Tales of Horror: The Dark Man

When I was a boy there was a black man that I would see. Out of the corner of my mind, hidden behind trees and corners. He was there in my house, in my life. I would hear him walking up the steps of my father’s house in the dead of night. And I would hide under the covers. I would see him in my dreams. The choker, one that would suffocate me with a stare.

                This man was not black, as in African American, or even a man at all. I should actually refer to him as The Dark Man, because his purposes for me were never clear, but always hidden. I would lie awake at night. I would pray that he would go away. But I would feel my body run cold, even if the blankets were warm. Even now as a man I wrap my arms around me, as if by instinct, grounded by the child-like belief that mere covers could save me from a being dark, ancient, and powerful. How would you know this, some have asked me. I know because it told me so. This dark man was a demon. One that haunted me in the night, a taunting dream that would lie in bed with me, whisper threatening lies in my ears. Words without a voice, ones that echoed in my empty unoccupied mind.  Many of you don’t believe in demons, or manifestations of evil. They are the guilty conscience that hangs over us like dark clouds in the sky, most say. Until this night, I’ve never written about the dark man. I was always afraid of him coming back. I have a family now. Lord forgive me if I were to invite such a thing back into my life. But now that the light is with me, the dark man comes back less and less. The dreams are less real now. If he ever came back, it would never be the same.

                There was a night in July, when I was 10 years old. I had recently come home from an informal reunion in Sonoma County, north of San Francisco, where the hills are made of gold and from the earth pours wine. The specters of long dead miners and Chinese rail workers haunted the hills, their legacy paved over with boutiques and high class restaurants. I was lying in my bed at home, my brother sleeping soundly next to me. The Dark Man was there. The night light did not flicker. The air was not frosty or cold. There was no ghostly herald or cultic preamble in cartoonish languages. He was there, lying next to me, heaving rattling, emphysemic  breaths. And what I remember, so clearly, so unequivocally, its words. “Ahh… don’t be like that.”

                I froze. I wanted to cry.

                It rolled over me, on top on me. Every muscle tensed on my body.

                My eyes closed tight, he told me a little about himself.     

                “I’ve been alone, so alone. Sentenced to the depths of Hell, without respite and closure, a soul that asks on those passing through what came of their legacy of my life. I owned a house at once, hidden away in the forests of Bavaria. I had a cart and some sheep, my small cottage. I lived alone, skinning and tanning pelts under a cold distant sun that would pierce the canopies of my grove with shafts of goodness finding me in the depths of my loneliness.

                “A woman, young with fair skin and supple breasts, with fiery red hair and green eyes would come to me, and only me, to sell milk and bread once a month. We would talk for a few hours. I would pay her a little extra for her services and she would go her way. With longing eyes she would look back, but they hid her pity well. Pity for an old man of the forest that knew no one, and none knew him.

                “The clearings would keep the time of year, shading the earth with autumnal foliage or the colorful levity of spring. I would watch through my window built of fine glass that I found on a wrecked carriage near the road overlooking Berchtesgaden. The grass would bend under the weight of the snow, and every morning I would see the tracks of lesser creatures foraging in the night. A fire lit in the corner I made to remind me of older days, when I knew my son, and when he knew me.”

                The creature reached out to me, forcing me to see through its eyes. I shook my head but I was still. I cried out to shout but I was made silent… 

                I saw the old man walking through the clearing, looking with tired lonely eyes at the rabbits. He would lift his hunting bow, aim, and collect his kill. Rabbit stew every night, always. Stringy morsels seasoned with crushed black pepper and salt from the mines near town.

                Again the woman would come on the months end. He would sleep with her, collect her salt, and she would leave without tasting the rabbit he caught.

                “I was unremarkable in death as I was in life, a simple soul with simple needs. When you see me in your dreams, I will suffocate you! Look into my eyes.” I didn’t need to see them again, because I had seen them many times before in my restless nights. Dreaming of dark rings housing sinister, cruel eyes.

