And Jesus said, "Neither do I condemn you; go, and from now on sin no more." John 8:9-11 (ESV)

Transparency

"Therefore, confess your sins to one another and pray for one another, that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working." - James 5:16 ESV

Transparency, as used in the humanities and in a social context more generally, implies openness, communication, and accountability.

Okay, so my source might possibly be Wikipedia, but when I was looking up the definition of the word transparency, this is the one that stuck out to me because it describes perfectly what this post is about.

First, I'll elaborate on the Scripture. "Confess your sins to one another...that you may be healed." According to the Forerunner Commentary, "...James instructs us to confess our faults. The apostle does not mean that we should reveal every sin and foible to everyone in the congregation. He implies that we should confide our problems to a close, trusted friend so that he or she can help us by praying to God for help in overcoming it."

I just stated not too long ago to a friend that we all have baggage. Everyone has a different load that they have to carry with them and more often than not, they are doing it alone. And when your burden gets heavier with each error made in life, its size increases to the point where you cannot carry it any longer.

TAKE YOUR BURDENS TO THE CROSS! is the message that is being shoved down our throats concerning the matter of heavy burdens, but how can we make it if we're doing it alone? And what if we still have this issue, this thorn in our flesh, for the rest of our lives?

"Confess your sins to one another...that you may be healed."

The power of transparency is something I'm still trying to comprehend. I was transparent with ONE person and I instantly felt like my load had been lifted. It was still there, but I wasn't carrying it alone. There was somebody else with a burden as well and through this act of confession, we were helping each on this difficult journey known as life. In short, it was a healing experience.


"The prayer of a righteous person has great power as it is working."

Many a time I underestimate the power of prayer. I've seen its effects and been wowed each and every time, but I slip back into that phase where "I'll be praying" has become a cliche cop out for a situation.

But when prayer is done in sincerity, with meaning and intent, there is a lot that can be done. Will God remove the struggle in my life completely? Probably not. But can I rely on a friend to help me through this struggle by counseling me and keeping accountable in my walk with God? Absolutely.

As the body of Christ, instead of condemning each other for our wrongdoings, we should be there to help the person up when they fall. When we condemn each other, we create a double standard, "For in passing judgment on another you condemn yourself, because you, the judge, practice the very same things." (Romans 2:1 ESV)

We're all guilty. We've all sinned and fallen short of the glory of God (another awesome tidbit from Romans). But if we're open about it and acknowledge that we are not perfect and that we can't try to live in God's will without error, there is hope.

"Brothers, if anyone is caught in any transgression, you who are spiritual should restore him in a spirit of gentleness. Keep watch on yourself, lest you too be tempted. Bear one another’s burdens, and so fulfill the law of Christ. For if anyone thinks he is something, when he is nothing, he deceives himself." Galatians 6:1-3 ESV

The Middle Aisle

Note from Author:
The following piece is simply an over exaggerated take on a town hall meeting. Any subliminal messages or underlying meanings that may be pulled from the context of this work of fiction are not intended. So if you do not enjoy satire and are easily riled by a slight magnification of reality, then I advise that you do not continue any further from this point.

This was the assignment that nobody else in the office wanted. It entailed tolerance and high levels of patience, for the subject matter was one that produced endless stress and frustration. Anybody that dared to venture into this field was guaranteed to lose a good portion of their mind trying to make sense of it.
It was the dilemma of a town called…well, that was still in the process of being settled on. They had a name, but several protest groups formed against it, arguing that it was too abrasive and unwelcoming to outside communities who could be looking for a place to feel welcome.

Yeah, it doesn’t make much sense to me either. I tried to find common ground with these wonderful people so I could somehow find their reasoning, but every venture down that road made me pop an Advil. After a small piece I wrote on their fight over what the town’s recognized fruit should be, I promised myself I would never be involved with anything they did that required the attention of our paper.

Then there was the election. The two main political parties of the town were sparring off in one of the biggest showdowns of the town’s history fighting for control of the town. There were harsh words exchanged and people’s mothers were insulted in this bloodbath of a campaign.

500 people and nobody could agree on anything. It was a story for the ages.

As soon as the news broke, everybody shrunk and hoped they wouldn’t be chosen to go on this hellacious venture.

