Breaking the Chains that Bind

Religious Right: Hangin’ With Hookers

Published by mhelbert on July 21, 2020

Sometimes I feel like that proverbial “Fish Out Of Water.”
Most of my vision and attention is on Christianity, specifically the Bible, and how it intersects with culture and church.
So much damage has been done to people because of the weaponization of both theology and Biblical study.
How many LGBT young people have been shunned by family and community as so-called religious leaders use the Scripture as a bludgeon to hammer these young folks like a blacksmith shaping iron?
“Hey, you Pious Pricks! These are humans made in the Image of God! Not something that you may objectify and form into your own likeness in the way that you have molded your god!”

Yet, sometimes I’m drawn out of the world of religion and into the world where people actually live and breathe. Hell, many of us argue that this ‘real world’ is the only place that religion is able to find its true footing. After all, Yahweh came and pitched God’s tent right here on Terra Firma in order to prove Divine Love for the Cosmos. When you think about that, it’s pretty amazing!

Today is one of those days that I find myself drawn into the world where faith and praxis intersect with culture. I am committed to trying to shine the Light of God and Faith into the darker recesses of our humanity. Places where injustice and oppression find themselves attempting to grow in God’s Garden like weeds and thistles.
(As an aside, I have been waging war on real thistles in my yard and garden. These intrusive weeds are ubiquitous to our area and are damned hard to kill. We have finally found a treatment for them. But, it requires cutting each individual plant and ‘painting’ the curative on the newly cut stem. Time consuming for sure. A pain in the back? Yep! But, it is effective. I’ve noticed a huge reduction in new sprouts. Maybe, just maybe, I can win this battle!)
That image is really quite relevant to the growth of weeds in the church at large. And, White Evangelicalism in particular.
Since the early 1980s when people like Jerry Falwell, Sr., Jim Dobson, Kenneth Copeland, Jimmy Swaggart, Jim & Tammy Faye Bakker, and others christened the so-called ‘Moral Majority’ and began to tout their brand of christianity there has been a decided shift in the winds of politics.
White Evangelicalism seemed to be drawn inexorably into the maelstrom of power. Since so much of their dogma was relegated to the outbox of relevancy, they chose to fire weapons of faith at their newly created Culture Wars.
In actuality, it wasn’t all that new. Religious powers had tried to enforce their particular brands of culture and morality on the world for pretty much Ever.
In the 1980s, however, their reach, or overreach, hit the airways of mass communication.
In a way that was good. It gave the wider world a chance to see the immoral power struggles that embraced religion in real time.
It was also, however, a means to ‘rally the troops.’ These conservative religious people sounded the clarion call to alert everyone that the world was on fire with atheists and communists and all sorts of mean & hateful people who were going to eat babies and wreak havoc on Mom, apple pie, and the ‘murican way!
Heaven have Mercy on us all!

What actually happened, though, was not a rescue mission to save the culture. It was not, in fact, even a religious call to repentance and faith.
The primarily White, conservative, Evangelical church became the de facto religious wing of the Republican party.
They traded their birthright, and absolutely abdicated any claim to the moral high ground, for a bowl of oatmeal.

The apostle Paul wrote, (you really didn’t think that I could resist bringing the Bible into this, did you?), a lot about how faith and culture should interact.
One image that I found while studying Paul is that of a person paying for sex with a prostitute. Paul was NOT writing to people who weren’t part of the Church. He wrote specifically to those who claimed to follow Jesus. And, while he was writing about a person actually interacting with a prostitute, the image, I think, bears on what is happening in the world of White Evangelicalism.
Paul wrote, “Don’t you know that whoever is united to a prostitute becomes one body with her? For it is said, ‘The two shall be one flesh’” (1 Cor. 6, NRSV).

I want to be clear that I believe that conservative religious people, particularly White Evangelicals, have climbed into bed with conservative politics, especially the Republican Party, and have engaged in relationships that have made you One Flesh with them.
How far can you fall before you reach the bottom?

I adjure you to consider the position that you are in. It’s precarious to say the least.
God is NOT for or against any political party or position.
God seeks the fruit of truth and justice.
All other fruit is tasteless and rotten.

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What Will It Take?