“I was not always like this. All souls fall from paradise to the crags of perdition, marred by the tumultuous journey down, striking the rocks of the interior creation, the space between worlds where those long created before man dare to walk. One day, while seeing to my sheep, I looked up from my toil and, across the clearing, a young man with calloused hands and wiry beard watched me. The face so familiar, so precious, masked by the pain of a life bereft of paternal care, I beheld my lost son.

                “That is how all good things start, with such energy that prolongs the period of good feelings. Together we built another room on the cottage. We cut lumber together, sawing with dull tools and fastening with rusty nails. Many times I fell to my knees in exhaustion, no longer young, but my son continued. I saw to it that he was well fed, and inside a feeling, a forgotten sensation of affection warmed me better than my cottage fire. My son, he should stay longer he said, as the snow will fall again and the leaves are withered and falling once more. And with bitter tears I cried aloud ‘I’m sorry, Hanz! I’m sorry for your mother, for everything.’”

                The Dark Man forced its hand across my face. I felt nothing but its emptiness. I squinted under what felt like a hundred pounds of pressure. And it showed me more…              

The woman returned after the snow melted, late but she came eventually in the summer months, driving a cart up the shadowed trail to the cottage. She was weak also, and when he saw her, he saw the rotund belly swathed in red cloth, a leather corset crudely cut in half with a cutlass holding up her bountiful breasts. He knew what it meant and said nothing. In her hands she took his, holding them up to her face. She smiled and told him that she would need another room to stay. He laughed, uncertain of what to say or do. And what was there to say? Long ago, as a young man he remembered the feelings, the prelude to excitement and fear, of anticipation and anxiousness. He thought shallowly then, considering that he would have to go into town to buy milk and bread from then on. Utility possessed him, purpose filled his lungs with the damp air of the forest floor. Across the field, the son came out of the forest carrying over his shoulders pails of water to run the new forge. The father, he looked at his son befuddled and the son nervously beheld the woman.

                “The cottage grew over the winter. That was an early snow. Father and son digging in the ice while she waits inside; we prepared for the long season. I knew that soon the child would come. I did not see her watching through the window. Sweat in the cold winter air steaming off both our backs. We gripped our shovels tightly, revealing our strong rope-like arms. Both tawny, but strong. She coveted him, watching me in my old age, finding me… wanting. It was not long until I found her one night with him in our room, stroking his erection as they lay together in secret. And my fullness, the spirit that lifted me so high, higher than the birds of the sky, poured out of me, into my hands, and gave me strength to kill the boy, with tears in mine own eyes as she watched.

                “She did not get far, so close to the fruit of our labors. She died in the snow as she fled.

                “I could only imagine then how the questions slowly came to be asked, how the forge burned brightly, deep within the trees without orders for steel, how the milk grew sour and the bread stale in wait at the market, how the people came to confront me, how they found me wearing her bones around my neck, and how they came to strike me down. And so my soul was torn down through oblivion to the depths of Hell, to the Second Circle, let to roam the dreams of those that seek light beyond the forest depths.”

                The Dark Man snarled, but I screamed. He floated away, seeping into the ceiling above. My brother awoke next to me in a start and made a face in disgust. “God! Shut up! Mom, what’s wrong with him?”

                That was the first and only time the Dark Man spoke. It would come here and there throughout the years, with diminishing passion at each turn. How he would rake my body with his claws, stop my blood still with spiritual malaise. Taunt me in the morning, terrify me in my youth. I would not lie if I said that I remember hearing the sounds of his steps through my mother’s home. The creaks in the night. The sensation that he was behind me. And yet, in all this, I sensed that its menace had climaxed at the moment of personal disclosure. As I became a man, as I chose my path to go to the university, the Dark Man became less real, and merely a bad dream. But I still remember the first days, before I accepted God’s protection, when I would hide in the fluorescent fountains all around me. Its memory surpassed its presence, which was, in many ways, more terrifying that the genuine reality of the creature.

