Eternal Perspectives

Wisdom from Pascal (with application to much blogging and blog reading):

136 Diversion. Sometimes, when I set to thinking about the various activities of men, the dangers and troubles which they face at Court, or in war, giving rise to so many quarrels and passions, daring and often wicked enterprises and so on, I have often said that the sole cause of man’s unhappiness is that he does not know how to stay quietly in his room. A man wealthy enough for life’s needs would never leave home to go to sea or besiege some fortress if he knew how to stay at home and enjoy it. Men would never spend so much on a commission in the army if they could bear living in town all their lives, and they only seek after the company and diversions of gambling because they do not enjoy staying at home.

“But after closer thought, looking for the particular reasons for all our unhappiness now that I knew its general cause, I found one very cogent reason in the natural unhappiness of our feeble mortal condition, so wretched that nothing can console us when we really think about it.

“Imagine any situation you like, add up all the blessings with which you could be endowed, to be king is still the finest thing in the world; yet if you imagine one with all the advantages of his rank, but no means of diversion, left to ponder and reflect on what he is, this limp felicity will not keep him going; he is bound to start thinking of all the threats facing him, of possible revolts, finally of inescapable death and disease, with the result that if he is deprived of so-called diversion he is unhappy, indeed more unhappy than the humblest of his subjects who can enjoy sport and diversion.

“The only good thing for men therefore is to be diverted from thinking of what they are, either by some occupation which takes their mind off it, or by some novel and agreeable passion which keeps them busy, like gambling, hunting, some absorbing show, in short by what is call diversion.

“That is why gaming and feminine society, war and high office are so popular. It is not that they really bring happiness, nor that anyone imagines that true bliss comes from possessing the money to be won at gaming or the hare that is hunted: no one would take it as a gift. What people want is not the easy peaceful life that allows us to think of our unhappy condition, nor the dangers of war, nor the burdens of office, but the agitation that takes our mind off it and diverts us. That is why we prefer the hunt to the capture . . .

“The hare itself would not save us from thinking about death and the miseries distracting us, but hunting it does so . . .

“Telling a man to rest is the same as telling him to live happily. It means advising him to enjoy a completely happy state which he can comtemplate at leisure without cause for distress. It means not understanding nature.

“Thus men who are naturally conscious of what they are shun nothing so much as rest; they would do anything to be disturbed.

“It is wrong then to blame them; they are not wrong to want excitement - if they only wanted it for the sake of diversion. The trouble is that they want it as though, once they had the things they seek, they could not fail to be truly happy. That is what justifies calling their search a vain one . . .

“They have a secret instinct driving them to seek external diversion and occupation, and this is the result of their constant sense of wretchedness. They have another secret instinct, left over from the greatness of our original nature, telling them that the only true happiness lies in rest and not in excitement. These two contrary instincts give rise to a confused plan buried out of sight in the depths of their soul, which leads them to seek rest by way of activity and always to imagine that the satisfaction they miss will come to them once they overcome certain obvious difficulties and can open the door to welcome rest.

“All our life passes in this way: we seek rest by struggling against certain obstacles, and once they are overcome, rest proves intolerable because of the boredom it produces. We must get away from it and crave excitement . . .

“Man is so unhappy that he would be bored even if he had no cause for boredom, by the very nature of his temperament, and he is so vain that, though he has a thousand and one basic reasons for being bored, the slightest thing, like pushing a ball with a billiard cue, will be enough to divert him . . .

“He must have excitement, he must delude himself into imagining that he would be happy to win what he would not want as a gift if it meant giving up [the diversion of] the hunt.” - Pensées, Blaise Pascal, pp 37-41

Having been to seminary (twice), I understand the importance of knowing what one believes before undertaking a study of any subject or issue. This all-but guarantees that whatever material is selected for the purpose of research will either support or fail to refute one’s predetermined conclusion. It is one of the many valuable things one learns in seminary and why I recommend a rigorous course of seminary studies to everyone.