But when nobody jumps at the opportunity to take on an assignment that nobody wants, lots are cast and people are picked. And by some odd chance that could have been orchestrated by a higher power, the person that least wants to go out of a large group of many who share the same sentiment is picked.
I am that person. And for some odd reason, they think that because of my seemingly kind demeanor that I can tolerate any kind of heart that comes my way.

So that’s why I went to this town that cannot be named out of fear of a lawsuit against the paper. I can only wish that I am bearing false witness.

The conflicting, nameless town sent an aide to follow me around the town as I got pictures of the protest groups, society-neutral monuments, and culture-free restaurants. His name was Miles, I think. He gave it to me in the beginning, but I had completely forgotten it. All I knew was that it started with “M.”

A man of small stature and a bursting sense of excitement over escorting me, he was determined to follow me until the end of the earth. This guy wasn’t an aide, but a nuisance.

“I think you’re gonna like what you see!” he spouted as his little legs struggled to keep up with my long strides.

“Ah,” he gasped, covering his mouth. “I can’t say that; copyright issues with the nice suit company here in town.”

“What’s the name of it?” I dared to ask.

“The Nice Suit Company,” he replied, giving me a “duh” look. “It originally had another name for it, but it wasn’t gender neutral and the store owners didn’t want the Gay/Lesbian Pride Alliance to jump down their throats, so they changed the name.”

Is your head spinning as well?

“Either way, it’s a nice town,” he said.

“Is that phrase banned?” I asked sarcastically.

“No,” he replied, “That’s on the approved list of phrases and idioms. You can say that whenever and wherever you want.”

I waited for the punch line, but as he kept walking and looking ahead, I figured that this wasn’t a joke. So I kept walking as if the list of approved phrases and idioms were a normal way of life.

All of the necessary pictures were taken in about an hour, most of them consisting of the peaceful demonstrations that involved burning pictures of the mayor and overturning statue of his likeness.

I asked Marvin if there was a law against such violent acts.

“Oh, it was overturned,” he replied. “Plus, the mayor didn’t want to lose the popular vote, so he figured that throwing out all the hard laws would make things better.”

And my mind once again is blown by the contradictions coming from Mort’s mouth. This town was getting worse and worse. And we weren’t even at City Hall yet.

That building was a sight as well. It was under construction because the appearance was too menacing. Once again, I learned that asking questions was absolutely unnecessary.

“Well, it’s about time to start,” Marty said as we made our entrance. “Why don’t you find a seat and wait for the sho—”

“Sir!” barked a police officer that appeared out of nowhere. “You have spoken a phrase that is not on the list of approved phrases and idioms! I’m afraid I’m going to have to write you a fine.”

As it so happens, Find a seat and wait for the show is the slogan for A Nice Film-Showing Area in the main square. Poor Micah.

“Where will you be sitting?” a rough looking gentlemen asked me as I made my way to the entrance with a somber-looking Manuel following me closely.

“Uh, in the back?” I said. “I’m just a journalist here to report on a story.”

“Well, you can either sit with the White’s or the Free Color’s,” he barked. “Plus, it would be nice to have on either side; we’ve got a sharp divide today. It’ll make the voting easier.”

I assumed those were the political parties of the town.

“Don’t you have to be a citizen to vote?” I inquired.

“Heck, we’ll take anybody,” the man responded. “We just don’t want anybody to get hurt as a result of a tie-breaker.”

My face denoted an enormous question mark.

“We had a death match last year,” he explained. “We made it look like an accident so the police wouldn’t suspect.”

With that being said, Morty and I headed into the main hall where another surprise awaited me. Besides the freaks that were demonstrating in the foyer, there were two sections in the main auditorium. My first instinct was that it was a walk way, but I was sorely mistaken.

The front of the building had large platform with one table and two podiums on either side, obviously for the opponents in this controversial election. On the table was a baseball bat, which I assumed substituted for a gavel. And from the way things sounded inside of this animal house, it was going to be used often this evening.

The right side of the aisle was the White Party, which consisted of people who wanted to reverse the progress of the town and go back to its roots. All of the members wore black and white and sat cross-legged as they waited for the commencement ceremony.