Published by mhelbert on July 20, 2020

Earlier this summer we in the U.S. were witnesses to something that purported to be a “Movement.” Black Live Matter was written across our nation in ALL CAPS. Many of us who had lived through an earlier Movement during the Civil Rights struggle of the 60s as well as that of the Viet Nam war resistance viewed this new thing with, I think, a tinge of nostalgia. We were there. Our black and white, rabbit-eared televisions put us in the mix of the struggle.
Of course, most of us were mere children at the time. But, even we could sense the electricity in the air and smell the ozone of the sparks it created.
Many of those sparks erupted into full-blown conflagrations as Watts and Hough caught fire and burned.
I will never forget watching the police in Chicago press the ‘Suppress At All Costs’ button out in the streets during the Democratic National Convention in 1968.
Nor, will I ever stop mourning four dead young people on the campus of Kent State University when Gov. James Rhodes allowed the Ohio National Guard to use lethal force against protesters.

Many changes came about during those moments in history. Voting rights were gained by the disenfranchised in America. A war in some far away jungle was fought on nightly television news. And, we saw the end of an era on April 4, 1968 when Martin Luther King, Jr. Was murdered.

I say an end of an era because in many ways it was.
People in this nation had seen and experienced enough.
Enough anger; enough hate; enough killing.
It seems as though there’s only so much chaos that we humans can endure before we simply stop and close our eyes.

So, we convinced ourselves that we had all done a great job of addressing the many issues of the day. The good results we kept. The not so good we chalked up to ‘experience’ and walked away from.

In most places that process has a name.

Complacency.

That one word describes a sense that All Is Well. Or, at least it’s Not Terrible and we can live with it.
It reveals a people who are tired and who have no desire to press the struggle to its actual terminus.
“We’ve done pretty good! Well, at least pretty OK!” we say as we turn on the ball game and open a fresh bottle of Heineken’s.

Perhaps I’m just voicing my own cynicism.
I’ve seen this process happen so many times.
People mobilize and march and stage boycotts and the news carries this or that spokesperson for the “Cause du jour.”
Then there are the rebuttals that must be shown. Equal opportunity and all that.
Soon, the news cycle shifts to the high price of chicken because of some bacterial thing that made someone in B.F.E. puke.

Then, gone.
Forgotten.

It seems that only when people break windows and burn cars and yell and scream and throw things…it’s only THEN that people pay attention.
I read the NY Times for Sunday.
There was a lot about the late John Lewis. As there rightly should be. He was a giant among Humanity.
However, the causes that he fought for were conspicuously missing.
Black Lives Matter?
The only coverage was about the Federal Government’s illegal activity in Oregon.
I haven’t seen a word about any marches or rallies on local media.
In fact, the absence of coverage for PEACEFUL and NON-VIOLENT activity, the very things that Congressman Lewis gave his life for was deafening.

Seriously, folks.
Do we need to burn the country down in order to secure some semblance of Justice for what the Bible names, “the least of these?”
Will it take more deaths and disaster to finally show us that we are all Equal in God’s eyes? So, dammit! We should be equal in one another’s eyes as well?
What will it take?
We’ve been at this a long, long time and the same issues are still raising their Hydra Heads.

I don’t know.
I hope that I will be able to see some life in our culture before mine ends.
But, that hope hangs on a thread.

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Friday Musing_7/17/2020

Published by mhelbert on July 17, 2020

I used to wonder why, if God desired love and justice in the world, why were we church folks only concerned about what happened after we left the world.
I know, it seems like a silly question. But, that’s exactly how many people who say that they follow Jesus think.
The rationale was that saving people from eternal, conscious torment was more important than providing for a good education or a leg up in the world.
If you ask many churchy people, they will say, “Well, duh! Of course eternity is of greater value than an education that will ultimately pass away!”
And, from within that religious bubble, that’s hard to argue with.

But, what if, as I’ve argued before, there is no Hell where people are toasted for eternity?

The African American Church can guide us here.
Born out of the true Hell of chattel slavery, they found a way to embrace the God of their captors. They found hope and love within the very same Bible that those who held the chains of their bondage.

For them, however, God was not a pious white man on a gleaming throne away off in some heaven. The streets of which mere mortals could never tread. The white god of those who imprisoned their bodies was only interested in keeping things the way that the white people always wanted them. That god sanctioned slavery. The white god cursed all who were NOT white. “The sin of Ham caused all of his seed to be dark and cursed,” this god exclaimed!

No. The God that the African Americans found was a God who walked with them in the fields as the chopped cotton or hoed the rows of tobacco. The God they knew promised to lead them from the bondage of slavery just as this same God rescued the Children of Israel all those many years ago.
They KNEW God as their friend, benefactor, and ultimately, their deliverer.

