Geeks Will Save the World

With a headline like “Geeks Will Save the World,” I know what you’re thinking. It’s all about the social isolation. The geeks and nerds of the world are prepared to isolate because we’ve been doing it for decades. When we were younger, we were developing a very particular set of skills never knowing it would become desperately needed in a future era of crisis.

All of the years you spent alone in your room reading and rereading Harry Potter, Marvel comic books, the collected works of JRR Tolkien and CS Lewis, or the Song of Ice and Fire series? It was preparation for today. The thousands of hours you devoted to playing World of Warcraft, alone in a dark room surviving off Mt Dew and frozen pizzas? That gave you the determination and talent to make it through our current shelter in place orders. Those nights you spent watching horror movies alone because all of your friends were too chicken to join you proves you have the courage to survive a pandemic. The work you committed to research a field of study or perfect a creative craft on your own while everyone else was partying at the beach is the same commitment needed now.

We didn’t know it then but we do now; our nerd powers of self isolation is the one thing that could save our planet and protect vulnerable lives. A word of motivation for all of my geeky friends: we are superheroes.

While all of this is true, it is not the reason I believe geeks will save the world. Life, as volatile and fragile as it may be, is bigger and more enduring than the current pandemic or our personal and political responses to it. Once the orders to shelter in place are lifted, this world will still need nerds and we will continue to rise and meet our noble calling. We’ve been given superpowers, and this week, I met a man who was saved by our nerd powers.

It was a random encounter in a public restroom. I generally loathe conversation in the men’s room. It’s a sacred space and if you really want to talk to me, you can wait until I’ve exited the facilities. However, we were both washing our hands while attempting to maintain a safe social distance when he noticed my t-shirt. It has a spider webbing pattern superimposed over Captain America’s shield with the radioactive spider that bit Peter Parker crawling in the web.

“Spider-Man?” He asked.
“Yup. Spidey and Cap. Mixing the two.”
“Nice,” he said, “Spider-Man is my jam.”
“Cool.”
“If it wasn’t for Spider-Man, I probably would have never learned to read.”
“Oh really?” Despite my aversion to bathroom conversation, he had me interested in his story.
“See, I’m dyslexic. And my dumbass school didn’t teach me anything. I couldn’t read. Didn’t know how until I found Spider-Man comics. I still wasn’t learning at school so I taught myself to read through Spider-Man stories. They literally saved my life.
“That’s awesome,” I said.
“Yeah. And now I’m seeing some of the same signs in my daughter. She’s struggling in school. So I’m like: here...”
“Have a comic book.” I finished his sentence for him.
“Hell yeah. If Spider-Man helped me learn to read, he can help my daughter too.”

Comic books have long been viewed with scorn and disdain. They’ve been blamed as contributing to the delinquency of minors and shaded as a lesser type of literature. However, the vernacular comics use is more complex than most people’s spoken conversations. They employ advanced words comparable to college level communications. Studies into the art form from Boston University and California State University have praised comic books for being a great entry point for people reluctant to read and for helping students improve their reading level and vocabulary.

If you call yourself a nerd, consider this a note of encouragement. Because of writers and artists and perfectly decent geeks like us, my new friend learned to read after public education gave up on him. Our culture has more to contribute to society than our superhuman ability to isolate. We will save the world, even if it’s one dyslexic kid at a time.

Time Traveling Loser

Let’s take a trip through the quantum realm. I have enough Pym particles to make five jumps through time and one test just to make sure it works. Are you ready?

The test run succeeded; I revisited September 15, 2001. Some friends of mine were competing in a garage band contest in McCall that day. I spent the day listening to several different local bands perform. We hung out by the lake, feasted on some of the best pizza I’ve ever devoured, and altered deer crossing signs to make them anatomically correct. It was the perfect way to cope with the tragedy that crashed into our nation a few days prior. Our weekend in McCall is one of my happiest experiences, carefree – surrounded by friends and music. Such memories are rare for me.

Now that I’m back in the present, it’s time to aim for our first destination: the fall of 1990. I had recently started sixth grade and was learning to navigate the halls of my middle school while adjusting to the changing social rules. That kid you see? He’s scrawny, shorter than most of the other kids, uncoordinated, tacky sense of fashion, geeky glasses, and unruly blond hair - that’s me. He desperately wants to be cool but doesn’t know how.

One day, after school, he can’t get to his locker because of the kid who uses the next locker over. The other kid is goofing off with a couple of his friends and young Nic decides to speak when he shouldn’t. He asks the other boys to move. They take one look at the diminutive boy and laugh. Lil’ Nic doesn’t like being laughed at so he replied with a sarcastic remark. This is the first time he ever interacted with school bullies. Two of the boys grab Nic and drag him across the hall, slamming him into lockers on the other side. They restrain him there so he’s unable to escape. The third boy, Shane, approaches. He lets Nic know he’s a loser and should keep his mouth shut. To demonstrate dominance, Shane forms a fist and swings as hard as he can, connecting with Nic’s left temple. The force of the punch knocks Nic’s head back hard enough to dent the locker behind him. Shane’s friends let go and Nic collapses onto the floor in tears while the three bullies run away.

That was my first fight and I lost big. Shane called me a loser that day, a label that stuck with me through most of the rest of my school days.

New destination in time: 1993. I’m now in the ninth grade but I’m not much bigger than the last time you saw me. Ninth grade Nic spends a lot of time at his brother’s house - he lives across the street. The two boys share a love for music and Aaron frequently introduces Nic to new artists or recent albums from some of their favorite bands. Steve Taylor is Nic’s musical hero. As the family prepares for the holiday season, Aaron buys Taylor’s newest record - Squint. They listen to it together for the first time and Nic instantly adored it. From the hook heavy opening track The Lament of Desmond RG Underwood Frederick IV to the odd rock opera closer Cash Cow, every composition sings to him. One song, The Moshing Floor seems to explain his generation, Smug demonstrates the parts of Christian culture that bothers him the most, and The Finish Line is the song he want played at his funeral.

If any song stands out more than the others, it is Jesus is for Losers. This song dug its way into Nic’s heart, put down roots, took shelter there, and provided a shield for his wounded spirit. It’s been three years since Shane’s punch. The remaining years of middle school and junior high were a parade of other bullies calling Nic a loser, sometimes reinforcing the insult with their fists. His few friends were all cooler than me. Better looking, taller, and more athletic. Their parents were wealthier . Even among people who didn’t bully me, he still felt like a loser. This is where you see me in 1993 when I listened to Squint for the first time.

Jesus is for Losers wrecks Nic in the best way possible. “If Jesus is for losers,” he thought, “and I’m a loser, then Jesus is for me.” While most contemporary Christian musicians talked about a Jesus loved Nic because He loves everybody, Steve Taylor sang a song about Jesus loving him because he was Nic. It is a love song for the geeks and nerds. The losers and outcasts. The freaks who didn’t fit in and didn’t belong. The beat up, bullied, and abused.

Just as I am
I am needy and dry
Jesus is for losers
The self-made need not apply

Nothing about ninth grade Nic is self-made. If anything, he’s forged by the taunts of his peers and the crippling violence of assault and harassment condoned by teachers and administrators who look the other way. The song says “Jesus is for losers broken at the foot of the cross,” mirroring the Psalm that tells us “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” If the kids at school insist on labeling Nic a loser, he decides to embrace it and wear the name like a crown. God will meet him in his brokenness because Jesus loves losers.