Their protesters stood outside, stiff legged and angry. They simply chanted their not-so-catchy protests as they glared at their opponents. I tried to get a few comments from them, but it was all banter about how they were right and the others were wrong.

Across from the White section was the Free Color Party. Much adverse from the opposing group, they were all for change and forward motion. Unlike the party across the aisle, they did not conform to one outfit pattern. Instead they looked like a sloppy rainbow of people who were expressing themselves in rather creative ways.

“I’ve gotta get this thing going,” Mitch said. “Don’t have too much fu—”

I suppose the upcoming phrase wasn’t approved. After Moto saved himself from another fine, he made his way to front as I searched for a place to sit.

“Where ya sittin’?” yelled somebody on the left, effectively scaring the crap out of me. He was waving his foam finger and munching on what appeared to be an organic treat. “We support freedom!”

“Freedom to look like idiots!” yelled somebody on the right. “Don’t sit with those fools; we support order and establishment, not chaos and disaster!”

As tempting as it sounded, I kindly declined from both sides. As much fun as the Free Colors’ looked and as controlled the Whites’ seemed, I preferred to sit in my own section. So I took a seat and sat in the middle.

“You can’t do that,” a White yelled. “That doesn’t even make sense!”

“Sit with us!” yelled a Free Color. “We’re fun! Plus, we got some super awesome foam fingers from Mr. Johnson!”

“Mr. Smith doesn’t have to resort to childish propaganda,” the White yelled once again. “He’s an intellect.”
“Intellect, schmintellect,” the Free Color retorted. “He’s B-O-R-I-N-G!”

Then a Boring, Boring chant followed that lasted for about five minutes before bother sides tired of arguing. I felt my intelligence slowly disappearing as the tireless, childish insults continued to ravage the air.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Marty shouted, banging the baseball bat on the table. “It’s time to bring out the candidates.”

Before he could continue, boo’s and shouts of approval began to flood the air as both sections stood and showed their support and distaste. Moe struggled to keep the pace going as he waved the bat and swung down on the table.

“That’s good!” he said once the room quieted down. “Now…without further ado…Mr. Smith!”

Mr. Smith was wearing the exact same thing his supporters were: a black and white suit/tie combo. Only he had a handkerchief inside his left pocket and a clip on his tie. He walked like he had something stuck in his posterior and carried the same scowl his fans did. After he took his place at the podium, he waved to his section, glared at the Free Color’s, and resumed his stiff posture.

The mayor for twelve years running, Mr. Smith had this town in a death grip. The law only allowed two terms of four years, but with the help of his camp, Smith overthrew this rule so he could keep his position.
His arrival was met with uproarious applause from the right, who stood attentively as their fearless leader made his way to the front. I thought of a certain German ruler from long ago as his stood motionless behind his podium. The little moustache drawn on his face didn’t help break the illusion either.

“And of the Free Color Party,” Mickey announced. “Mr. Johnson!”

The applause was uproarious. The seats in the Free Color section went flying as the people stood and gave their candidate his due. The screaming, crying, and flying apparel was more than I could handle. I felt like it was more of a sporting event than it was a town hall meeting.

“Peace!” Mr. Johnson bellowed as the applause got louder. “I love you; every single one of your freedom loving behinds!”

Odd, yet effective.

“Okay, people,” Maury yelled, swinging the bat once again. “We need order before we begin. Please let the speakers get into their place as we commence this meeting.”

The yelling sea of idiots died down in compliance with Marion’s request. As the two candidates settled at their podiums, I observed their mannerisms, just in case it would come in handy later on.

Mr. Smith was very rigid, unmoving. He stared ahead, as if there was a figurative prize at the finish line waiting for him. His outfit was neatly pressed and his hair was slicked back in a nice comb over that would have been considered the epitome of awesome in 1957.

Mr. Johnson, on the other hand, was looked like a sea of colors as he pranced up to his place. His Hawaiian shirt clashed with his light blue jacket that made his tight khakis scream as the brown loafers wondered what was going on upstairs. And his cheesy smile made the image so much more enjoyable. Whatever he had to say would be overlooked by the crazy party disguised as his outfit.

“Mr. Smith will now proceed with his opening statement,” Manny said once the room had quieted down. The spokesperson for the White Party made his way to the front as his supporters glowed.