And, they have never forgotten that God.

Suffering was reality. Pain constant.
Yet, Jesus had come to this world to put an end to suffering.
His death and resurrection was the final act of redemption that rejected suffering as the way that life must be. As one writer put it,

“Through the Suffering Servant, God has spoken against evil and injustice. The empty cross and tomb are symbols of the victory.”
[Townes, Emilie M., A Trioubling in My Soul: Womanist Perspectives on Evil & Suffering, Emilie M. Townes, ed., Maryknoll, NY, 1993, p.84.]

With this hope in their hearts, God was the Agent of Transformation where justice and hope were not some pie in the sky dream. These things became the real, tangible call for all who would put their hand to the plow of Faith.

Yet, the White church continued to hold up their Bibles and cry, “Foul! We must obey what the Word of God says! Slaves, obey your masters!”

How far from the mark of God’s Glory were they!!!
The White church abdicated its responsibility to be light and salt in the world in order to fill their barns with the bounty of the harvest.
And, like in that story Jesus told, God said,

“You fool! This very night your soul is required of you; and now who will own what you have prepared?”
[New American Standard Bible: 1995 update. (1995). (Lk 12:20). La Habra, CA: The Lockman Foundation.]

Emilie Townes wrote

“Obedience that is blind to the world and only follows directions has divested itself of all responsibility for what it is commanded to do.”
[Townes, Emilie M., A Trioubling in My Soul: Womanist Perspectives on Evil & Suffering, Emilie M. Townes, ed., Maryknoll, NY, 1993, p.87.]

That blind obedience to ancient texts taken out of context and applied with an iron and unbending arm is what has happened, and continues to happen, in so, so many white churches.

It is past time to awaken the Church. Until we heed God’s call to provide justice to the poor, the widow, the foreigner, and all marginalized people we have no right to say that we are fully and truly disciples of Jesus.

We just can’t.

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Un-Fathered

Published by mhelbert on July 16, 2020

Unseen vistas reveal themselves with every step I take into the world of God. I have walked the oft-trodden, yet rarely observed paths of the Spirit as She blows through the brilliant flowers, trees, and grasses that form the lines of the Scriptures.
It seems that the more I observe and marvel at, more and more beauty and grace appear.

This is not to say that the paths that the Breath of God leads me along are always pleasant for me. No, sometimes I am stung by some insect that follows me. Buzzing in my ear, brushing against my hair and skin, it is a reminder that the paths we walk are still real and within the bounds of this present life.
I read in those ancient texts stories of people who, like me, worried their way along these same pathways. They were led by the same Spirit. Perhaps, they were even stung by that same bothersome insect.
And, while their time and place are foreign to me, I can still feel what they felt and sense what they sensed.
We are, after all, born of the same stuff.

That’s why the text that we looked at last Sunday in the Bible study at St. Barnabas became alive to me in a brand, new way. There was a new vista revealed as I crested the hill.

We have spent the last several weeks working our way through the first 4 chapters of St. Paul’s first letter to the Church at Corinth. Paul wrote that he had been made aware of divisions and factions that had broken along the fault lines of honor and shame. The folks there seemed to find their own sense of honor and worth by casting their lots with one apostle over against another. This one follows Paul; the other Apollos. Paul would have none of that and wrote that the system they used to measure worth was deeply flawed. Through example, irony, and metaphor he urged them to seek the One True Measure which is God through Christ. If the folks at Corinth desired true Wisdom, they need look no further than the Cross of Christ. That, alone, exemplified God’s Wisdom.

In chapter 4, Paul seems to shame the people in that young Church. He pointedly revealed the foolishness of the path that they were taking.
But, he switched gears and told them,

“I am not writing this to shame you, but to warn you as my dear children.”
He continued,
“I became your father through the gospel.”

There it was!
A new sun rising above the horizon of my limited understanding.
Paul wrote this letter, not to wield a rod of correction. It was not so that he expound some great, spiritual truth to them. It wasn’t even really to cajole them into following his instructions.

It was to remind them that he was their father in the faith.

The folks in Corinth had Un-Fathered Paul.

And, that was the cause of much of his pain and concern.