Wisely, I have learned to generalize my highly-honed approach to learning beyond the Bible to subjects not specifically or exclusively theological. It is for this reason that, before I actually read and studied Brian McLaren (hereafter, BM), I came to the conclusion that I didn’t like him, that his teachings were dangerous and false, and that I should warn others about him. With my position firmly established and made public, I began to study BM for myself.

Before going any further, however, I must confess two things: first, that I had had some exposure to BM prior to reading and studying him in earnest, albeit accidentally. The initial exposure was strictly visual: the ubiquitous photo of him that seems to be lurking everywhere these days. Whether I was physically perusing books at Barnes & Noble or digitally browsing on Amazon, I could not seem to escape BM’s I-know- something-you-don’t-know grin: it was everywhere, peering out at me like a baptized version of Baba Ram Dass. (more…)

Apparently, something I wrote in my last post has led a few people to believe that I am on the verge of regular blogging once again. I fear such reports may be a tad premature. One observation, offered by William Meisheid at Beyond the Rim, states:

As I expected, Mike Russell at Eternal Perspectives has started to come out of the other side of his journey through the “Dark Night of the Soul”. There are only two branches on that road and Mike did not disappear into hopelessness, no matter how close he may have felt he was to the edge of the cliff.

William is at once correct and incorrect in what he says here. The purpose of this post is to explain, if anyone is particularly interested, where I am and where I’ve been, as well as to speculate on where I might be journeying next.

Allow me to begin the middle and work both ways. I am, I suppose, standing at a fork in that path which has been and is my life. The operant word is “standing,” for though I know which path I will not take, I do not know how to - or why I should - traverse the other. I stand now with both feet firmly planted in mid-air.

How I Got Here

I became a Christian just over 31 years ago (Dec 10, 1974) shortly before my 25th birthday (Dec 29). As I have detailed in my testimony (a link to which may be found elsewhere on this page), in my infinite wisdom of a 21-year-old, I had given up on finding anything worth committing myself to and had chosen a life of hedonism and nihilism. There is pleasure in sin for a season, of course, and I thoroughly enjoyed my “wanton and riotous” lifestyle for more than five years. God, however, pursued me in His typically relentless style and brought me to the point of clearly seeing both my need for and the salvation He freely offered. From my human perspective, I chose to believe; from His perspective, He chose for me to believe. Both are equally true.

For whatever reasons, I became deeply committed to the local church. This was somewhat peculiar, since I chose - or did God elect me? - to become a dispensationalist, a group notoriously negligent of the local church at times due to its eschatological, blind devotion to the invisible, universal Church, the Body of Christ. My decisions to get first a Masters Degree and then a Doctor of Ministry were motivated by my desire to serve the local church more effectively. I prepared, prayed, and made myself available for vocational ministry.

More than 30 years later, I have come to realize that my hopes and dreams of being on staff at a church were and are just vapors, the vain imaginings of my own mind. I was never sought nor desired by any church to be on staff, although some dangled a carrot on a stick before my face to keep my illusory hopes alive. With 56 just a week or so away, I have finally come to accept the fact that a staff position is not in the works for me.

The sense of lostness which has resulted from this realization has been overwhelming and utterly unforseen by me. Beyond the bounds of my family, the passion of my life has been to serve the church and the people of the church as effectively as possible. I do corrective work as a counselor, but I have always desired to do preventative work: the lack of discipleship and dearth of leadership have pained me. The phone never rang, however, and the call to fulltime ministry never materialized.

Where I Am

I continue to stand at the fork in the road because I have no motivation to go down either of the paths before me. I am not going to turn away from Christ and renounce that which I know to be true; I will not betray my friends, children, wife, or Savior by doing something so stupid. I continue to believe all that I have ever believed about God, salvation in Christ Jesus, eternal life, the resurrection, judgment, and a multitude of other biblical teachings.

The other path, though, does not appeal to me. It is a path that continues in the same direction that I have been moving for three decades: working as a counselor, going to church, being involved in ministry (as I was in the past), and building up the local body of believers - as well as any who might stumble upon this blog. I know it is a good path and a right path: I just don’t have the heart to take one step in that direction. I don’t want it to be and do not believe it to be my path.

