Friendship Is a Dying Art

And where it once hung proudly in museums of considerable pomp, it now is at best graffitied on a few rebel souls here and there.

But it's still beautiful.

Friendship can hold on just as fast as it can let go. I don't mean to let go in abandonment, but to let go into better hands. Because it makes sense that in the walk of life that closer people will come and go, but I'll always be there for the drop off.

So take advantage of me. I'm at your disposal. Not because I'm weak, but because I love you and I love you more than I love me. I've found that I can be whatever my friends need me to be. I'm not a personality on a television who picks his popularity. I'm a puppet on willing strings. I'm going to do right. Wrong me. I'll do right.

Because I forgive you, not because I have a good heart, but because my bad heart has been forgiven and I can't be mad at anyone really.

And because loyalty sounds like bells ringing and foreign lights falling out of the blue. It's a beautiful sound and a grinning taste on my tongue.

And a person is a tougher case than a population. Someone taught me that. People take time and investment and tears. Populations don't have souls. If we save the majority we can sleep at night. But there is such thing as a minority and their souls were important too.

I can't compromise my morals, but I can compromise myself. Because who I want to be by way of whim or gimmick isn't half as important as you. So I'll betray myself and we'll walk on, branded though I am.

And I will do the things I hate. Because they aren't right or wrong, I just hate them, but I'll do them for you.

Because I can still paint. Don't mind my abstractions or impressions. Don't mind my dripping colours and torn canvasses.

Because it's a dying art I have a hard time.

But my medium is this: I will be loyal to you. I will work at our friendship. I will be relentless in times of need. I will put you before me.

And I will fail.

But in the end

It will be a masterpiece.

Charity Prioritized

What makes charity happen? I reckon it is the goodness in people's hearts. Probably people see a need that they can meet and they jump to it. They see a devastating truth and say "it oughtn't to be" so they pull out the pocketbook or roll up their sleeves and get to work.

For some.

For many charity is that tiny pest on the budget list, spawned from guilt or social position.

For others, like say companies, it is an ad campaign. We're gonna give money to these folks!

The ethics of our giving can only be solved in our own hearts, but something else bugs me.

It's this business of what we are giving to. I mean there are some ridiculous charities out there. Others aren't foolish, they are noble even, but they don't make sense in light of other problems.

Take Coca-Cola for instance, this year they had a big campaign to save the homes of Polar Bears with the pristine, white arctic mammals depicted on the front giving us all a warm holiday feel. Imagine Coca-Cola putting a homeless human on their cans. "Save this man's home." or a starving child. That's a little morbid for me to see everytime I tip up the can of carbonated soda. It wouldn't sit well with the syrupy sweetness.

I know I'll seem ignorant when I take off after the enormous Going Green fad (yes fad, that's not charity, that's pop culture). I mean if we don't take care of the planet then people will surcease to exist. Okay, so take care of the planet. Don't do and you won't have to undo. But before we go spend money on the trees let's take care of the people. People that are starving or living endangered lifestyles or dying from preventable diseases.

It's not right.

Jesus and I

I know that Jesus is real. I've never been able to shake that. That's always been something of a secular problem for me, and my spirit just loves that upper hand.

So this I know. I am a cynic and I can argue on both sides of the existence of God and Jesus as Lord. I could be an atheist's best friend in an argument.

But none of that matters. I know. I've tried to prove it untrue, but my mental eloquence makes no difference to the truth.

So I know that. So what?

Sometimes I lie awake at night and in my heart Jesus and I are in a deep wood. Out there in "all that dark and all that cold." And He is teaching me things and we just have some conversation and I ask Him questions and He recommends books and songs. And then I lie down to sleep and I remember that I've been a jerk to Him, but He doesn't. He just throws another heavy blanket over my shoulders and stirs the fire. That's just how it comes to mind.

And when I wake up by a smoking pile of sticks, He's gone. I don't mean gone as in I won't see Him again, I just mean He isn't right there. But I know that whenever I've hit the wire and there's nothing I can do He's there. And when life kicks the crap out of me He's there. He's a good man. People have a problem with that because it makes Him sound tame but He's not that. He's a warrior and a fighter and He's tougher than I. But He's still a good man.

The human race is pretty feminine. That's why we're the bride.