I was reminded, then, of another story like this.
In the Gospel According to Luke the writer related a story about a father and his two sons.
This story is commonly referred to as the story of the Prodigal Son, although the Father is the main character.
The story begins with the younger of the two sons going to his father and requesting his inheritance. This may not appear all that big of a deal to those of us inhabiting the 21st century. However, at the time this story was told, that request would have been scandalous. What we miss is that the request was, in fact, the younger son’s wish that the father was dead so that he could take what he deemed was his.

“Father, I want my inheritance!”

To that the father could reply,

“When I die you will receive it!”
“No, Father, I want it NOW! For, you are dead to me”

That’s how this story would have been heard by those Jesus told it to.
How much this reveals about the Father’s love later in the story!
But, that’s a story that must wait for another time.

The younger son un-Fathered his own father.
He wished that his father HAD died.
His only concern was his own life and desires.

I saw this story brightly reflected in Paul’s response to his Children in the Faith.
I could feel his sense of loss and betrayal.
I could understand his heart as he tried to reveal the potential danger that these children of his were running toward.
“Stop! Wait! There’s a cliff there and you’re about to run off of the edge!”

For those who have experienced the pain of this type of loss, I don’t need to explain it.
For those who haven’t, well, let’s all just hope and pray that you never do.
It is pain above any other. Especially, because of the helplessness that is alive and biting, boring into the heart and soul.
Yeah, I get what Paul was doing here.
He was simply being a loving father to those who owned a piece of his heart.

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There Is Hope

Published by mhelbert on July 15, 2020

I opened my eyes on the horizon before me. The path that I walked led inexorably toward a reckoning. While I could not foresee all that lay beyond my vision, my mind’s eye caught snippets and scraps of the possibilities.

I was clearly aware that injustice had engrafted itself upon and within the very fabric of our shared reality. Powers that insinuated themselves as Masters of Destiny flowed into our culture as deadly gas permeates even the very walls that we try to hide behind.
So blind had we become to even the existence of these Powers that they could reach out and touch us without any nerve conducting the pressure to our conscious minds.

Yet, here I am.
So many years later looking upon the wreckage of dreams unseen; hope unrealized.
For the World that we inhabit is a world of our own creation.
It has been built brick by brick. The mortar mixed with the blood of the innocent.
The constructs of Race, Gender, and Class form the superstructure of this World.
The steel girders welded and riveted together in order to bear the weight of those Powers.

And yet, here we are today seeking to put a new facade on that structure. Powerwash the block and marble that reflects the Sun and creates a spectacle of beauty and truth.
Black Lives Matter.
Yes, they do.
The Glass ceilings that separate us by Gender, that hold Women in thrall to man-made servitude must be shattered.
Those enslaved by poverty, both economic and of the soul, cry out for emancipation.

There is a thing that Augustine, that august Bishop of Hippo once named. As he looked around at his World he saw the many Powers that existed even then. He pronounced judgment on them and named them:
Original Sin.
While his attempt to cast the Light of God on what he believed was humanity’s underlying curse, he was, alas, wide of the mark.
For the Original Sin that he saw was that of Innocent Humanity turning its back on the Paradise and Blessing of God.
No, Humanity has never been innocent.
In one version of the story when God announced that Humanity was to be created, the Heavenly retinue cried out,
“No, no, no!”
They knew that humans would be disobedient and headstrong and muck up the Very Good Creation.
Yet, God told them that they were correct. But,God would provide a way of deliverance.
God declared that all of the Cosmos would rejoice when Humanity came into its inheritance.
That inheritance is to share in the Reign of Jesus who is the King above all kings.

I saw in this that the Powers believed that they had all of the strength and wisdom necessary to make them invincible to all of those who would seek to usurp their authority.
They held Spirits of Politics, Economy, Culture, and all of the lesser gods in their hands.
“Nothing can stand against our might,” they cried!

Yet, in the depths of the hearts of the Slaves a spark burned brightly.
The Heart of God, that is Jesus, had been the point of ignition for these lights that burned within the humble breasts of all of these People.
And soon, a great conflagration had erupted.
It was a fire without heat that did not consume.
Within it was the Voice of the Almighty who proclaimed judgment against the Powers.
Their might was thrown down and destroyed.

A nice story, eh?
I could end it with,
“And they lived happily ever after.”

The reality IS that the might and strength of the Powers have been cast down.
Yet, the structure remains to this day.
It is this structure that is yet to be dismantled and hauled out to sea where it may be useful as a haunt for fish.
Then, perhaps, we will all find freedom.
Until then, we must continue to let the fire that has kindled within us grow. We fan those flames as we march and sing and hold each other up, not simply as equals, but as Sisters and Brothers with Love and Respect and Honor.