Another jump through time brings us to August of 2013. If you see the grown up Nic crying, it’s because his wife just told him she wants a legal separation.

There’s a pain inflicted when the person who promised to love you for better or worse tells you your best will never be good enough. Her words tore open old wounds from childhood, years of other kids telling Nic he wasn’t good enough. Telling him he wasn’t athletic enough. Or talented enough. Or rich enough. Or cool enough. Nic was always less than. Dork. Loser. Now, he’s losing his marriage.

Granted, her request is only an official application to their reality. Truth is they have been separated for several months since she made a habit of leaving the house as soon as he got home from work. At first she would return around 11pm or midnight but as the days turned into weeks, she started staying out later and later. Now it’s usually 1am (at least) when she gets home. She even started leaving as soon as she’s out of bed on weekends. This day in 2013 might be the day she told Nic she’s leaving but if everyone is honest, she left him a long time ago.

Nic was raised to believe divorce was a sin. He was taught to believe that wedding vows were meant to be permanent. Our bibles contain the text “So they are no longer two, but one flesh. Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.” Nic intends to keep those vows but the woman he married is out. She gave up. When they exchanged wedding vows, Nic thought that meant forever. Forever?

Those are the thoughts inside my brain as you watch that slightly younger and fatter me sobbing on the couch in my home office. He’s feeling a grief he can’t yet define. There’s a feeling like all he had worked for was falling apart, like all of his efforts were wasted. He is the king of losers losing everything. What he doesn’t know at the moment is this day is the beginning of a season of loss. The next several months will break him down over and over. In November, Grandma Budd - mom’s mom will pass away. On Valentine’s Day, his boss will let him know his position is being eliminated and he’d have to take a pay cut roughly totaling a thousand dollars a month if he wants to remain employed. And by Easter, his wife will file for divorce. He don’t know those events are coming. All he knows is the life he thought he knew is ending. He was, still am, and might always be a loser.

We’re almost done. Our final destination in history is recent, only a couple months ago. That dude sitting in the cab of his truck on the side of the freeway is me. He’s lost some weight, but he’s looking frayed at the edges. It’s a bad day and he don’t fully understand what just happened or what to do next. He texts his fiancée to let her know he was in an accident. Contacts his boss to inform her he’s not going to make it in to work today. Calls 911 and waits for emergency services to arrive.

Nic’s understanding of time is blurry now. A mix of shock and adrenaline are clouding his judgment. He spent a few minutes talking with police officers and paramedics. Or several minutes. It could have been five or fifty, he’s not sure. Today isn’t going according to plan. Instead of a typical day at the office, it is spent talking with insurance companies, ER doctors, and pharmacy technicians. Thankfully, Annie stayed with him for the day. She’s a wonderful woman.

As the sun sets that night, his back is seized in pain and he can’t help but wonder when they’re going to catch a break. Every time it feels like there’s progress, they face a setback. The wreck is one of those setbacks. They live on a farm and a truck is a necessity. They need to be able to pick up and haul fencing supplies, building materials, and hay for their horses. The kids compete in rodeo and they need to tow the horse trailer to events. Now he’s lost the truck. Actually, this is the second truck they lost in the last year - the other had massive engine failure on the freeway while driving home from a rodeo last summer. Nic is burdened with physical pain, which is to be expected when you get hit by a semi. I am also struggling through his emotional response to their situation. The accident wasn’t his fault yet he still feel like a failure. Some days, he wonders if he’s really capable of living the farm life.

Soy un perdedor. I’m a loser.

Almost out of pym particles. We have just enough to get back home. Welcome to the present day. Today is my 40th birthday and I’m very much feeling my age. I’ve come to terms with my life being at least half over and it seems like an appropriate time to evaluate where I’ve been.

Our wandering through my past explored some of the worst days of my life but I needed to get perspective. Our experiences shape us. The good, the bad, the ugly. We are who we are because of these moments and some events stand out more than others. Our days are a series of integers and the people we become is a sum total of every single day. When we look backwards in time, human nature tends to look at the highlight reel. We want to recall the good old days, to relive our warmest and fuzziest memories. It’s healthy to remember the good times, to reminisce. However, it’s dangerous to ignore the days we’d rather forget. It might be easier to look at our mistakes, failures, and tragedies then pretend they never happened. If we do, we lose the ability to learn from them. We can’t dwell on these bad days, but we do need to recognize them for what they are and how they affect to people we are now. I can’t come to terms when the man I am at 40 unless I understand who I was at 11, 14, 34, and 39. Even in my happiest days, there’s a little voice in my head whispering the words Shane told me in sixth grade, that were repeated again and again from school bullies, disgruntled coworkers, and my ex wife: “You’re a loser. You’ll never be good enough.”

Don’t get me wrong, I love my life. I’m happier and healthier now than I have been in years. However, happiness doesn’t come easy for me. It takes a lot of work. My natural baseline is melancholy while joy requires intentional effort.

I still occasionally get Jesus is for Losers stuck in my head. The familiar melody brings me comfort. However, there’s another song about losers I hear often. One of the local radio stations still play it a couple times a week even though it’s 25 years old. And I have it in a playlist I listen to whenever I’m in a nostalgic mood. Like most of Beck’s songs, Loser is filled with absurd and nonsensical lyrics. He asks his audience why they don’t kill him for being a loser, but he also implores them to get crazy with the Cheeze Wiz so we can’t take him too seriously. Beck didn’t intend the lyrics to contain much substance and he never expected it to be a hit. So he raps about shaving with mace and termites choking on a splinter. It’s one of those songs that should make me feel silly when I sing along, but I still do it loudly and with no shame. It might be four minutes of an entertaining yet ultimately meaningless word salad, but there’s still one line that punches me in the gut every time I hear it. It’s a spoken phrase buried in the mix but the sentiment is earnest. At this stage of my life, it might as well be my anthem: “I’m a driver. I’m a winner. Things are gonna change, I can feel it.”

I haven’t always seen hope in my plight as a loser but I do now. I endeavor to be the lovable loser - as a literary archetype, they’re my favorite protagonist.

Perhaps this is you. If you feel like you’re a loser too, then you’re my people. You’re my tribe. I am convinced that Jesus is for people like us. God loves the losers and therefore I have hope. Because of God’s love we’re not consumed. There is new mercy every morning for the freaks and geeks.

As I look back at these four moments in my life, I see hope waiting on the other side of the pain. Every time someone called me a loser, every situation where I felt like a failure, other forces were at work. While there was a devil on one shoulder whispering in my ear “You’re a loser and that’s all you’ll ever be,” there was an angel on my other shoulder gently reminding me, “You’re a driver and a winner. Things are gonna change, I can feel it.”

Ode to Mullets

It's the Kentucky waterfall, the neckwarmer, or the Camero cut. The official hairdo of NASCAR, ice hockey, country music, butt-rock, meth addicts, and our worst memories of the 80s. If you have one, I'll assume you drive an El Camino and listen to Nickelback. It's even a movie trope. When you see a kid with a mullet in the theater, you know he's a bully. Or a redneck. Or both.

image courtesy of New Line Cinema and Warner Bros Pictures

In the early days of Bush Jr's presidency, my friend Steve and I spent a couple afternoons mullet hunting. We'd hang out at Boise Towne Square or drive through Garden City looking for people with the regrettable hairstyle so we could take a photograph of them. Somewhere on the internet, in the days before social media, there was a website full of hilarious pictures of mullet-topped citizens. It even had them sorted by classifications, coiffured subspecies. There was the frullet (part afro, part mullet), or the skullet (bald on top, long and flowy in back). The website was completely driven by user submissions and Steve's goal was for them to use a picture he submitted.