I don't know. God always shows up and I forget that sometimes. I tell people God never talks to me. I tell people I've never seen God. That's a fact. But when has He let me down? I don't know why He keeps stepping between me and my enemies, who I invite in my own home.

I think He must love the heck out of me.

Sometimes I sin. But sometimes I don't, and it's those times that I imagine God is beside me screaming and yelling "Don't quit! Don't quit! Don't quit! You can let that go! I believe you can do it! Look at me, look! We can take this! Say it to me! Say you won't let go!" And His eyelids are like white mud and they are circled by bruise colored fatigue because he's been staying up with me night after night after night begging me not to relent, reminding me how much He loves me and How much He is moved by me.

Sometimes I am sad. Often I am, but I'm a thespian with a cause. Still, sometimes it gets to be too much and in my mind I'm making a speech before a crowd and the burden is too much and I start to collapse but he catches me under my arms and whispers in my ears the words to my speech and I spit them out with passion and tears.

I walk outside sometimes and I can understand the proverb "a fool says in his heart 'there is no God,'" because I see glory and glory and glory everywhere. You would have to be stupid to think it all just happened right?

There are inexplicable feelings. Let's not blame them on chemicals.

I know that God loves me with the truest love. I know that the facts that "God loves you" and "Jesus Saves" are cliche. But I know that all cliches are great truths and that there is a reason they have been repeated and repeated and repeated. I know that God love me. I know that I can know Jesus. I know that "the same things win that always won." I know that God's love won't ever become antiquated or outdated.

I know that for whatever reason God is captivated by me. I know that He is stricken with emotion at each action I take. I know He is smitten with my journey towards Him. I know He is excited for my pilgrimage. I know He is devastated by my falls and hurt by my abandonment. My waste. I know every second is an ache when I am prodigal. I know He is angered by my sin. I know He is jealous for my attentions.

There are house fires everywhere you turn. I know people are burning to the ground. It's during these times that I imagine that I know a guy that can put it out. He's bigger and faster and stronger than I and He's the only man for the job. And I know He's on the other side of a forest and across plains in His home and all I have to do is run there and get Him, but sometimes I am too lazy to do that. But if I would just go and get Him, I know He'd take care of it.

Sometimes I lay in a a creek half-faced in cold water and he jerks me up and thuds His big hands across my face a time or two and He says to me, "Stop being stupid, I saved you're life." And that's why I get up and do his bidding. Carry out His mission. A knight loyal to my King. A son loyal to His Father.

Sometimes I hear a song and I tell Him it reminds me of Him.

He is the cause, citizens, that we fight for. He is something worth being passionate about. How sad that I can find time to be cynical about that.

I don't want to hide this fact, but neither do I want to present it in the wrong light.

Jesus and I are in something of a relationship. Because, we do things together. Generally it's me being a bad friend, son, subject, or whatever else you want to say. But when God is done raising His child I will be a warrior. Polished, but oh so rough around the edges. "I'm flawed, but I'm cleaning up so well, I am seeing in me now the things you swear you saw yourself." You've known what I was made of all along. You've always known what you were doing and you've always loved me. He's proud of me.

I'm just going to be frank with you, I love Jesus Christ.

May my life testify to that.

Faces to Statistics

At my campus at Lee University in Cleveland Tennessee, they showed a documentary about sex trafficking and prostitution. The documentary was titled Nefarious: Merchant of Souls and will be available in the way of DVD before long.

The film was really about slavery. A people in bondage. A portion of the synopsis of the film read as follows:

Regardless of nationality, victims are systematically stripped of their identity, battered into gruesome submission and made to perform humiliating sexual acts with up to 40 strangers every night. Held against their will, most are forced to take illegal drugs and are kept under constant surveillance. On average, victims are thrown into such ghastly oppression at age 13. Some are abducted outright, while others are lured out of poverty, romantically seduced, or sold by their families.

Here are some statistics on international slavery:

• A child is trafficked every 30 seconds.
• The average age of entry into commercial sex slavery in the United States is 13 years old.
• Human trafficking occurs in 161 out of 192 countries.
• Human trafficking is a 32 billion dollar per year industry.
• In some countries it is estimated that 70% of men purchase sex
• Over 27 million people are enslaved around the world.