“Good evening, citizens,” he said, reading stiffly from his organized stack of note cards. “I have come to this place today to give my intentions. This city is going down the drain and I am the one who can save it. I have a plan that is much greater than the one Mr. Johnson will offer you. All he wants to do is spend more money and use more supplies. If we do that, then we are going to lose our status as a great city. If you listen to me and follow what I have planned, then our greatness will be restored.”

The last statement seemed a bit Hitler-esque. Yet his brainwashed supporters stood and rewarded his opening speech with uproarious applause. I had a feeling that they had absolutely no idea what he was talking about (there was also that stalking suspicion that the speaker didn’t either) and they were just accepting everything he said as fact.

Considering the fact that he stood with his knees locked and delivered his words like a computer, there had to be some brainwashing involved because he didn’t exactly sway the crowds with his sweeping charisma.

Emotionless robot was the term I jotted down on my notepad.

“And up next is Mr. Johnson,” Mario said as soon as Mr. Smith took his seat. The entire left side stood and screamed as their candidate made his way to the front. The cheers were those normally reserved for a rock concert and I was starting to feel that effect.

“What’s up!” he yelled, throwing the cliché peace signs up with his hands. The Free Colors returned a favorable response. Before long, the podium was covered with roses, gifts, and apparel.

As the yelling continued, I sat in awe as I watched people transform from kooks to full out idiots. There was a mosh pit, people body diving off of their seats, and young girls and a few effeminate men crying hysterically as they saw their idol standing in the same building as them.

No words I could think of would be able to accurately describe the current scene.

“I love you guys,” Johnson said as soon as he got the chance. “I love you and you and you. I love the architecture of this city. I love the roads that lead to this place of enlightenment. And I even love Mr. Meany Pants over here, Mr. Smith.”

Mr. Meany Pants wasn’t the term I would’ve used, but it did describe Mr. Smith.

“I want to build my campaign on love,” he said, using air quotes. “What is love? Baby, don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, no more.”

There were no words.

“You can quote that, Mr. Reporter,” he said, winking at me.

“Isn’t that from a Haddaway song?”

For some odd reason, I thought I was saying this in my head. But my thoughts tend occasionally escape from my head and into the open air.

“I’m sorry?” Mr. Johnson asked, his fake smile starting to lose its authenticity.

“That’s from a song,” I said, having no choice but to go along with it. “It would be plagiarism if I quoted that as your own words.”

“Hater!” a Free Color yelled, throwing something that looked like a piece of food at me. Within minutes, I had an entire group of freaks booing me and throwing unidentified objects in my direction. Apparently, questioning their fearless leader was blasphemy.

“Anyhoo,” Mr. Johnson said, settling down his group of followers immediately. “Love is my key word for the next few weeks. We want to see the world change and everybody making love to each other when this plan goes into motion.”

Something about that last statement left me feeling a little uneasy about his intentions.

“So let’s not fight,” he said, extending his arms. “Let’s love on each other, people!”

And with the thunderous applause, Johnson took a bow and observed as his people engaged in some weird kind of worship for him that I’m sure was influenced by Beelzebub himself.

“All right, now it’s time for the debate,” Monty announced. “I have a set of issues pressing in our town and I want you to offer your solutions. We’ll have a vote and see which the best one is.”

I figured this town had a different idea of what a debate actually was. Any sane reasonable person could see that this was a disaster waiting to happen.

“The first obvious one is the spray can art on the walls,” he continued. “What does Mr. Smith have to say about this?”

“Well, we are trying to be taken seriously,” the stiff neck stated. “And garbage being sprayed on the walls of our lovely architecture is not helping our case. I want it off!”

“Mr. Johnson?” Mowgli continued.

“It’s not garbage – its art!” he boasted, eliciting cheers from the Free Colors. “We want it up!”

A vote was taken. The entire White Section voted no, while the Free Colors were in favor.

“This is a problem,” Motley stated after taking a head count. “There are 249 on each side. We’ll have to have some kind of tie breaker.”

A thumb war wouldn’t have been too incredulous at this point. A bloody death match would be pretty entertaining; it would make coming out for this story worthwhile.