We never got a picture good enough to be sent to the web collection of epic mullets. But a juvenile with a kidlet (kid with a mullet) flipped us off, and we were chased through the mall by a body builder unironically dressed like a member of The Power Team.

image courtesy of The Power Team

There are times I wish I had a camera with me to sneak a photo of some creative mullets. At a birthday party for a friend of a friend several years ago, there was a mullet of preposterous proportions worn by the birthday boy's mother's girlfriend. It started with mall-bangs up front (like Tiffany in I Think We’re Alone Now), Farrah Fawcett feathering on top, buzzed in racing lines on the side, and the mullet sprouting down the back. But it was no ordinary mullet, it was divided in half. The left side was cut a few inches shorter than the right side and neither half was trimmed straight; the two sides were cut at odd angles - one of which was sharper than the other. Finally, out from underneath the staggered mullet, like Obi Wan in Episode 1, a thin Padawan braid pony tail hung down to her waistline. It's like her hairstylist asked her what she wanted and she replied, "Give me one of everything."

It's been a good long while since I've witnessed one in public, until this week. It was a mullet that was trying not to be a mullet but clearly was still a mullet.

Between his build and facial features, he looked like Milton from Office Space. His fashion choices were similar too, only substitute current geek-chic glasses for the oversized wire frames and add a minimalist tribal tattoo sleeve.

image courtesy of 20th Century Fox

As for the hair? It was that weird moldy blonde, similar in color and texture as Donald Trump, and slicked back the way Trump’s sons do. Then in back it went down further than you’d expect, ending in a peculiar pointy shape - as if it was once a rat tail cut off while he slept by a prankster sibling.

Mullets have often been referred to as business up front and party in the back. This hair cut was New Yorker up front and homeschooled from Athol in the back. Never have I been more confused by someone else’s haircut.

Thankfully, the mullet has faded from use. Billy Ray Cyrus abandoned it years ago and it's been shunned by most everyone in the public spotlight from politicians to race car drivers to aging metalheads. The mullet is known as a cultural embarrassment and I hope it remains stigmatized for years to come.

The Kids Are Alright

On a Tuesday night a few weeks ago, I was sitting in McDonald's with my laptop and my standard order of a McChicken, medium fries, and a cup of water. When I am writing, I am more productive in public spaces than I am at home. Even with the distractions of people coming and going, I get more work done at a fast food joint or coffee shop than in the comfort of my living room. I prefer Jack-in-the-Box or Wendy's, but anywhere with free wi-fi is fair game for me except Starbucks - it's a bit too cliché.

This writing session was flowing as it usually does. I was typing out a film review in between bites of food, rewatching the movie trailer on YouTube, staring into space trying to determine exactly how to phrase a certain conglomeration of words in a way it would be coherent and reasoned. Then some teens began to enter the lobby. Then some more. And then even more. Three waves of youthful energy packed the place, roughly two dozen when all had walked through the doors. They all appeared to know each other, they bounced from one conversation to the next while waiting to place or receive their orders, a nebulous mass of human forms and boisterous voices.

Normally, customer traffic doesn't bother me. I can continue plucking away at my keyboard as if they're just ghosts in the room, present yet unseen. With this group of kids though, it was different. I stopped typing, looked away from my screen, and observed for the duration of their visit. Sure, they splintered off into small huddles like any other group of teenagers would do. However, they never remained in one conversation for long. They bounced around from one cluster to another. All smiling, happy, eager, and connecting with each other. I watched in wonder.

(like this but less creepy)

I remember being their age. between the ages of 17 and 19, the kids I hung out with would invade various food establishments after church on Sunday nights. We'd roll in, dine cheap, stay for an hour, then leave behind a mess. We were obnoxious, sloppy, and enjoying our time together. Twenty years ago, we were the wayward youth grownups blamed for the downfall of America. The kids I recently observed in McDonalds reminded me of my old group of friends. Descending upon a source of inexpensive edible junk, chatting and laughing the whole time, loving every minute, then leaving.

Yet they were different than the crew from my good old days. I was impressed by how they presented themselves. None wore anything flashy or revealing. None dressed grungy or slobby. Not over the top formal wear like they were on their way to a school dance, just smart and semi-professional in appearance. Each spoke with polite language. They were goofy and boisterous, yet they didn’t use any profanity, insults, or dirty jokes. They were all respectful toward each other and the other customers in the dining area. When they left, it was like they were never there. These teens were just like the kids I grew up with, only better. Their visit filled me with a sense of hope.

This transpired in the weeks after the shooting at MSDHS, before the nation-wide school walkouts and March For Our Lives protests. The kids from Parkland were constant faces on news channels, headlines both praised and criticized them. At the time, I wanted to write something about how great it was to see youth engaged in the political process. Whether you agreed with them, whether they’re right or wrong, whether they succeed or fail is irrelevant. We need passionate and energetic fresh faces involved with political discourse because the decisions our government makes today will affect them and their peers more than it will impact me and my generation.

After the shooting, I avoided writing about the topic. I've talked about gun control before and I probably will again but that wasn't the blog post I wanted to write. Instead I wanted to compose something encouraging those students challenging the adult world, political process, and the way we think about American rights. I was dismayed at the alleged grownups in the room who acted with a maturity level more fitting for grade school playgrounds. Yet I couldn't do it. I tried. There are four different drafts I deleted after I couldn't figure out how to say what I wanted to say in the way I wanted to say it.

I know what it was like to be young and ambitious and inspired and facing nothing but a wall of condescending elders. I felt like I had words for these kids that needed to be said. I wanted to let them know that they would be mocked and ridiculed for their actions. I wanted them to know how people will go to absurd lengths to defend their sacred cows, and when it comes to Murica, there's no greater sacred cow than the Second Amendment. I wanted to tell them the same thing I tell my son about bullies, their words and actions speak more about them than you.

Much of what I wanted to write about was obvious, the smear campaigns and ad hominem attacks were prominent in conservative media. I saw the fake news stories and photoshopped memes on Facebook. Everywhere I looked, I saw a grumpy old man complaining these kids were too young to have an opinion. Every news channel had a pundit claiming these kids were paid actors. I didn't need to warn them what was already happening was going to happen.

There's more I wanted to say. I wanted to let them know a day is coming when they'd look back and wish they had done things differently and it's OK to have those kinds of regrets. I wanted them to know they would make mistakes and they shouldn't let those errors derail them. I wanted to warn them of the danger of overnight celebrity. Historically speaking, youth and fame are not a good combination. The rush of everyone paying attention to you can be addictive. The lure of the spotlight is powerful and can be taken away as fast as it was obtained. However, I've never been famous; I don't have any legitimate advice from experience.

I hope they have strong emotional support. I hope they don't take these days for granted. I hope they remain engaged and do great things with their lives, yet I also hope they do the things kids their age typically do: attend sporting events and concerts, compete in talent shows, go to prom, graduate, take summer road trips, go camping, register to vote, enlist in the military, apply for scholarships and enroll in a university or trade school, get a degree, fall in love, fall out of love, start a career.