                In these times, I am not afraid of the Dark Man any more. But I know he is still there, somewhere, praying for death. Should I feel sorry for him? No. What good is the Dark Man to me, but the memories of youthful trepidation? Yet I am thankful. I’m my studies on theology and the demonic I have reasoned that such soul would be allowed to hate me because the Dark Man’s presence teaches me what it means to languish unchallenged in loneliness. For so long I had wrapped melancholy around me like a blanket, to shiver bitterly, to deny the charity of friendship to others and myself. The Dark Man cursed me when I was young with its sadness. I could never curse another to bear mine. And now, in my office, on this word processor, I want you to know what happened to me. Melancholy like a good book, or an engrossing film can be so gratifying. Some revel in it, crushing themselves in a vise. But like a monkey on my back I have worn the Dark Man and put him off, never to wear him again. One day I will forget him, and then he will finally be just another shade in the pit.    

Sequart Memories

I was at the comic book store Saturday picking up a floppy (or single issue, to those who aren't familiar with comic jargon). It's something I've only recently started doing, knowing full well that I would soon have boxes of ad-filled, twenty-something paged, incomplete story arc, relics. It's funny because I actually love reading them. I never thought I would say that. But it occurred to me, walking back to my house, that I was on the cusp of a personal revelation, one that I certainly wasn't expecting then, of all days.

There was a time when I was reading comics very actively. I was working with Sequart Organization as their Webmaster and Managing editor, attempting to build the fame of Sequart and establish it as a reputable place for comics journalism and scholarship. Little did I know, it already was, but it was nice to think I had something to do with it's fame at the time. There were many initiatives and projects I undertook. Why I did them escapes me. My only lasting legacy from Sequart is my anxiety disorder and my moments of complete  mental collapse that still plague me to this day. Somewhere at Desmond's cabin (a friend of mine, one that you should read and follow!) there is a pile of Sequart merch from SDCC 2014. Julian still has a press list I  built of academics, a 6 month project where I cataloged every non-profit academic institution, picked over their English department websites, and had my manager run a web-based info blast. (We got a few responses, certainly not a worthy amount.) I learned a lot from the experience, notably that it's hard to sell comics scholarship. 

I think that here is where I made the connection in my mind about the nature of anything that is creative. In the sea of genres, art-forms, and media types there is a subjective line in the sand between so-so manifestations and quality ones. There are some really shitty comics out there. Many of them don't challenge creativity or convictions. It's just a bunch of shit. But in the quagmire of shit there are vindicating articles of art that are really good. When I was at Sequart I would write articles about the noteworthiness of a series, elevate its form to death-defying heights, when in reality it wasn't worth the paper it was printed on. Like my fascination with beer transitioning to wine, I have moved from comics to novels. Though there are some good stories worth revisiting. 

I think if I could go back and tell myself to avoid Sequart I wouldn't. I wouldn't tell myself about the incoming panic attacks, or the compromising, though valuable, conversations I would have with Julian (who I still love and appreciate to this day), or the slow rift it would create between one of my good friends in part due to the liberal education I  would receive from my contributors and colleagues. Comics have indeed taught me more about art, spirituality, film studies, and myself and what I want to be. I've learned about those that I idolize, their flaws and dreams. I've realized the difference between myself and Neil Gaiman is very little. We are just two creators in different life stages and places. I no longer envy him, but admire him. 

Alan Moore would say, cynically I imagine, that his tenure in comics did nothing for him, that it was all wasted effort. (He lacks the critical distance from his work that is both moving and personal.) But I know that comics have affected me in many ways, mostly good. At the end of the day, are they worthy to pass on to my children? Of course. But are they worthy to be embodied? To draw identity from? I don't believe so....

XOX

PS:

I wrote quite a bit today while I was drinking tea. 

I'm Not a Woman, But Can I Write About Them?

My second book happens to be the first one that will feature a “female” protagonist / antagonist. She isn’t really a woman, but an AI. Still she is supposed to largely reflect what a woman is and what women value. I’ve written before on the difficulty in creating authentic women characters. Frankly, I don’t know how other great authors like Stephen King and Neil Gaiman have done it. Traversing the gender gap, is something I, personally, think is impossible. Rather, we can get close to the other side, maybe within the casting of stones. Who knows? The future holds many possibilities.