The loss of passion - or “Fire in the Belly,” to use Keen’s title - leaves me flat. Some might say that I made the local church an idol and am now paying the price; my reply is that anyone who thinks that is an idiot. My desire to serve has grown out of my singular ambition as a Christian: to know God better tomorrow than I know Him today. My seeking of Him results in and produces the passion for the church - or so I thought. It would be more accurate to say that I limited God in the areas He might use me. Perhaps He does not want me ministering in and through the church; clearly He has not desired that for 31 years.

I have been helped - but not yet rescued - in my wrestling with life by a variety of sources. Chief among those sources has been J.R.R. Tolkien’s The Lord of the Rings and many of the books and articles written about him and his sub-creation of Middle-earth. I have watched the movie (it is a singular movie: only at the close of “The Return of the King” does it say “The End”), listened several times to the 13-hour BBC adaptation of the book on cd, and am re-reading the myth for the third or fourth time.

The writings of others about Tolkien’s classic have been immensely helpful, as well. The first ray of hope came from Amanda of Wittingshire, who chose for her Nov 12th poem a prophecy about Aragorn:

All that is gold does not glitter,
Not all those who wander are lost;
The old that is strong does not wither,
Deep roots are not reached by the frost.
From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”

–JRR Tolkien (1892-1973)

The first two lines encouraged me; the next two challenged me; the final four did not apply to me at all. It was to mark the beginning, however, of my climb out of the deep grave where my hopes of church ministry were recently buried. I am indebted to her for her choice of poems that Sunday.

I then began re-reading books about The Lord of the Rings, noticing things I had overlooked previously and being reminded of important insights I had forgotten. I skimmed Mark Eddy Smith’s Tolkien’s Ordinary Virtues, which discusses such values as generosity, simplicity, friendship, faith, community, atonement, wisdom, stewardship, perseverance, and love. I next turned to J.R.R. Tolkien’s Sanctifying Myth by Bradley Birzer. He reminded me that

Undoubtedly, Sam would rather stay at home and garden and farm than walk into the heart of Hell itself. But God has a different task for him, and Sam accepts his duty, as all good men do.” - p. 73

Of greater import and impact were books by Ralph Wood and Matthew Dickerson: The Gospel According to Tolkien and Following Gandalf, respectively. Remarking on Sam’s hard-earned wisdom, Wood writes:

On the one hand, the tales that do not matter concern there-and-back again adventures - escapades undertaken because we are bored and thus seek excitement and entertainment. The tales that rivet the mind, on the other hand, involve a Quest that we do not choose for ourselves. Instead, we find ourselves embarked upon a journey or mission quite apart from our choosing. What counts, says Sam, is not whether the Quest succeeds but whether we turn back or slog ahead. One reason for not giving up, not quitting, is that the great tales are told about those who refused to surrender - those who ventured forward in hope.”

Dickerson, however, resonates with me most deeply. His focus on and elaboration of a simple statement of Aragorn’s has confronted me with the realization that I must do something and not nothing:

If there is one character in whom, and for whom, the importance and difficulty of choice is captured, it is Aragorn. When Éomer first meets Aragorn, he senses something deep and noble about this stranger to Rohan. ‘What doom do you bring out of the North?’ he asks. ‘The doom of choice’ answers Aragorn (TT, p. 36). In other words, when Aragorn answers, ‘The doom of choice,’ he is really answering, ‘freedom’; freedom is his fate, his destiny, his punishment. Though only four words long, that answer is truly one of those sentences that - like the proverbial picture - is worth a thousand words. Many different understandings are layered there. Even the word doom is loaded. In its Anglo-Saxon roots, it refers simply to a law. Yet it can also connote a judgment or sentence passed down, a destiny or fate laid upon one, or some terrible thing waiting to happen. It is also one of the root words of freedom, or ‘free-doom’: the state in which one’s doom, or destiny, is free for one to choose.