At the end of my high school days, the private Christian college I wanted to attend required all prospective students to memorize a Bible verse from 1st Timothy: "Don't let anyone look down on you because you are young, but set an example for the believers in speech, in conduct, in love, in faith, and in purity." I wanted to pass on the wisdom in this scripture to these kids leading the Never Again movement. It doesn't matter if they follow Jesus or not, if they're religious, spiritual, or none of the above. There is power in embracing your youth. Any time a young person finds themselves in a leadership role, older generations will attempt to discredit or discourage them. I wanted to tell these kids to not allow their elders to destroy them, to stand strong, to set an example for their elders so loud and noble and pure that it can't be ignored.

That is what I wanted to write, and I just couldn't do it. Then I witnessed local kids in action. I've spent a lot of time with teenagers as a youth leader, yet those interactions were all in controlled and supervised environments of church youth groups and summer camps. My oldest is now a teenager, yet I don’t see him when he's not around adults like me or teachers or youth pastors. My time at McDonald's was like watching kids in the wild, observing them in their natural habitat. No chaperone. No responsible adult monitoring. No grownups telling them what they can or can't do. Only a herd of teenagers free to do whatever they want and act upon their own desires. I couldn't look away and I was in awe. These were not the Tide Pod eating, Logan Paul wannabe, participation trophy receiving idiot youth my conservative friends warned me about.

Whitney Houston once sang, " I believe the children are our future." On a Tuesday night in late February, I was given a glimpse into days yet to come; someday soon they will be our elected leaders and corporate CEOs. Bring it on. Give them a platform and a microphone. Let them lead. Let them protest. Agree with them, disagree with them. Debate them. Educate them and learn from them. If these kids are our future, then the future is very bright.

Uptown/Country Girl

Have you heard Billy Joel's Uptown Girl recently? It is possibly the most pure form of pop music ever recorded: three minutes and twenty seconds of irresistible fun with an infectious melody sticking with you long after the song fades out. Either that or it is an atrocity, an embarrassing stain in the catalog of an otherwise talented musician, an annoying ear-worm with no purpose other than making the listener cringe in shame and horror. I'm not sure which, and I am open to the possibility Uptown Girl is simultaneously the best and worst song in history.

I don't hear it often, and when I do it is usually over the in-house speakers of a restaurant, grocery story, or some sort of retailer. The frequency in which I encounter the song is so rare that it is over before I have a chance to roll my eyes in disgust.

Billy Joel wrote the song while hanging out with a trio of beautiful women, Elle Macpherson (his girlfriend at the time), Christie Brinkley (his future wife and star of the Uptown Girl music video), and Whitney Houston. The subject could have been any of the three ladies, each came from privileged upbringing. Meanwhile, Billy was a kid from the Bronx who grew up poor, dropped out of high school, and hustled his craft playing piano in seedy bars and dimly lit clubs to help support his single mother. The song wasn't autobiographical, yet it highlighted the differences between Billy and the high class women in his life. They were raised on different sides of the proverbial tracks. The song's narrator and the object of his affection were the unlikely couple who made it work. An uptown girl and a downtown man.

Out in a public setting this morning, the song began to play in the background. As I waited to be served, I thought of the story behind the song. I found myself empathizing with the singer. I thought of the relationship between me and my girlfriend. We don't exactly mirror the relationship between Billy Joel and Elle/Christie. Without overstating the obvious, neither of us are famous. Furthermore, neither of us are uptown or downtown. Yet, like the couple from the song, there is a difference between where we come from.

If I were the one to pen the lyrics to Uptown Girl, she would be a country girl and I'd be a suburban dude.

We are not opposites attracted to each other as the adage implies. Politically and theologically speaking, my girlfriend and I are quite alike. We share similar philosophies on parenting and communication. We enjoy many of the same hobbies. We both crave good Chinese food and neither of us like eating fish. For all our similarities, the geographic backgrounds which shaped our personalities and worldviews are as different as those between Billy's downtown man and his uptown love.

I grew up on the west side of the mountains and my girlfriend was raised on the east side. My hometown is what I always thought of as a small town. The last sign of population driving north from Seattle before the scenery devolved into dairy and produce farms. However, my girlfriend comes from a smaller small town, one which in comparison would make Marysville look like a metropolis. I was weened on grunge and punk rock, she was surrounded by country western music. The fashion of my youth were baggy pants and Doc Martens, hers were bootcut jeans pulled over a pair of well worn cowboy boots. I fell asleep to the sounds of traffic while crickets lulled her to slumber.

As I moved away from the Puget Sound area, I always stayed in or near a big (ish) city. Boise. Sioux Falls. And now Cd'A/Spokane. She left her everyone-knows-everybody town for the bigger city life of Spokane. And here is where she and I became we.

I've noticed a funny thing about those who grew up in a rural setting compared to those who did not. Take a country girl (or boy) out of the country and she (or he) is still a country girl (or boy). They will feel comfortable in almost any setting, be it a concrete jungle, bedroom community, a resort town, alpine village, or post-apocalyptic wasteland. The country life follows you and remains inside you. For people like me, the burbs are home. Cookie cutter neighborhoods, fancy parks, manicured lawns, garage sales mobile food trucks, and coffee stands on every corner are security items. We find solace in the sounds of sirens from police cruisers, firetrucks, and ambulances wailing in the distance. Take us a way from the house parties and the crowds and the Taco Bells, and we are out of our element. We feel a little weird. We begin to long for streetlights and honking horns of road-raging drivers.

I'm from the suburbs and she's a country girl. Wherever we go, it seems she's more at home than I am. I'm learning though. She's got me riding horses and watching the sunset in places removed from high rises and office lights. I've invested in bug spray and bought my first pair of cowboy boots. More and more I am longing for something I've never had: a country lifestyle. As long as I have wi-fi, it doesn't really matter to me, I can write from anywhere. Sooner or later, I'll be a suburban guy in the country. It might be awkward for a while but I'll make it work. And this thing with the country girl? It's love.

photo credit: Annie, she also takes better pictures than me

Changing Perspectives: Give the Shirt Off Your Back

Let’s go streaking! Or not. I mean, it depends on how confident you feel about yourself when you’re naked. We live in a body-shaming culture, creating an atmosphere where most people would be embarrassed to shed their clothes. Outside of strip clubs and nudist resorts, bared skin and exposed bits tend to generate feelings of shame. So, if you do not like the idea of being seen wearing nothing, then streaking isn’t something you would enjoy.

Americans have an awkward relationship with nudity. It is at once glorified and demonized. We seek it out for our own titillation yet treat the object of our lusts with hostility. By American standards, if I see you naked, you should be humiliated, not me. However, in biblical times, people had an opposite reaction to nakedness. Back then, I would feel ashamed to see you naked – not the other way around. We see this evidenced in the life of King David. When we study his stories, we can see how he reacted to ogling and being ogled.

The first example is in 1 Chronicles 15 and 16. The ark of the covenant had been stored in the home of Obed-Edom for three months. His whole household was blessed during that time and David wanted to bring it back to Jerusalem where it belonged. He gathered the temple guards and servants to help carry the ark and returned to Obed-Edom’s home to retrieve it. When David and the Levites returned to Jerusalem with the ark, it was a time of celebration. There was a parade, music, singing, and dancing. David got caught up in the moment and stripped down to nothing but his linen ephod. He bared his body and partied hard.