The good news is that the Powers have been disarmed.
The better news is that we are ABLE to stand against the structure that the Powers thought was too strong to fail.
It has.
Now we must work to tear it down.

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Tuesday Morning Musing_7-14-2020 Version

Published by mhelbert on July 14, 2020

Call it Information Overload.
Call it stuck in the News Cycle.
Call it George.
Whatever it’s called, it has caused my brain to be constipated.

Eyes have not seen; Ears have not heard all of the crap floating around in the air.
Well, maybe that’s not entirely accurate.
After all, there is truly nothing new Under the Sun.

But, all at once?
I find that I must bore a hole in the back of my brain in order to let some of that stuff that’s clogging up the neural pathways to leak out.
I had a Bag-O-Poop stuck to my belly to catch and dispose of the waste.
Now, I need one of those to stick to my head to catch the crap that I must allow to escape.

To wear a mask, or to NOT wear a mask.
That is the question.

Do Black Lives REALLY Matter?

How many verifiable lies have flowed from the halls of power today?

The Russians did WHAT?!?

How many people died in the last 24 hours from Covid?

Are those our local police? Or, is the the local Militia?

Who to trust; who to listen to?

Am I stuck in an echo chamber in which the same ideas that I hold simply bounce and rebound around the walls until I am lulled into a stupor, a complacency that renders me useless?

At what point must I scream,
ENOUGH?!?!?

I don’t know.
Truly, I don’t.

So many thoughts about Justice and what it might look like in our culture.

Where in the World is Carmen Sandia….Wait…
No, Where in the World is God?
Has the Holy Spirit gone to Jamaica for a vacation and a sip of rum?
Where are the people who claim to follow Jesus?
You know, the ones who have stood up at the altar with tears streaming down their faces calling out and professing their personal fealty to the King of kings?

All is silent.

All is calm.

Except for my soul.

It twists and turns trying to see the promised redemption of the Cosmos.
It cries out to Yahweh in hopes of an answer; a whisper of hope.

It is beyond my strength to sit and do nothing, though.
For me that would be to seriously Miss the Mark and fall short of the Glory that God prepared for all of us to share in.
But, I must admit that I am tired.
My brain is saturated.
I don’t know where or how to start to release all that is pent up within those Little Gray Cells.
Perhaps, this is a start.
Just maybe simply sitting and throwing words up in the air to see where they may fall will begin a cascade of something meaningful.

Or, maybe I’m just kidding myself.

We’ll see.

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Color Blind?

Published by mhelbert on July 6, 2020

Last week I wrote how my Dad reacted to the murder of MLK.
My Dad grew up in a small town where there were few, if any, African Americans.
He was a child of his time.
Jim Crow was still the rule of the Land, if not the actual Law.
Blacks were viewed not only as “Other,” but as “Less Than.”
Outside of a few city slicker, bleeding hearts no one even thought twice about it.
Most folks were like my Dad simply trying to get their piece of the American Pie.
They really had no time to think about things like Equal Rights and Red Lining.
Hell, I’m pretty sure my Dad went to his grave having never heard of Red Lining!
No one cared.
Period.
They had their own worries and concerns.
“Blacks? Who cares? Let them worry about themselves. That is, as long as they don’t show up in my neighborhood!”

My first contact with Blacks was when I was a very young child. I lived in a lily-white world. Except, on garbage day.
That’s when the Negroes came down our street with the garbage truck to collect the stuff that we no longer wanted.
The Garbage.
Imagine my young, white mind seeing this.
My dad went to work somewhere magical every day.
Negroes collect garbage.

Of course, my parents never said anything to dispel that thought.
As far as they were concerned my observations were spot on.
Negroes collect garbage.

Throughout my youth I never had any other real contact with African Americans.
Oh, yeah, they showed up on the news fairly regularly.
But, with Dad’s commentary in my ear, there were no positive images seen or understood.

That is, until Music.

I remember the first time I heard “Green Onions” by Booker T. & the MG’s.
Holy Shit!
What was that sound?
Do you feel that?

First the ears, then the eyes Opened!

Later, who’s that guy with the ‘fro?
Jimi Who?
Oh. My. God.
Is that a guitar?

Mind. Blown.