“At one level, then, Tolkien is making a statement about all the race of Men: Choice is our doom. Not only are we free and able to choose, it is our destiny as beings of free will that we must make choices - and then live with the consequences of those choices!”

In short, Dickerson instructs me that I cannot linger too long at this fork in the path. I must make a choice and I will not only endure the consequences of the choice, but I am responsible before God to choose wisely.

Serendipitously, I came upon a series of posts - “Lord of the Vocations” - at Kelly’s Blog, a blog whose simple name conceals considerable depth and insight. (The posts, in order, may be found by the following links: I, II, III, IV, IVb, V.) Kelly explains,

A vocation is a ‘calling’– a job that each one of us has been given to do in service to our neighbors. Tolkien emphasizes the fact that vocations are not chosen; rather, they are given to us . . .” - Lord of the Vocations Part II

“Sam is to be admired because when it comes to his calling, he sees it through. As the first vocation post noted, it’s often the long waiting and the daily drudgery that are our crosses to bear in our individual vocations; the temptation is to take the easy way out and do our own thing rather than to wait patiently.” - Lord of the Vocations Part IVb

What has frozen me in my steps until yesterday has been the question of vocation: I had always hoped, planned, and forseen my vocation or calling in the context of fulltime ministry in a local church. But that has not been my doom nor my calling. There is a vocation that predates my affair with the church; indeed, it was present in my life prior to my salvation. From my teen years onward there has been one constant in my life that, although at times neglected, has remained.

I have always been a writer.

Even before spending more than a decade as a writer for a daily newspaper, I was writing letters, stories, allegories, and poems to whatever audience would read them. My writing has generally been well-received and validated (I won a state Associated Press award); more importantly, I have always loved to write. I have studied writing and communication for almost forty years, seeking to discover effective ways to evoke visceral responses while engaging cognitive capacities.

Although the possibility of me earning a living by writing is virtually non-existent, it is my calling and vocation. It is to that calling that I must return.

There remains a problem, however, and it is no small obstacle. I have yet to ignite or have ignited the burning desire to share with others what I consider to be of value and significance. I do not know all the reasons why, but at least one roadblock has shown its face: I have grown weary of the criticisms of dullards and small-minded people who would reduce God and our common faith to a lock-step, stay-safe lifestyle. I consider such people to be fools in the proverbial sense:

Pr 12:15 The way of a fool is right in his own eyes, but a wise man is he who listens to counsel.

Pr 17:10 A rebuke goes deeper into one who has understanding than a hundred blows into a fool.

Pr 18:2 A fool does not delight in understanding, but only in revealing his own mind.

Pr 19:1 Better is a poor man who walks in his integrity than he who is perverse in speech and is a fool.

Pr 20:3 Keeping away from strife is an honor for a man, but any fool will quarrel.

Pr 23:9 Do not speak in the hearing of a fool, for he will despise the wisdom of your words.

Pr 29:9 When a wise man has a controversy with a foolish man, the foolish man either rages or laughs, and there is no rest.

Such people make me tired. I will not interact with them anymore; if they leave just one foolish comment regarding a post, I’ll block them permanently. I’ve grown intolerant; I’ve grown to value my time.

I find the creativity and beauty of God all around me, in the works of the saved and the unsaved alike. I refuse to be a bumper-sticker Christian, i.e., one whose every conversation or communication must draw attention to the fact that I am a believer in Jesus Christ. My automobile bears a plastic fish: it is inside, near the gearshift. I need to be reminded who I am; if others can’t see it in my behavior and life, then a bumper sticker isn’t going to make them repent and trust Christ as Savior.

I suppose I could motivate myself to write by railing against the church and the ubiquitous dolts who seek to paralyze it, but I don’t want to write out of anger or condescension. I must wait until it is a love for others that stirs my heart and mind, calling me back to my calling.

In closing, I will admit to this much: I have begun to design a second blog that will be devoted to timeless truths and principles as expressed in a certain context. When the time comes, I will continue to utilize this blog to voice confessions, commentaries, or whatever else would not belong at the other site.