“Larry’s picking his nose!” a White shouted. “That discounts him from the vote; the Whites’ wins!”
And like that, the controversial issue of the graffiti was solved.

“Next issue,” Molina said, flipping the page. “The Proud Illiterates Society has filed a motion in the form of a picture book to change the signs and promotion for selected business so they can understand them. How do we stand?”

“They should learn to read,” Mr. Smith snarled. “We have several stations put throughout the city that has materials to teach them how to read. It would do them some good to use them from time to time.

“But what if they like being illiterate,” Mr. Johnson interjected. “It is their choice. If it makes them happy, then let them be. Therefore, in order to avoid conflict, we should meet their needs. I say, change the signs!”

“Change the signs, change the signs, change the signs!” the Free Colors’ chanted.

The vote was once again split; this time, Jack on the left had an ugly sweater, thus removing his voting rights. The signs were unchanged.

“And the final problem,” Mortimer proclaimed. “The issue that keeps coming back: the term law. The right insists on keeping it overturned, while the left wants it back.”

“It stays overturned,” Mr. Smith barked. “Officials deserve the right to keep their position from yuppies who think they can change the world. It stays!”

“I disagree,” Mr. Johnson replied, stating the obvious. “Sometimes we need to get rid of old people who are holding back the LOVE! I say bring it back!”

“Bring it back, bring it back!” the left chanted. This guy could tell them cyanide tasted like strawberry milkshakes and made their skin glow in the dark and they’d chug like it would be gone tomorrow.

When the time for the vote came, I waited to hear what ridiculous excuse the right would interject this time, but to my surprise, a Free Color stood up before a White could.

“Tony’s tie has white dots on it,” they yelled. “He’s broken their ‘order.’”

“That’s ridiculous,” Mr. Smith scoffed. “How could you make up something so preposterous?”

It was instances such as these that made me wonder if I had slipped into an alternate reality. I pinched myself until I was blue and I was still awake.

This was a defining moment for the town with no name due to legal issues. The overturned law that kept Mr. Smith in power for so long could possibly be reversed, thus dethroning him.

It was all making me pull my hair out. Not out of suspense, but frustration over the idiots that presided in this ridiculous excuse for a town. I was less than a minute away from voicing my opinion, which was something that could compromise my job.

“Well, we’ve got to make a decision,” Melvin stated after a long awkward silence. “What’s it gonna be?”

“Keep Tony!” came from the right and “Throw him out!” sailed in from the left. So a vote was taken regarding the sub-issue of Tony and it was still tied. They re-voted and it still tied.

“There has to be something wrong,” Mick said, scratching his head. “Are we missing something?”

I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I had contracted a bad case of diarrhea of the mouth.

“Yes,” I said, giving in to my urges. “You are missing something; common sense!”

All of the chatter stopped. The neutralist had spoken.

Finding a spot in the middle of the aisle, I turned around to face my newly-acquired audience and proceeded.

“You people are idiots!” I spouted. “Taking a pair of tweezers and giving myself a lobotomy would be a much more productive use of time than sitting through this ridiculous excuse for a town hall meeting. All you morons do is sit around and argue. Mr. Smith is changing laws up so the very thought of competition doesn’t enter the lines of this town that can’t be named because of an idiotic cult of a group. And Mr. Johnson’s plan for a world-wide orgy is freaking me out! How are you people still around!?”

The place was dead quiet. Nobody quite knew how to answer me. It was nice actually; they had their mouths shut for more than a split second.

“The Whites,” I said, walking towards them. “You are the stiffest mass of tight-wads I have ever met. You sit there with your judgmental stares and act like you have poles up your pharisaical butts! How about you adopt a personality and grow a little humanity while you’re at it?”

The murmuring started almost instantly.

“And you,” I said, strafing to the left. “The Free Colors…FREE COLORS! What kind of moronic name is that? You’re a bunch of simple-minded nit wits that probably haven’t had a thought of your own since this joker came along. How about you clean yourselves up, put on some decent-looking clothes, and get a friggin’ life!”

The murmuring intensified as I cut deeper.

“And who cares about your stupid issues,” I continued. “Graffiti is always going to show up because idiot, identity-challenged kids are going to express their ill-conceived sentiments one way or another. Keep the signs up and teach the illiterates how to read or let them leave town. And if you want anything to be reversed, you’re going to have to kill Mr. Smith because nothing’s going to budge until he keels over.”