Saul’s daughter, Michal, was watching all of this. She was not impressed. According to scripture, she “despised him in her heart.” That is a strong reaction to seeing someone dressed in less than appropriate. This story is repeated in 2 Samuel 6. In this passage, David returns home after the celebration where an angry Michal was waiting. She greeted him with a “how dare you” speech. She complained about how he was “going around half-naked in full view of the slave girls.” She called him vulgar. From Michal’s perspective, she was ashamed to see her husband dancing naked in public. Michal believed the servants and slaves should also feel the same embarrassment from witnessing David’s indecent display.

Later, in 2 Samuel 11, the roles were reversed. Instead of women seeing David nearly naked, David was peeping on a bathing neighbor. Scripture makes it clear that David was not where he should be; it was the time of year when kings went off to war, yet David was chilling at home. One night, while taking a walk on the palace roof, he noticed a sexy lady taking a bath. He was literally creeping on the girl next door. Multiple bad choices followed; the subsequent verses tell of an affair, attempts at fraud, and a murder conspiracy. The next chapter, a prophet named Nathan visits and rebukes David. The shame for seeing Bathsheba naked belonged to David. The guilt of the affair was David’s. And the penalty of killing Bathsheba’s husband also fell on David. As David finally realized the weight of all he had done, he said, “I have sinned against the Lord.”

When Jewish audiences listened to Jesus preach, this was their understanding of nudity. In their history, Michal was ashamed to see David naked, but David was shamed for seeing Bathsheba naked. Nudity humiliated the viewer, not the nude person. In the sermon on the mount, Jesus was speaking to a crowd with these sensibilities. When he told the crowds, “if anyone wants to sue you and take your shirt, hand over your coat as well,” they had a different perspective than we do.

To fully understand what Jesus wanted to convey, we need to talk about first century fashion in the Middle East. Average citizens would have dressed in two layers. The tunic (usually translated into English as a shirt) covered the body as the inner layer. Over the tunic, they wore a cloak or mantle which we translate to mean coat. This dual layer is a foreign concept to us because in the modern world, we only wear coats when it is cold outside.

Jesus addressed people losing their shirt in a lawsuit. The only reason you would be sued for the shirt off your back is if you didn’t have the financial means to be sued for currency. When the collector came to take your shirt (or rather, tunic) they were taking a piece of your dignity. It was as if they were saying, “You can’t even afford to pay your debts, so I am taking your most basic article of clothing.” There is something cruel about this situation. How embarrassing would it be today if the IRS raided your closet to satisfy your tax debt? How awkward would it be if casinos insisted you removed an article of clothing every time you lost a hand of blackjack?

But we as Americans are callous. We read this scripture and think, “they took your tunic, at least you still have your cloak.” Yet Jesus urged his listeners to give that up too. They took your tunic, let them have your cloak. With Jewish fashion, if you gave away your cloak and tunic, you’d either be naked or stripped to your chonies. This is the biblical call to go streaking.

In our western view of shame and nudity, this would be humiliating for us - like that bad dream where you show up to work or school completely naked; everyone points at you and laughs. But Jesus' contemporaries didn’t think like we do. Ancient Jews were more embarrassed to see a naked person than they were to be naked.

There is only one reason a collector would sue to take your shirt: to disgrace you. How would you ever be able to reclaim your dignity? Give the collector your cloak too. Now they have all your clothes and you’re butt naked. For Jesus’ original audience, they would know such a subversive act would cause the collector to feel shame. The collector would suffer the humiliation they intended to inflict upon you.

Which reminds me of David’s response when Michal protested his revealing dance. He said, “I will become even more undignified than this.”

Bubbleworld

I have great respect for Mark Wahlberg. Although, I am not a huge fan of his acting career. He has roles in some films I thoroughly enjoyed like Three Kings and The Italian Job. However, it's been a few years since I have been excited to see one of his movies (2013's 2 Guns which was a disappointment) and since then it seems most of his work is either based on recent true events like Deep Water Horizon and Patriots Day or cash grabs like the Transformers sequels. Over all, his on-screen work doesn't impress me. But in his personal life, he seems like a decent guy. He's a devout catholic and a devoted dad who is teaching his kids that they're lucky. In an interview with USA Weekend, he said he wants his kids "to know that not everyone is as fortunate and how important it is to work hard and give back." Wahlberg is also active with charities benefiting youth and homeless women.

He might be a model citizen now, but he wasn't always a saint. His teen years were marred by drug use, violent crime, and gang activity. He harassed and assaulted minorities in racially motivated attacks and spent some time in jail after being charged with attempted murder.

With his wayward younger years behind him, Wahlberg is deeply religious and adamantly liberal. He was a supporter of Obama's reelection campaign in 2012, donated money to several candidates for the Democrat party, and has been vocal in his support of same-sex marriage. Last November, he was interviewed by Task & Purpose Magazine where he said that celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. In recent weeks (since Meryl Streep's speech at the Golden Globes), a quote from the Task & Purpose interview has been frequently shared through social media - predominantly (and ironically) by people who skew to the conservative end of the political spectrum.

There is a lot of irony here. A celebrity that is vocal about his political ideals claiming celebrities shouldn't talk about politics. A person who lives in a bubble accusing others in Hollywood of living in a bubble. An actor criticizing others for how they earn a paycheck even though his paycheck is earned in the same manner. The words of a die-hard liberal being passed around by conservative voters as if it was from the voice of God.

Yet I understand what Wahlberg was trying to say. The interviewer was asking him about the surprising results of Trump's election and Wahlberg's answer was an attempt to explain how so many of his peers don't understand the typical American. He was providing a rationale behind the grandest of ironies - how a populace tired of coastal elites who are out of touch with society voted for a coastal elite who is out of touch with society. Those who live in a bubble have a hard time understanding what life is like outside of the bubble.

The magazine interview contained more from Wahlberg that clarified his perspective. Because of his tough past, he understands what the real world is like for the common person. Thanks to his successful career, he also understands what life is like inside the bubble of Hollywood. He has lived life both inside and outside that bubble. Not everyone has had the same opportunity. Many of Hollywood's biggest stars were born into either fame or wealth. Many of them have been pursuing their dreams since they were kids or got their breakthrough as a child star. Their lives are contained within the 30ish square miles of Hollywood, Beverly Hills, and Malibu. The closest some of them have been to a Midwestern wheat field or a slum apartment was on a soundstage. For most people, it is easy to look at famous faces and see that they don't understand what it is like to be us.

Wahlberg has a valid point, but it brings up some other concerns. If we truly believe that celebrity opinions don't matter, then why should we give any credence to Wahlberg's opinion? Is this a case of confirmation bias? Do we only care about celebrity opinions when they align with our own? Not all celebrities were always celebrities, so at what point do their opinions cease to be important? Are their opinions less valid the day after they find fame than they were the day before? What makes my beliefs and experiences of any greater value than a professional athlete, musician, or movie star? What if famous people have just as much right to possess an opinion as the average citizen? What if you and I have the same rights to voice our opinions as celebrities?