The circuits in my brain began to search for new pathways to describe and explain the cognitive dissonance that I experienced.
I had always heard that Blacks were something, (note “something,” not “someone”), to be at best ignored. They had no talent or ability that would interest a white person.

But, Bloody Hell!
That guy could Play!

I picked up B.B King, and Albert King.
Fats Domino and, of course, the King of Soul…James Brown.
(My Dad had no use for Brown. He referred to him as a Screaming N-R.)

Once on a journey to the hinterland of Cleveland Public Hall to relish the sweet sounds and harmonies of Three Dog Night, I heard nature’s call. When I got to the Relief Portal I found that all of the stalls had a coin slot on them. So, now it costs a buck for a coke and a quarter to get rid of it. They had us coming and going.
However, one young man, about 6 feet tall and ebony of hue, wearing a sheepskin vest and a wide-brimmed hat held the door open for me. “No way someone should have to pay to piss.”

More of the instilled hatred that my Father tried to pass on to me was flushed away.

Yet, my destiny seemed to be in following my white forebears through life. I got a job with a mostly white business. That business busied me for the next 40+ years. I had limited contact with folks who did not look like me.
I found myself engulfed in the cultural tsunami that was Ronnie Reagan.
Yes, I have repented of my youthful foolishness. My back striped from self-flagellation.
But, the mantra of that time was, that nothing was more important than the economy. And, that economy is ‘Color-Blind.’
That meant that everyone and anyone had equal access to the same prosperity. All you had to do was work hard at it.
See!
Color Blind!

Unless, of course, you were one of those Welfare Mothers who became baby factories for no other reason than to suckle on the Government Teet.
Or, you were one of those crack head, absentee fathers who stuck his dark wick into any willing receptacle. Of which, there were apparently an endless supply. (See Welfare Mother.)

No. Racism didn’t die when the laws changed.
White folks thought it did.
That’s why white folks invented the term Color Blind.
You see, Lady Justice wears a blindfold. So, if the Law says ‘Equal,’ then that means that 400 years of oppression suddenly vanishes. Just like that White Jeannie with the skimpy harem outfit and the blink and nod thing. Gone!

Now that I’m older, so much older…
I see that the only color that white folks are blind to is White.
Yeah, I know that technically White is the absence of all color, but play along.

Who was it that affixed the moniker “Red Man” to indigenous Americans?
What group of people colored the Asian “Yellow”?
What enlightened culture labeled an entire continent, “The Dark Continent”?
Oh, you thought that was because of the deep, dark jungle?
Yeah, probably not entirely.

White people, the squeaky-clean, sparkling progenitors of everything good and worthwhile in the world have done more to demean and destroy anyone, or any culture, that may seem to set them in a poor light.
White folks can’t stand to be “Losers” or “Also Rans” or anything less than King of the Hill.

But, in more ways than we care to admit.

We are.

Actually, that pretty much sums this up.

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Musing on a Thursday Morning in July

Published by mhelbert on July 2, 2020

I’m not really sure when it all began. I suppose part of it was when my elementary school teachers started telling my Mother the myth of my under-achieving abilities.
“He’s not living up to his potential,” they all agreed.
Yet, none of them could seem to tell us what that potential was. It was an elusive Olympus that created a legend of gold flowing from my mind only to be flushed away as so much waste after too many baked beans.
Legends die hard, though.
You see, even though the adult experts in my life told the myth, the results told a different tale. If I was indeed squandering this God-Given Gift, then why was I still in the upper 98th percentile on all their guiding metrics? Why did those quarterly reports of every student’s academic worth constantly contain the only vowel allowed?
I could coast and still bring the gold.
Yet, I was never able to make the Powers happy.

I did have one or two teachers throughout who thought that they could play the game better than I could. One, in particular, thought that by giving me and incomplete in his class would awaken the hidden genius within. So, even though I scored the highest of anyone he had ever taught on the season-ending Final Exam, he made good on that with a great big “I.”
So, I figured, I’ll show him. I signed up for his class the following year.
And, proceeded to receive another “I” for Idiot.
Not even that stopped me. I graduated well above average in my class in spite of doing only about half of the work.
Maybe they pitied kids like me.

Part of my issue, well maybe, more than part, was my inability to respect authority. I was a rebel from the beginning. I viewed most rules as mere suggestions. They were not meant to be bent or broken. They were simply beneath my consideration. Especially, the ones that made on sense other than, “because I told you so.”
This attitude could have cost me dearly. But, I also developed an ability to speak the language. My dad had a sign at his desk where he worked that read, “If you can’t dazzle them with brilliance, then Baffle them with Bullshit.”
I found that I was able to do both.
Not a great combination for someone with a larger than life sense of Self.