Now try putting faces to these statistics. That's what the film does. Dirty men and helpless women. The average age for being thrust into the sex industry is 13 years. Parents literally sell their daughters into it. When they have a daughter it is said that they "hit the jackpot." They don't only sell their children to buy necessities (this still a terrible injustice) they sell them for luxuries, like television sets. Able fathers do nothing as their helpless daughters send checks home.

Even where prostitution is legal, organized crime is rampant. The reality is everyone in the sex industry is a slave.

As I watched the horrors unfold on the screen. I began thinking about giving money. Decidedly I would. I began to think about all the organizations as I listened to the women involved give testimony to the horrors of the life and even the trauma still faced afterwards. Some women even go back into the industry after being rescued from it.

A man who helps fight against these injustices spoke and he talked of how many people think if you educate the young women it will solve the problem. He said that this is disproved by the prostitution and traficking that goes on in America. He said that many of the young girls would have counseling but nothing would help.

It left me wondering what would.

The end moved me far beyond what I imagined it would. Of course, the answer was clear.

Jesus Christ is the only hope.

Each of the women interviewed (and even a former traifficker) spoke of what Jesus had done form them. Few of them did not weep when they spoke His name. Of course Christ is the only hope. It's like we are taking part of emancipation inflation. We have the tangible means of freedom but we don't have the assets to back it. If America prints money money money, then good, they have money, but if they don't have the assets to back it, then it's worthless. In the same way, we can counsel, educate, give money, rescue and do whatever we want to stop trafficking, but if we don't have Christ to back it then it is worthless.

Action is required. You can always turn a blind eye. That's okay. But abolitionist William Wilberforce spoke of a different sort of person. An incurable fanatic:

“If to be feelingly alive to the sufferings of my fellow-creatures is to be a fanatic, I am one of the most incurable fanatics ever permitted to be at large.”

—William Wilberforce

Wilberforce practised three methods of taking action. The first: prayer.

This is where the assets back the action. We need Christ to change lives. We can't do it. The team showing the film recommended that every time we, in our vehicles drive past a red light that we remember to pray for those in trafficking or red light districts. It's a brilliant reminder. Prayer is powerful.

The second is raising awareness. Blogs, twitter, facebook, youtube. We have everything we need to make a cause known. Just do it.

The third is to give. Money. Your money. Give it for something better than your coffee a day at starbucks. You can literally commit to giving 3 dollars per week. You can spare it I promise. Yes. Money.

Though it seems a hopeless cause with God there is hope. Take action. Be an incurable fanatic.

Here is the site to get you started.

http://nefariousdocumentary.com/

Music Therapy

Music, among other things, is a bridge between the past, present, and future. That is, nostalgia, contentment, and hope. It inspires, it lends spices and salt to the bland emotions. It escalates wildly from apathy to action. It speaks to the heart of matters. It does, of course, more than I can ever hope to explain in hundreds of books, much less a brief essay.

What I want to walk across in so many words, is the bridge that it makes. The one I just talked about between the parodoxical stations of time. Because it does that, I think, it is a "balm to the soul."

It's a relationship. The music can be our voice in anger, grief, envy, joy, or any number of feelings that we want to let loose into a conduit.

But music heals too.

Sometimes when I'm sad, I want to feed that sadness. It's like when your lips are chapped, you sort of pull them apart and make your way towards the apex of the sting, once there you can smile at ease, because you've felt as much pain as you can possibly feel towards the matter. When I am filled with sorrow, I let the music feel me up and pull apart the lips of my lament, cracking them and releasing the eager blood. Searing the thin skin.

Sometimes it doesn't really matter the message of a song. Haven't you ever been grieved by a song that has a happy tune and lively lyrics? It is guilty by association at times. The best way to ruin a song is to listen to it in a dark time, because forever after when it plays it will be a mournful piece. I could make a playlist from those dirges. And listen to it until the melancholy memory pats me on the back and repeats the locational and situationally nonsensical, "there, there."

But sometimes the music therapy playlist just says "Hey, I'm a million miles away under an equally dark sky penning out this song on old paper and running my cold, callous fingers down the guitar strings. Smelling the ink and the metallic blood in each resonance of the chords. And feeling the same aches and tasting the same bitterness and sitting outside lost 'in all that dark and all that cold.' So let's go find a fire together. Heck, let's go build one." And the fiddler follows as you trek and trip through the trauma.