I’m sure people have written about this before. There’s no reason to reinvent the wheel. Women are physiologically different from men and possess abilities that men can never realize. Social history aside, if we look at the here and now, women are doing things today that have never been done before. Currently, Hilary Clinton is running for president, something that 100 years ago was a laughable prospect among the American people. It’s a struggle for me to take that history and experience, the many thousands of years of anthropology, and condense that into a blog post. My meager thoughts on writing them are below.

I’m a big fan when it comes to animated sitcoms. Despite the cliché of the stay-at-home mom, or in the case of King of the Hill, a secondary earner, the women here server a role as a foil of the men. Even though Homer Simpson, Hank Hill, and, only recently, Jerry Smith, have many layers to their characterization, these men are undermined by their stupidity, which is mostly benign, if not occasionally selfish. I think men are pressured to be alphas, or various manifestations of masculine archetypes. Their decisions are made impulsively, citing a certain male intuition that is mostly wrong and self-centered. The women often clean up the resulting and inevitable mess. Why this is the default mode of writing males I can reasonably infer, but how the women act in return I find more interesting.

When I was writing about Mòr in Spirit of Orn, I tried to imagine what it would be like to have a sister. I grew up only with my brother, but in the families that I interacted with I noticed that older sisters tended to be those that people would go to for wisdom or insight. During adolescence, that relationship would become strained with sexual tension and infighting, resolving to a common understanding with mutual affection. (This is in the case of an older sister with a younger brother.) Conversely, in the relationship between a younger sister and an older brother is more martial, with the older brother protecting the younger sister, or feeling concerned for their wellbeing either implicitly or explicitly. In Spirit of Orn, Mòr is Conn’s younger sister. She is an aunt despite being of similar age to Conn’s son. She takes care of Conn and looks out for him in the midst of his grieving for his recently departed wife. The age gaps between each of the characters are far and wide, eschewing the nuclear family model for a non-conventional look of a family dynamic. Spirit of Orn was my first book, so I’m not surprised that my own characters were fraught with this kind of dysfunction. It likely mirrored my own angst I felt towards my family.

I wrote Mòr in a detached way. She is attempting to grieve in her own way and, in doing so, accepts the religion of the people in Orn. She also is firm in her believe that she can take care of Conn, only Conn can only fix himself and come to that conclusion on his own. I felt that Mòr also had her own sexual identity, not conforming to the mores of Skara Brae (which, at the time I wrote Spirit of Orn, were cavalier and hedonistic). She was very independent, trying to prove herself as a child, but also gave up those desires when she accepted the Orn religion because she no longer needed to. I feel that most women in literature are trying to prove themselves (as men also do). But this might be juxtaposing my own masculinity onto female characters.

The difficulty with my latest book is that my main protagonist is an outsider looking in. She chooses to be a woman. (Artificially intelligent machines are not organic and therefore have no gender.) She also chooses her own appearance, a scene that I am writing currently that I’ve labored over for the last month or so. The only experience I can relate to in designing a character from an outsider’s perspective is creating a character in a video game, an experience that is shallow and self-serving most of the time. My character will be doing what no one has done yet: embrace that identity permanently and decisively, while taking with her, the emotional and mental expectations of donning that persona. It makes me wonder if that is what a person undergoing sexual reassignment goes through. Honestly, my guess is limited by third hand knowledge.

I’m hoping though that the experiment bares good fruit. I want to continue to challenge myself as a writer. Expanding my written vocabulary and ability to describe gender are all on my list of things to grow in this year.  We’ll see what happens. There’s only 2 more left!

XOX 

History in the Making

I've only just started to question my Americanity.

Cleaning out my bookcase has led me to read again. I'm the kind of person to visit bookshops and buy books, only to never read them. My bookcase is a massive 7 foot tall, 6 feet wide hardwood behemoth. Plenty of room has been reduced over the years to an overburdened mortuary of titles. If the existential purpose of a book is to be read, I have read most of them, leaving them to die some kafka-esque death, smothered to death by comic books and my wife's cooking magazines.