Thank you for bearing this inordinately and uncharacteristically long post. The good news - for me, at least - is that I am beginning to feel the need to write once again.

By employing the word “emerging,” I’m referring to me, not any church or movement.

Into whatever hole I had fallen over the last several months, starting back in August with the post Losing My Way and then having my descent exacerbated or accelerated by my mother’s death in October, I’m believe I am at last free from both the fall and the abyss. Not surprisingly, I don’t seem to be altogether the same person that fell into the hole.

In a later post, I had likened my situation to that of Gandalf who, in battle with a balrog, fell into Khazad-Dûm, a seemingly bottomless darkness. I was not comparing myself to Gandalf - he is, after all, an angelic figure in The Lord of the Rings - but was rather identifying with the sense of falling into a deep, dark spaceless and timeless void. But, even as Gandalf emerged, so I now think that I have come out of the feelings of hopelessness and despair that pulled me down so deeply.

Gandalf emerged as Gandalf the White, the head of his order, more powerful than previously. I certainly have not fared so well: I’m hardly angelic these days; but then, that is no different than previously. The truth is, I am not totally convinced to whom I might liken myself these days.

There is much about me, I am told, that reminds people of Aragorn. It is a flattering comparison, no doubt, and one that I supposed I chased after for a long time: the unrecognized one who would some day be revealed and granted the opportunity to serve in a position of high responsibility and privilege. Unlike Aragorn in the movie - but much like him in the book and cds - I had few doubts about my destiny, purpose, and ability. It was something I sought and for which I believed myself to be prepared and equipped.

I sought it in vain, as has been shown by my history, which does not lie; I sought it vainly as well, perhaps, which might explain the history. But who among us can claim to have an ego so pure that it does not seek recognition or the acclaim of our peers?

I no longer aspire to Aragorn. I would like to think of myself - again in a most flattering and favorable comparison - to Faramir, the faithful captain of Gondor and short-lived Steward of Gondor. When the king appeared, he stepped aside and yielded to one better than himself. Faramir, in the book, was a pure and noble man. The line of the Númenoreans was strong in him, as it had been in his father but not Boromir, his brother.

Of late, I have been drawn to identify with Tom Bombadil. Those of you who have only seen the wonderful movies are unfamiliar with this intriguing character from the books and cds. The hobbits are rescued by him early in their journey and stay with him at his home. Tom lives with his wife, Goldberry, and cares little about the cares of the world. He is a powerful man, similar to but greater than Beorn in The Hobbit, and over him the ring has no power. Indeed, when Frodo slips on the ring while in Tom’s presence, Bombadil looks right at him and scolds him for putting it on: Frodo was invisible to all others, but not to Tom. When Tom asks to see the ring, Frodo easily gives it to him; when Tom puts the ring on his own finger, a remarkable thing happens: nothing! Tom does not become invisible; the ring does not appeal to him nor have power over him. He is free.

At one point during the council of Elrond, several in attendance discuss Tom. Elrond is speaking as we pick up the dialogue:

‘He [Bombadil] is a strange creature, but maybe I should have summoned him to our Council.’

“‘ He would not have come,’ said Gandalf.

“‘Could we not still send messages to him and obtain his help?’ asked Erestor. ‘It seems that he has a power even over the Ring.’

“‘ No, I should not put it so,’ said Gandalf. ‘Say rather that the Ring has no power over him. He is his own master. But he cannot alter the Ring itself, nor break its power over others. And now he is withdrawn into a little land, within bounds that he has set, though none can see them, waiting perhaps for a change of days, and he will not step beyond them.’

“‘But within those bounds nothing seems to dismay him,’ said Erestor. ‘Would he not take the Ring and keep it there, for ever harmless?’

“‘No,’ said Gandalf, ‘not willingly. He might do so, if all the free folk of the world begged him, but he would not understand the need. And if he were given the Ring, he would soon forget it, or most likely throw it away. Such things have no hold on his mind. He would be a most unsafe guardian; and that alone is answer enough.’