The stares were of a horrific nature, as I had threatened the life of a baby seal. I could feel the panic sweep across the auditorium as every move I made was broken down and analyzed.

“It was a joke,” I said, trying to sooth their fear. “Sarcasm, if you will.”

“But that’s not allowed,” a White yelled. “Law number six hundred and twenty-two states that any form of statement that consists of irony is not allowed, for many not understand and do in accordance to said ironic statement.”

For a second, I forgot about my blind fury and soaked in what had just been said. They had a law against sarcasm. Sarcasm was not allowed in the town that was nameless because a dispute that branched out into many other disputes that all funneled back to that one major dispute.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” I said, raising my hands in surrender. “I rest my case. Continue your little town hall meeting; I am going to get out before I lose my freaking mind!”

Before Munez could stop me to try and reason, I was out the door and in my car. I blew through the town, ignored the police, and got on the highway before you say, “Mr. Smith rules all!”

The little town that had no name because of a legal dispute dispersed after a bloody brawl that broke out during Mr. Smith’s fourth inauguration. Many escaped to the northern regions of the country while some got caught by outside, reasonable officials and ended up in Gitmo and several mental institutions in Europe.

But it’s not my problem. After the town hall meeting, I quit my job as a journalist and got a job at another paper writing in the travel section. It’s a lot slower, but at least I can write about towns that have names. It’s a plus, if you ask me.

Holy Ghost Dancing 101

Note: The following post is not an attempt at sacrilege as some might view it, but simply one of a humorous nature that points out the often exaggerated demeanor of worship that Pentecostals display. I am very much a Pentecostal and I'm simply observing something that is appreciated by many, including fellow Apostolics. Please do not take offense at my sense of humor.

You see them everyday. They walk your streets. They roam your biggest mall. You often see them sneaking in and out of movie theaters so as not to be seen by their elders. And most importantly, they tend to crowd your local Golden Corral or Shoney's.

During the day, they are only men that tuck their T-Shirts into their jeans and women with freakishly long hair and skirts. But at night (on Sundays and sporadically during the week if there's Bible Study or a revival), they transform into something much greater. Something so outlandish, so ridiculous, even their nearest dearest friends of the same faith have a hard time getting past it.

They become your average, One-God-Apostolic-tongue-talking-holly-roller-born-again-heaven-bound-believer-in-the-liberating-power-of-Jesus'-name. In other words, your average red-blooded, Republican-voting Pentecostal.

If you are to choose to become one of these people that crowd the altar after service and display the theatrics normally reserved for the Ringley Brother Circus, there are a few techniques you can display.

I can only give you the basics, for the greater, much more complicated moves come with practice. Here are three to get you started:

#1 The Sway and Whoop

This is the easiest of them all. All you have to do is stand somewhere with plenty of space, preferably in the aisle, and just do what comes natural: sway your arms back and forth as you jump and twirl and let out a good ol' fashion Holy Ghost WHOOOOOOOOOOP! It's pretty basic, but effective.

#2 The Helicopter Dance

This one is a little harder, but still not so difficult. If you're car sick, you might want to stick to #1, but if you're under the Spirit, it really won't matter all that much. This is simply spinning in circles with your left shoulder tilted so as to give the appearance of a helicopter crashing into the ground. A little hoop or holler here and there is optional.

#3 The Jig for Jehovah

And last, but most certainly not least, is the Jig for Jehovah. This requires a little more skill and possibly some knowledge of dance moves from your time spent in the world backslidden or looking for a Savior. This could be really simple or complicated, depending on which way you want to do it. You can either jump up and down like something's poking you in the bum or you do three hops before taking off across the sanctuary, convention center, campground building, or where the Shekinah glory is falling. And along the way, you can throw in some fancy moves within your realm of knowledge wherever you deem it necessary.

So there you have it. The rest will come once you have master these three. And who knows; you might discover some of your own along your journey to glory. Either way, now you know how to get down like a Pentecostal. So if you'll excuse me, I've got some aisles to run.


GLO-RAAAAAAAAAAAYYY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!