One of the many titles I've begun to investigate is Robert Remini's A Short History of the United States, a chronicle of the nation's past and present, from the early settlers of North America to the bustling coast-to-coast megalopolis we are now. I was taught American history in school at the high school level, where I took AP US History, which I then took out of obligation. Only now as I find myself becoming aware of my citizenship do I value the idea of American history. It's important to understand the past victories and defeats of any nation. The United States is prestigious enough, so I've been told, to explore and encounter.

Halfway through I'm struggling. Much evil has come of this country. Though that is the same of any nation. (We are not exempt from fault simply because of the O'Sullivanite principals of Manifest Destiny that implicate and enunciate the divine like a crude incantation.) Germany has done as much wrong as France, or Britain, or Spain. So maybe I'm just coming to terms with my station in the world and position in time. Stricken by "White Guilt" because from a young age I was told I was evil because of the color of my skin. But it really grinds my gears to hear people utter the successes of the nation with no little regard of the skeletons lurking nearby.

Last night I was on Facebook and one of my old christian familiars prompted my viewing of the above picture.

Understanding that I am aware of my limited exposure to American history, its myriad interpretations and subjective deductions, and that I have really only read one of three books that I plan on skimming in the coming months, I feel that I have at least some knowledge of history that forces me to call bullshit on this wildly positivist statement.

I feel capitalism isn't some new invention, though it's identity was defined profoundly during the industrial revolution. My opinion is that the marketplace of ancient Rome operated on the founding principals concerning the exchange of goods for services. Agriculture, skilled-labor, and prostitution are all safeguarded by the passing of money between hands. And all instances are some form of exploitation at one point or another. What makes me mad though, mad enough to weep my righteous tears on digital papyrus-on my day off no less-is that this statement is likely invoking the golden age of American capitalism, which was at the epicenter of the industrial revolution. It also happened to be the most notorious age of corruption in american history. As if the entire House and Senate were populated by Trump disciples, sowing the seeds of conspicuous corruption.

Remini's primary aim of his book is to follow the delicate dance between Federalism (a strong, centralized government) and Republicanism (a loosely constructed confederation of states under a common banner). And in his treatment of the development of American politics, he takes pains to establish the identity of the South as finding its origins in corporate colonies, owned by trading companies and established to run like businesses. Contrast this with the North, which was comprised primarily of Religious and Political refugees of continental Europe, which established colonies to espouse an array of philosophical principals, benefiting from the paternal neglect of Mother England. From the very beginning, the cosmopolitan climate of the north fostered the growth of a common identity that would precipitate the American Revolution. The hubris of the North would punish the South by levying tariffs against foreign exports. The South consequently couldn't export their cotton to England. The North would consolidate its infrastructure because of the increased interstate trade and growing of the domestic economy.

The picture above, in light of the following, so infuriates me because the "capitalism" of the South was borne upon the backs of slaves. Remini is clear to discourage the nostalgic pastoral imagery of antebellum south, with its wide plantations manned by hundreds of slaves. In reality, there were few plantations of this kind, the majority of slave owners being single households, with one slave or two. Pages could be written on the treatment of slaves and the post-Civil War Reconstruction efforts to establish Jim Crow laws to oppress ex-slaves. But even afterwards, our great nation was built on the backs of sweatshop workers exploited by trusts and monopolies. The country was fantastically wealthy, but hardly just, and the resulting opposition to the Gilded Age launched the Progressive Movement. Teddy Roosevelt, a figure enshrined by conservatives for primarily hunting related photos and surviving an assassination attempt (only to deliver a 90 minute speech afterwards), was dedicated to workers rights for women and children, the conservation of national parks and monuments, and thwarting corruption. I hardly think he felt the companies that forced women and children to work 12 hour days, with no respite to speak of, were "serving [their] fellow man."

Clearly my views will change on this over time, as most things do. As I read more American history, my knowledge will solidify into something more than lip service to the author of the week. But let it be known that I have made the attempt to understand our current state of affairs. I am not a sheep! Knowledge and its accrual keeps us from accepting bullshit like this and worshiping ideals without the foundation of experience and learning to stand upon.