But, that wasn’t really an accurate assessment.

I was, (and Am), extremely insecure. I developed the persona of a rebel thinker mostly because no one else at that point in my life had staked out that patch of real estate.
I could hold my own with anyone who thought that they could actually reason with me. The ones that I had problems with were the people who wore their Bullshit Monitors. They didn’t speak my language at all. So, we developed a kind of mutual understanding. I wouldn’t BS them; they wouldn’t kick my ass. That worked pretty well.

As I grew older I met others who were far more human than me. I was just a little shit who could talk his way out of a beating. These others, who stood head and shoulders above me in awareness, were aloof to all of the petty crap that I tended to wallow around in. These were the ones who had read about the “Bay of Pigs,” and who knew about Jerry Reuben and Abby Hoffman. They were the intellectuals who were “woke” long before that term meant something other than what we all did in the mornings. They were the people who understood what that first “Moratorium” was about.

I, on the other hand, was trying to figure out how to get a girl to like me. I joined a band when I was 12. I was the rhythm guitarist. Which in my mind meant, Second Fiddle. For someone who had achieved greatness in his own mind, that was simply not going to fly. So, I left that band and through myself into playing the instrument. I strapped on my guitar when I walked in the house after school and it didn’t come off until I went to bed. I practice 8 hours every day and more on weekends. I played the grooves off of Jimi Hendrix, Steppenwolf, Led Zepplin, and James Gang.
This was the first time in my life that I actually gave myself wholly to any endeavor.
Eventually, my work paid off as I became a bonafide lead guitar player who could jam for hours with anyone. I had worked into a niche where I refused to learn other players’ solos. That was their voice. I developed my own. Improvisation ultimately led me to listen to other players.
Phil Keaggy from a local band called Glass Harp opened my mind to the limitless possibilities of the instrument. Al DiMeola, Joe Pass, Herb Ellis, Steve Howe, and other players ushered me into the world of Harmonic Melody and piano style. Vast horizons of the Ether became accessible.

Yet, I was always what my dad called the “Also Ran.” You know, Johnny came in first place. Mike also ran.

Here I was, destined for greatness. I mean, just ask my third grade teach and my Mom! But, I got a job, joined the union, and put a sign on my desk in 1980, “Vote Republican for a Change.”

What happened?

One day I was watching as Sirhan Sirhan assassinated Bobby, James Earl Ray murdered Martin, and Chicago erupted while Mayor Richard J. Daly sat at the Democratic National Convention with his arms crossed not realizing that the world was giving birth to something new.

In all honesty, I was a thirteen year old kid whose dad muttered something about, “about time someone did something about that N——r” when MLK was cut off from the living. I didn’t understand any more than Daly what was happening. Hell, I just played the songs! I didn’t really listen to the lyrics. Even as young people fell on the grass and concrete of Kent State a few years later, I was more concerned about learning CSNY’s “Ohio” than about the message that Neil was shouting to us.
“Wake up!” he was saying.
“What key is this,” is all that I heard.

So, I guess it wasn’t at all unnatural for me to join the crowd of Republicans in the 80s. After all, the revolution never really got off the ground. Woodstock was the last hurrah of a tribe of coddled, over-indulged white kids who found out all too quickly that what was said in “Cabaret” was all too true; ‘Money makes the world go around.’

Maybe that deep sleep overcame many of us.
We “grew fat and got lazy” as John Kay accused us.
I don’t know for sure what kind of haze enveloped my mind. It certainly wasn’t Purple. I lost many years bowing to a god that was less than even my own ability to underthink and underachieve.
It took crisis to put a fire under my ass.
I walked into that fire and got burned.
The scars are still visible. And, to my ever living shame, burned those whom I love.
But, that’s another story for another time.

I believe that I’m opening my eyes a bit. The sun is shining through the windows of my heart and bring warmth. It’s also illuminating the dust and cobwebs that have accumulated in a rather lackluster lifetime.
But, there are also some gems set in gold lying about that shine with brightness of burgeoning hope.

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A Confession

Published by mhelbert on June 27, 2020

Recently I wrote several posts about Unity in the Church.
While much of that is applicable to our everyday relationships with anyone, I want to be clear that my main focus was on the Church. How do we strive for Unity within the Body of Christ?
That was Paul’s focus when he wrote that letter to the Church at Corinth. And, it was mine while writing of our task today.