I have met a few famous people. I've had conversations with authors, artists, film producers, comedians, and rock stars. In all those interactions, one thing was apparent: they are just as human as any other person walking the face of this planet. Like anyone else you encounter on a day to day basis they have hopes and aspirations; they have fears and pet peeves. They might eat at more expensive restaurants, live in bigger houses, and wear fancier clothing, but they are as capable of experiencing joy and sorrow as anyone. The biggest difference between them and me is the size of our platforms. If I share my thoughts, it will reach 100 people. They share their views and millions will hear. I am allowed to speak my mind. Freedom of speech demands celebrities be afforded the same liberty, even if I don't like what they have to say.

Most celebrities might not be able to understand what it is like to be me, a single father and part-time writer. Yet I don't understand what it is like to be them. I will never know what it is like to spend a thousand dollars on drinks at a swanky Los Angeles nightclub - my eyes double in size when I see that my mojito cost eight bucks. I'll never attend a party in the Hollywood Hills - my idea of a good time is a game of Quelf with a few close friends. I can't imagine what it would be like to pay hundreds of dollars in a boutique for a single pair of shoes - most of my wardrobe was purchased at a thrift shop. Hollywood A-listers might not be able to relate to me because they live in a bubble, but I can't relate to them because I live in a bubble too.

In fact, we all live in bubbles. Mine is suburban life; I have lived most of my days in the suburbs of Seattle, Boise, and Spokane. I wouldn't have a clue to what life is like for a celebrity, but I would not understand what life is like for a kid growing up in inner-city projects either. Or someone who has lived and worked on a ranch for their entire life. Or someone who lives in a community dependent on one or two factories on the brink of closure. Or in a mining town. Or a city along the Mexican border.

We all live in bubbles. Someone who has never left the five boroughs of New York City will only understand life inside their urban bubble. They wouldn't begin to understand what it is like for the kid who grew up in a cornfield outside Yankton South Dakota. And the kid from the farming bubble doesn't know what it is like to live and work in the resorts around Aspen Colorado. And the ski bubble resident doesn't know what it is like to rely on catching lobster along the coast of Maine. We all live in a bubble and the only way to understand what life is like in someone else's bubble is to get out of our bubble.

The best explanation I have heard to explain how Trump got elected is the belief that those in the bubble of Hollywood elites and liberal media are out of touch with the American heartland. So middle America voted for an absurdly wealthy man who lives in a literal gilded bubble.

Maybe Trump isn't the problem. Maybe he is the logical conclusion of issues that existed long before he ever announced his candidacy. Maybe the biggest dilemma is how we don't understand each other. All of our racism and xenophobia and hatred is a result of spending too much time in our own bubble. We came to believed our fear of others was justified. We fed our fears and created enemies out of people who are just as much American as we are.

I don't think Mark Wahlberg's quote from Task & Purpose was a condemnation of everyone in Hollywood. He was demonstrating how he's more uniquely aware of life outside of of fame. How? Because he grew up in the bubble of a rough neighborhood on the south side of Boston. He spent time in the bubble of prison. He sorted through his troubles in the bubble of a Catholic parish. And he has worked and thrived inside the bubble of Hollywood. Wahlberg understands both the life of luxury and what it is like to struggle. He knows because he left his bubble.

If we want to heal the divides in America, if we want to survive the next four years of Trump's presidency, if we want to elect better leaders, we should probably follow Wahlberg's example. We need to burst our bubbles. We need to spend some time outside of our little worlds. We need to get out of our comfort zone and experience other slices of American culture.

My not-so grown up Christmas list

To be honest, I really don't want anything for Christmas. Not really. I can't think of anything that I truly need. What I don't need is more stuff - I have enough of that all ready. However, there are a few gifts that would make me squeal like a school girl with front row tickets to a 1D concert if I found them wrapped with my name on it on Christmas morning. And no, front row tickets to a 1D concert is not one of those items. Like these:

TWLOA's Reblog t-shirt

Star Wars Totem t-shirt

Doctor Who Weeping Angel Stress Toy 
(I know... not available until January)

Custom Assassin's Creed jacket

Unlock Doormat

Really, I don't need anything. But the geek in me dreams of a nerdy Christmas. A very nerdy Christmas.

An open letter to the ladies

Do you have body issues? Do you struggle with your self image? Do you believe that you're not pretty enough or skinny enough?

We live in a culture that as a twisted definition of beauty. Our starlets are photoshopped to look curvier and bustier creating this artificial standard that demands you sacrifice your self worth on the alter of Sexy. This culture tells you that you need a slimmer waist, bigger breasts, fuller lips, and shinier hair to be hot. Our movies and music tell you that you have to take your clothes off to to be valued. When you walk through the grocery store check out lanes, you are confronted with magazines that promise tips to have a better sex life, get the guy you want, and lose a few pounds - all while Katy Perry is the cover model ideal of perfection.

Very few people can live up to those expectations. Honestly, I understand how you could compare yourself to what our culture deems beautiful and find yourself falling short. And if you're following all those fashion tips and diet plans and still don't look like a Victoria Secret model, it makes sense that the way you view yourself suffers.

I could tell you that you should ignore those voices that are telling you you're not enough. I could tell you that you are beautiful just the way you are. Those are words that you've probably heard countless times before and will hopefully hear upon many more occasions.

Instead, I have a secret for you.

Guys struggle with our image too. We do.

We see the Calvin Klein ads featuring David Beckham with his sculpted abs. We notice you fawning over McDreamy while you watch Grey's Anatomy. We see the winning smile of Adam Levine as he's named the sexiest man alive. We watch as some of the strongest men on the planet pulverize each other week after week as we follow our favorite NFL teams.

The same culture that tells you that you're not hot tells us that we're unattractive. It compares our beer gut to Beckham, our receding hairline to McDreamy, our less than desirable appearance to Levine, and our physique to the Seahawks offensive line.

We can't measure up. We have body issues. Just like you, we often feel like we're not good enough. Between the expanding waistlines and the balding/graying hair, we're not the manly men that our culture expects us to be.

Our culture tells us that we're supposed to look like those shirtless guys on Abercrombie & Fitch posters. It tells us that we should be able to grow beards, eat bacon, handle a rifle with ease, and rebuild the engine of any vehicle we own. It tells us that hunting and fishing should be instinctual. It tells us that we should be able to hold our liquor. It tells us that we should be able to kick the ass of anyone that threatens us or our loved ones. It tells us to be a rock - an unmovable force.

Like pouring salt into an open wound, our culture takes this image issue with men a little further. When we can't be that guy, when we're a little chubbier, if we can barely change a flat tire, if we can't tell the difference between a .45 and a 9 mm, if the scent of alcohol makes us a little tipsy, if we choose to be a vegetarian or a pacifist, if we show any sign of weakness ... If we don't measure up to the ideal man, our culture tells us we're not allowed to be insecure. It tells us to man up. Throw some dirt on it. Bury your pain. Keep on moving on. Don't back down. If we admit any hint of insecurity, our culture somehow determines that we're less than a man.

This culture is unhealthy for you, but it's unhealthy for us too.

Sure, there's things that we can do to help or hinder your self image. We know that providing the wrong answer to "do these jeans make my butt look big?" can lead to disaster. We know that looking at porn makes you feel devalued. We know that you feel unloved when we forget to take out the trash. We could compliment you more. We could stop objectifying you in our movies and lyrics. We could be better boyfriends, husbands, brothers, and sons.