Until Next Time

XOX

The Big M Question

I hear people use the word "millennial" to describe an individual every day now it seems. The expression is one of many, demonstrating the increased granularity of our society.

That's what we see more these days: an emphasis of quality, denominations of  culture, gradations that have tremendous weight. I think of, say, the Transgender community, a fraction of a fraction of the wider populous, that leverages so much power through appealing to hardened concepts like Justice, despite the depreciation such weighty concepts endure now that God is dead. 

Millennials have been described in a variety of ways. That demonstrates the wider problem of what to call a millennial definitively. We as a people are pulled in two different directions. On one hand labels are viewed as micro-transgressions. On the other, they are coveted and disseminated. When I listened to Metal I found it very interesting that the anarchist mobs, my brothers and sisters, coveted their genre particulars like they were species. More interesting is the renewed interest is ethnic studies of religion, dying languages, and anthropology. Our world has changed so much in the last two thousand years; our cosmology has changed. What does it mean to be human in the context of the great heat death of the universe? To those that still believe, is God entropy? Our epistemology has changed. at one time knowledge was knowable, then unknowable, now quantifiable, soon to be quantum. Information is volatile, ultimately. To know what a Millennial is, we must trace how we came to this road. A truly postmodern generation, Millennials are burdened with a duplicitous relationship with their world. They both aspire to find meaning in it and grapple with the futility of existence. 

I found it interesting, personally, that I contemplate who I am on a regular basis. I am a Nihilist, a Christian, a Socialist, and an Author. Capitals to emphasize the essence of each, their properties and true form. This makes me very much a Millennial in that regard. Labels, as used by Millennials, connote variety and innovation. Labels in reality imply qualities superficially. When someone who is black says, "I am Black," it could mean much different that when a person, who is white, says, "He is Black." This is why when I say I am a socialist, there are three meanings to the word: what the "world" believes a socialist to be, what a socialist believes a socialist to be, and what I believe a socialist to be. This doesn't even account for nationalism. Obviously, the Dutch may believe different things about socialism than say, an american, or a Brit. In the end each member of the three yearns for a kind of cohesiveness that negates the originating intention of a label, and at worst reintroduces the racism-like equivalent of category, the very state the Millennial was intending to avoid by expressing their uniqueness in the first place.

We live in a mad, rudderless world, that compels me to embrace forms of nihilism that thread through popular culture. On Facebook, there are meme communities that generate more meaningless content than a Dadaist monastery. I'm familiar with a few of them. Popular entertainment, though not as cutting edge, perpetuates what these internet communities call "shit posting" on television. I think its because we crave order that we cannot acquire, and we want the world to be okay with ourselves giving up, and feeling crazy with us. I ask myself, "why is Nihilism so funny?" everyday, and I can't produce a worthy answer. This morning while I was walking my dogs it occurred to me that #YOLO is less of a modern interpretation of the Latin "Carpe Diem," and more an expression of futility. 

"I just had sex with three different partners withing 48 hours. #YOLO" a Twitter feed iterates. Translated from the common vernacular: "Smashed all night. Smashed All day. Sick beats at the club. #fuckyeah #YOLO"

Might as well right? We are all going to die.

I don't mind this world as much as it may seem because it drives people to accept Christ. To defy convention by undertaking one. Nothing is certain anymore, so people yearn for certainty. Half of me writing this is an attempt to talk myself down the ledge, to turn away from the bleak world that was provided me by moderns and post-moderns alike. The other half is just procrastinating from starting my work on the novel.

XOX        

An Open Letter to My Children

Dear Future Son/Daughter,

Myself, and many others, grow up thinking that moms and dads know what’s best. And the more I grow, the more I realize that parents are people like you and me. They’ve had thrust into their lives this wailing, screaming human that doesn’t know how to eat or sleep. And even though you’ve never done this before in your life, it is your responsibility to care and provide for this little person. Along the way you learn things, likely out of just experiencing the day-to-day, and become familiar with your child and their quirks. And I’m sure that even these words that I write to you today will become obsolete in the coming years. But I wanted to say the following because I love you and feel called to.