I also wanted to make it clear that I do NOT support the thoughts or “Sincerely Held Religious Beliefs” of some members of our Tribe. They are hurtful, hateful, and bigoted. They should be called out for what they are, “Barriers to keep “Others” out.”

There are other thoughts, though, that play a similar role.
That of ‘Keeping Ours IN.’
If we are honest, most of us really desire to be a part of something larger than we are. We want to identify with the winning team. (Those of us in the Cleveland, OH area have difficulty relating to that!)
We hope that the tribe that we align with will be regarded as ‘Good’ and ‘Strong.’
I remember when I first chose to follow Jesus I was part of a community of people who truly desired to follow Jesus just like the folks in the First Church. Part of our hope was that the people in the city where we lived would see us living together in love. We tried to embody the communal love of God conspicuously. We were convinced that if the World could only see how Christ followers could truly live together that they would start beating down our doors in order to share in the Love with us.
But, alas, they only saw a bunch of hippies who had horses in the garage.

That didn’t stop us though, from trying to build a counter-culture that could speak to those who were Lost and Wandering in the Darkness that was Secular Culture.
We developed our own music and art. We chose private Christian schools for our children. Or, homeschooled them so that they would not be tainted by the secular doctrines of death that were foist upon unsuspecting public school students.
Our leaders began to show us how our way of thinking and living was the only true and virtuous way.
And, the gatekeepers got stronger.
Soon we had our own stores and businesses. Of course, we were all expected to patronize these because, well, they were Christian, Silly! It didn’t matter that they were not nearly as good as the secular places. They were members of our Tribe!
The music that we developed was, at best, second rate. One singer asked the question in a song, “Why Should The Devil Have All The Good Music?”
Well, because ours was just bad!!!
Yet, we kept forging ahead trying to develop “Real, True Christian Stuff” so that we didn’t need to sully ourselves with that worldly stuff.

Those who told us that they were anointed to lead us continued to direct us toward so-called Godly writers and teachers and other guides who would help us to become more and more transformed into the likeness of the god that we created.

People like James Dobson became our life gurus on how to raise children. Others, like Dave Ramsey, started groups to advise us on financial matters. These people, and many others, touted a Biblical Standard that would enable everyone who followed their practices to live free in an imagined “Bible Land” where we would thrive in Holy Peace.

In the community I was a part of the leaders actively taught these principles. And, because of the heavy-handed pastoral guidance that was part of our life together, many times demanded our compliance.
Of course, this was done because the ‘loved’ us and only desired that we be free to worship God in Spirit and Truth.

So, we willingly followed like sheep follow their beloved shepherd. In fact, that very image was used to describe our relationship with the leadership.

Here’s the rub for me as I look back.

No one put a gun to my head and told me that I HAD to comply with this. I followed them willingly. Even when I knew that something didn’t sound or feel right. I rationalized away my concerns because I Trusted these people to guide me.
I placed my life and my family’s in the hands of men who said that they were leading us along the Straight and Narrow path that would ensure our well-being, indeed, our very salvation.
I chose that path.

Until, I didn’t.

The damage that I did to my family and myself is my own responsibility. I checked my brain at the door and lived in a world where I could say to God, “It wasn’t me, Lord! I just did what I was told by those guys that YOU PUT IN CHARGE! Not my fault!”

But, it was my fault.

We humans like to deflect responsibility from ourselves when there are negative outcomes.
Just like Flip Wilson so many years ago, “The devil made me do it!”
I could point at those leaders and say, “But, they told me to do that!” like it was some sort of magic get out of jail free card.

It wasn’t.
I am still the only person responsible for my actions.
And, they have not always been virtuous.
Lack of faithfulness to my wife and family? — Check.
Poor stewardship of my resources? — Check.
Lousy parenting? — Yep, that too.
Unloving son and brother? — Check.

I could go on and on.

The point of all of this is that I gave my God-Given responsibilities to people who were never supposed to take them from me.
I did that.
Me.
Alone.

I bear the responsibility for my own failings.
Unfortunately, others bear the the scars from my failings.
For that, I am deeply sorry.
I knew better.
But, I did worse.

This is the danger of placing one’s trust in others who, themselves, are struggling and ignorant of the hurt that they inflict on people.

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