There are also things that you could do differently.

When you get together in your groups and engage in your girl talk, we hear you. When you're mocking your husbands and boyfriends - it might just be you venting with your girlfriends ... but we hear you. When we over hear you commenting about your husband's or boyfriends dunlap and widow's peak, it reminds us of our need for an extra couple of hours at the gym and a bottle of Rogaine. When we hear you laugh at jokes about your significant other's appearance, it cheapens the value we've placed in ourselves. If you are that mean towards the men in your life, we question what the women in our lives say about us when we're not around.

Insulting the way someone looks will never make them feel better about their appearance. Please stop. Just, stop.

You can do it. And us men, we can do it too.




ps: I realize this whole post is a generalization. There are men and women in this world that are perfectly happy with their bodies. To them, I say congratulations. I wish we could all be like you. I also know that there are women who could never imagine insulting their spouses while out with their friends. To them, I say thank you. We need more people like you in this world.

A month of lists

Welcome to the month of May. I'm ready to get back into the habit of writing. Frequently. But I'm taking the lazy man's approach to daily writing. Every day this month, I'm going to be writing a list of something. Three things, five things, ten things, Thing 1 and Thing 2.

To start off this month of lists, I'm going to drop some hints. My birthday happens to land in the middle of this month (hint). If you're interested in contributing to my merriment (hint), here are five things I want for my birthday (hint).

This hoodie.

Which can be purchased HERE.

This wall decoration from People of the Second Chance.

Which can be purchased HERE.

Tickets to go see this movie.

This even comes out on my birthday. It's as if Paramount Pictures had me in mind when they selected the release date.

My X-Box. Fixed. Shortly after I got it, it did this.

Plane tickets to Nashville and a hotel to stay for the Storyline Conference in October.

It's put on by Don Miller. I love his books and have one of these conferences on my bucket list.

Church vs. Art part 10: Getting It Right

In the American Midwest, you will find areas populated with free range cattle. These bovine roam and graze unencumbered by fencing or corrals. When they think that the grass is greener on the other side of the road, they cross that road and eat the greener grass. If you happen to be driving along that road, you might discover livestock meandering across the pavement in front of you. Just like pedestrians in suburban and metro locales, those cows have the right of way.

Free range cattle have the good life. They go where they want. They are liberated from the pressures of cowboys and barking herd dogs. No stampedes. No cattle drives. Just food and exercise.

We as artists need to allow our creativity to roam. Free range imagination. Feed our creative muscles and give them exercise. Give it room to wander and see where it finds greener pastures.

When I close my eyes and think of what is possible in the free range of my imagination, I envision a modern church where artists are not only accepted, but encouraged. I see church lobbies turned into a book reading for authors. I see multi-purpose rooms transformed into temporary art galleries. I see film screenings in church gymnasiums and concerts in sanctuaries. I see photographers and painters and singers and thespians all using their chosen forms of expression to speak truth and beauty.

I crave a church that opens its doors to the starving artists and all their eccentricities. A church that welcomes piercings and tattoos and dreadlocks. A church that treasures the stick figure scribblings of a five year old kid, and fosters their talent into a productive and artistic career when that child is no longer a child. A church that ministers to those who spend their lives ministering to others. A church where creative professionals can step off the stage of their day jobs and feel no demands to be on stage in the house of worship. A church that embraces the artist and tells them, “welcome home.”

It is easy for me to look at the relationship between the church and the artist and see the ways in which the church is doing it wrong. I count the errors that are roadblocks to creating the kind of church I long to see.

However, there are people who understand these challenges. There are organizations that are getting it right. These seven entities are either cultivating or propagating artistic expression. They are using creative elements to communicate God’s love. Visit their websites. Support them if you are able. Get involved if at all possible. At least let them inspire you. The church that I dream of is led by groups like these.

People of the Second Chance – Social media, photography, graphic design, short form video, storytelling, and a book. POTSC is a community founded on the principles of living life in light of second chances. Everything that they do is built on the concept that we have been given radical grace and in turn should give grace to others.
Art House America – Books, music, crafts, visual art, theater, culinary art, environmental care, travel, and much more. AHA is the brainchild of Charlie Peacock and his wife Andi Ashworth. They started by providing hospitality to those exploring art, faith, and what they call creative living. They now provide counseling, discipleship, mentoring, and community engagement for a wide variety of artistic pursuits.
To Write Love On Her Arms – Social media, short form video, music, fashion, photography, and public speaking. TWLOHA started as a mission of hope for a suicidal friend. Their connection to a community of musicians gave them a spotlight to fight against suicide and addiction. Through various campaigns, their purpose has grown to battle self mutilation and depression, increase mental health awareness, and encourage treatment for addicts.
I am Second – Short films, digital media, storytelling, public speaking, and a book. Primarily an online community, I am Second is supported by short films from notable celebrities and small groups across the nation telling personal stories of redemption. The films on the website feature musicians, actors, athletes, and politicians. Each tells their perspective of overcoming their struggles or tragedies through God’s intervention.
Hello Somebody – Fashion, music. Hello Somebody markets their own products as a means to fund relief projects. You buy a watch and they give much needed support elsewhere. Their campaigns include providing livestock to a school in Rwanda, helping the victims of sex trafficking, bringing clean water and sanitation to a community in Guatemala, and rebuilding efforts in Joplin, MO after tornadoes devastated the area last year. And their watches are snazzy.
The Identity Shift – Visual media, multi-media, short form video, animation, written word. The Identity Shift provides encouragement and support for the understanding and application of the gospel.
Lights Out – Lights Out is unique on my list because it isn’t ministering through artists but instead is ministering to artists. They provide pastoral support and hospitality to travelling musicians.

Church vs. Art part 3: In the Land of Pedestals

Despite biases in the modern church, Christians still engage themselves in artistic pursuits. Often, these modes of expression have turned into an industry. We have a Christian movie industry separate from Hollywood – cranking out films like Fireproof, Courageous, and Facing the Giants. There are also Christian clothing lines; NOTW, Hello Somebody, and Truth Soul Armor. The largest and most noticeable of all Christian industries was born in the Jesus People movement of the 60s and 70s – Christian music.

I don't want to disparage those that are making a living by portraying their religious beliefs in entertainment and fashion industries. Instead – I'd rather more Christians were actively engaged in creating and/or promoting the work of other Christians.

Furthermore, if we're going to do it – my hope is that we'll do it well.

Instead, the typical everyday believer seems to be set against artistic integrity. There seems to be an adversarial relationship between the Christian artist and the greater Christian community. So much so that a family friend posted the following on Facebook: “The church doesn't want creativity (at least not much and what it allows has to be tightly controlled) and the secular world doesn't want Christian artists who are determined to try to honor and glorify God in their works. So where does that leave a Christian artist? There seems to be no place for one.” *

This isn't an uncommon sentiment. Artistry is often misunderstood. Artistic Christians feel like they have no home – no one that accepts them. The church views their art as profane or too much like its secular counterpart. The mainstream community won't accept their art because of its sacred or spiritual themes. Daniel Martin Diaz has lamented on the irony that his artwork has been repeatedly censured by mainstream art publications and excluded from exhibitions for being too religious, but when he produced some artwork for something intended for distribution in Christian markets, he was again censured for being too graphic, sacrilegious, or occultic. Modern sacred art is ignored by both the religious and non-religious; it is left to exist in a vacuum. Unaccepted. Unwelcome. Ignored. Misplaced.