I grew up in a tough spot. I didn’t have much to go on living in a home that was unstable and often times changing. Even though I didn’t have it nearly as bad as other kids there were still hard days. Usually I would go to school and come home to play with my toys. Other times I would go over to other kid’s houses and play video games, even the ones my mom told me not to play. All these days I would learn new things. Sometimes what I learned was difficult and it hurt. But each time I learned from my mistakes and from good times I became stronger. And I want you to be strong like I was.

I realize now that what we see, what we hear, challenges us. Some things are too much. (I wouldn’t let you play an M-Rated video game when you turned 6!) But when we face the world and try to understand it, with all its complexity, we become like a stone on the beach: well-rounded. Some people my age think differently. They think that if you hide the badness of the world away that you will be preserved from it. I think people think this way because they remember what it was like growing up. They remember seeing things they shouldn’t have seen or listening to people that they shouldn’t have. Out of love, when they become moms and dads, they want to spare you the trouble they went through themselves by hiding you away.

I grew up watching things that I shouldn’t have. I grew up listening to people I shouldn’t have. But, here I am: the finished person I am today. There are bad things in the world. Evil things. Sooner or later we will have to face them, and be strong. We have Jesus to show us the way. All of us were made by him, including the bad people. Even in the darkest places, his light shines. So when you see something bad, or listen to something that doesn’t sound right, remember that all things have a root in what has been created by Jesus. The world out there is worth it. And when you meet people, watch something on TV, or have a bad day, see the big picture: where things are at and where they will eventually be. The world isn’t perfect, but it still bears the image of God, and all over underneath everything he is there ready to redeem it.

So if you want to watch something on TV, watch it with me. If you want to play a video game, let’s take turns. If someone tells you something at school, let’s talk about it. We can face this world together, and with Jesus we are a threefold cord that can never be broken.

Love,

Daddy

Thoughts about Pastor Mark

During this week a pastor named Mark Driscoll resigned from his ministry at Mars Hill. This came to a shock to me, or not so much of a shock given what’s gone down on the Hill lately. There was a time in my life when I waited on every word the man said, so even though my phases of admiration has long concluded I still feel compelled to think about it.

Mark Driscoll is a very harsh, bullheaded man; a theological pit-bull that can’t shake an issue. Many disagree with him for his pastoral styles, myself included, and see him as insensitive and overly positivistic regarding certain issues. He is a Reformed superhero, despite living in an age where postmodernism has crumbled the impersonal, procedural logic that Reformed Theology/Soteriology so heavily relies upon to function. Everything about him is simultaneously relevant and, paradoxically, antiquated. But he’s still my pastor.

The strength of Mark’s preaching style is his tenacity to chase something. He’s something of a warrior for theology and the pursuit of holiness that up until the early 2000s had all but disappeared in the USA in favor of wishy-washy non-denominational theology. There’s something to be said about taking a stand. Stand up and fight for something. Believe in what you say and mean. That is the way Mark handles his business. They keep saying that Mark hasn’t disqualified himself from ministry, that he’s done nothing wrong. That’s where I disagree. I think he has sinned, only not in the way people at first imagine. His sin, I think, was pride. For all the controversy, I think it was the mega church that he started that became the issue. After going to a small neighborhood church now for almost five years, I am convinced that humans were never meant to worship corporately in a room full of five thousand people, where the pastor is a demagogue and surrounded by an entourage of personal assistants.

I hope and pray that Mark moves on from Mars Hill, that this experience motivates him to re-evaluate his personal missiology and the way he deals with people. I hope that he can spend time with his family and take a long vacation and finally let go of his responsibilities. I hope that he decides to pastor a church again, and continue to change the lives of people, and I hope his church never exceeds 200 people.

Mark has been a huge influence on my life. It saddens me to see him move on. But it’s God’s will, and I hope he grows closer to Jesus for it.