How did we develop this animosity? Why do Christian artists feel so isolated?

I think there are two contributing factors that prevent the church from accepting and encouraging the artists among them. The first I'll detail today. The second will be posted tomorrow.

Problem number one.

We treat the artists that find success as superstars and place them on a pedestal. We expect them to be flawless individuals and hold them to impossible standards. Their humanity is disregarded and when they exhibit the same frailties that the rest of us experience, we criticize them as failures or heretics.

No one is a greater example of this fall from grace than Amy Grant. After releasing her first album in 1977, Amy quickly became the darling of the Christian music industry. Her songs were universally adored, her music was promoted by church leaders and music stores with equal excitement. With her marriage to another big named Christian artist, she was viewed as the pinnacle of what a Christian should be. Criticism started in the mid 80s when she first released an album on a mainstream label. Harsher disapproval came in the early 90s when she released her breakthrough record, Heart in Motion. Critics said she was too worldly. Or that her songs were over sexualized and inappropriate for Christian audiences. By the time she went through her divorce in 1999 and remarriage to Vince Gill less than a year later, many church goers – including some of Amy Grant's biggest fans – were confused and disenchanted. This illusion of the perfect Christian was shattered in the midst of a crisis that faces too many Christian families.

Rather than treating her like any other Christian in the midst of a divorce, she was criticized as a heathen that betrayed the entirety of Christendom. From such a high pedestal, there's nowhere to go but down. The disparagement was so brutal that punk band Lust Control released a song called, ‘Leave Amy Alone.’ The song lyrically declared, “I'm her brother, she's my sister.” To avoid any ambiguity, the chorus screamed, “Leave Amy Grant alone!”

There seems to be a disconnect between the artist we want to see and the actual person that is that artist. We hold them to such lofty standards where there is no other option than to disappoint us. When these Christian celebrities reflect our weaknesses as a human being, it creates a cognitive dissonance that we don't know how to handle so we project on them our own insecurities.

God forbid that a Christian artist openly and sincerely talks about these failures. Kevin Max Smith (of dcTalk fame) summed up this concept better than I ever will in an interview he did with Cross Rhythms. He explained how rare it is that artists are honest about their weaknesses, resulting in a bubble that everyone wants to burst. He said, “that (bubble) represents the Christian music marketplace because people are looking for that shining example. And when they have an example that's actually saying, ‘Hey, I screw up. I've been divorced. I've probably taken the name of the Lord in vain a few times. I tend to drink once in a while when I'm on the road.’ It's like you expose those things and immediately you're outcast.”


* This statement is from Deb, one of my mother-in-law's best friends. And yes, she gave me permission to quote her.

Nicht rasieren November, Teil zwei

No Shave November has finally come to an end. Das Ende, el final, till slutet. A full month plus a week's worth of growth - it had to go. Stat.

My brother-in-law challenged me to a duel of sorts. In his words: "You have to shave it into a moustache first. I'll do it if you will."

Deal. Game on.

So I grabbed my weapon of choice.

A few minutes later I had a fierce mustache. And since Dan lives by the "pics or it didn't happen" rule, I present you with the photographic evidence.

Alas, the chimo-stache had to go. I'd rather avoid my wife's disproving glare. It's all gone now. I am no longer sasquatch. I am human.

Although, it should be noted that Bekah isn't a fan of this 100% clean shaven look either. She says it makes me look too much like my brother.

To see how my brother in law is doing ...
Part ONE.
Part TWO.
Part THREE.
Part FOUR.
Part FIVE.
Part SIX.

(ps, if you're not following him on twitter, you should.)

5 Days, 5 Ties

It's not often that I wear a tie. I do with some consistency, but it's not a daily occurrence. This week was a bit different. With an interview and a funeral scheduled over the past few days - I decided to go all out and dress up for the rest of my work week.

On the upside: my daughter now thinks I wear a tie every day.
On the down side: I feel pretentious.


Did you do anything out of the ordinary this week?

Five for Friday: beginning my Christmas list

Halloween has past and Thanksgiving is hunting us down like a delusional turkey. That means the holiday shopping season is creeping into every corner of the retail world. Toss in the random fact that I heard my first radio Christmas song and the Holiday cheer is nearly unavoidable.

So, in that spirit, I'm posting the first of my grown up Christmas lists. Part one: the wearable.

1. TWLOA Hoodie (XL)

2. Power Polo (XL)

3. Love is the Movement t-shirt (XL)

4. Traditional Greeting zippered hoodie (XL)

5. The Bacon Tie

Five for Friday

It's been a crazy work week. The resulting consequence of insanity and employment being tossed into the same blender is cognitive malfunctions by Friday night. Then my brother published a new post on his blog, reminding me that it was the end of the week and I've yet to post my 5 things.

Problem? Only if you consider my TGIF induced brain lapse. And since my mental capacities are not functioning to it's highest capacities, I'm electing to take the easy blog idea and share a few favorites with you.

1. My favorite animal: Oreamnos americanus, aka (please don't laugh) the mountain goat. I've admired these animals since Toby and I chased them across a snow covered ridge in the North Cascades during the summer after 6th grade. Yes, I know they're not the prettiest beasts, but they are among the most agile creatures to walk this earth. They might be ugly to some, but I think they're the most noble looking of all the animal kingdom.

2. My favorite place that I've never visited: Nordland Norway. More specifically, the Lofoten Islands. Nordland is one of the least populated places in all of Europe and Lofoten is one of the most remote geographies in Nordland. This archipelago juts away from the Norwegian mainland north of the Arctic circle and is home to the world's largest deep sea coral reef. Aside from the wild life, majestic mountains, countless lakes, and the small villages (like Reine) the drive along E10 from Bjerkvik to Å and back would be a fantastic road trip... at least in summer.

3. My favorite mistake. There's a girl that I dated for a few months after moving to Nampa. She wasn't a bad person, but it was clear to everyone except me that it was not going to end well. Our split was the primary factor that influenced my decision to change churches (as to avoid having to attend church with a girl that wanted nothing to do with me). And in a case of timing is everything, a coworker invited me to her church where I met Steve and Nate - two guys who shared musical interests similar to mine. We sparked an instant friendship. Steve and Nate introduced me to Tommy, who lived at Ellen's house. I started going to the weekly Bible study at Ellen's house and eventually moved in there. That's where I met Bekah. So that girl in Nampa was bad for me, but she was the catalyst that led me to the girl who would be come my bride. I won't complain.

4. My favorite charity. To Write Love On Her Arms. I've written about them before, and if you have any opportunity to support them - do. TWLOA does some great work helping people break the cycles of depression, suicide, and addiction.

5. My favorite style choice that drives my wife crazy: self-descriptive clothing. At this given moment, my selection is limited: a "White and Nerdy" hoody, a Pillsbury Dough Boy neck tie, Fruit Loops t-shirt. If my wife would let me, my self-deprecating wardrobe would be much larger. However, Bekah poo-poos some of my greatest finds (like the Twinkie t-shirt I found a couple weeks ago) and steers me toward more sensible selections. The way I see it, she should be thankful that I got rid of the "Dork" t-shirt I used to wear when we first got married.

How about you? Any fashion choices that maddens your significant other? Any place you've never been to that you'd consider a favorite destination?