“‘But in any case,’ said Glorfindel, ‘to send the Ring to him would only postpone the day of evil . . . soon or late the Lord of the Rings would learn of its hiding place and would bend all his power towards it. Could that power be defied by Bombadil alone? I think not. I think that in the end, if all else is conquered, Bombadil will fall.’” - pp. 258-259, Book Two, The Lord of the Rings

There is something about Tom Bombadil that feels familiar to me. Not the power or invulnerability to the Ring, but the detachment and lack of desire for things once pursued. Tom cares about the world about him - he rescues the hobbits not once but twice, after all - but somehow does not feel compelled to engage it directly. He does what he was created to do, it seems, and when opportunity to do good or to help comes to his attention, he does so. He epitomizes Pr 30.8-9 and Ps 131.1:

Give me neither poverty nor riches; feed me with the food that is my portion, that I not be full and deny You and say, ‘Who is the LORD?’ or that I not be in want and steal, and profane the name of my God.”

“O LORD, my heart is not proud, nor my eyes haughty; nor do I involve myself in great matters, or in things too difficult for me.”

Tom is content, it seems, to be a simple man who lives out his life in relative - and peaceful - obscurity. He knows what goes on in the world but stays in his place, doing the work before him, enjoying God’s creation, and delighting in the wife of his youth. It is an appealing image and one to which it is tempting to aspire.

But closer to the mark, I think, is Bilbo. He played his part in the great saga - as recorded in The Hobbit - but now his time for active duty has passed. He is a caring, concerned spectator and historian of that which goes on about him. But he is grown old and the time for battle is beyond both his desire and ability. His wisdom, if it may be called that, is not without value, but he diminishes as Frodo becomes greater. The most famous of all the hobbits, as Sam rightly predicts, is not Bilbo but Frodo.

My fifty-sixth birthday is upon me in a few weeks and - while hardly as respectable an age as eleventy-one! - it feels as though it is time to go to Rivendell. To heed the advice of Paul: “to make it your ambition to lead a quiet life and attend to your own business and work with your hands” (1 Thes 4.11). It sounds quite appealing and right.

My mother died at 5 pm today, Oct 12th. I’ll be back sometime.

Thanks.

I am as guilty of this as anyone; my tongue is no less sharp than another’s and, if I think it might be dull, I quickly find a way to sharpen it. I write this to myself; perhaps to you, as well. But hopefully not.

My poetry is lame but all the same, with apologies to Thomas Hardy (The Man He Killed), I offer:

The Souls We Kill

Had he and I but met, I say,
In some old church or pew,
We should have sat us down to pray
As Christian brothers do!

But with our anonymity,
Remote in cyberspace,
I railed at him as he at me,
And put him in his place.

I attacked because –
Because he was my foe,
Just so: my foe of course he was;
That’s clear enough; although

He thought he’d surf, perhaps,
Off-hand like — just as I –
He had some time — a cherished lapse –
No other reason why.

How dangerous our words can be!
You wound a soul in pride,
Failing at that time to see,
T’was him for whom Christ died.”

One of the things that has made me want to laugh derisively at times - or smack someone at other times - has been listening to the complaints and tales of “suffering” by people who had the grave misfortune of growing up in the church. You see, I didn’t grow up in the church - not by a long shot - so my perspective is just a little bit different.

If I understand these martyrs correctly, growing up in the church was one of the worst things that has ever happened to them in their lives. They were fed false and misleading information about such things as alcohol, movies, dancing, dating, profanity, and such. As a result, these folks didn’t get into much trouble in their earlier years. What a shame.

In listening to these greatly deprived believers, I’m reminded of some of the Christians that I grew up and went to school with back in the ’60s. Some were nice and easy to be around; I don’t think they became the whiners I’m talking about here. The whiners were the ones who hated and condemned me and my friends. Why did they detest me? Because I was doing all the things they didn’t do but really, really wanted to do.

The church restricted these people from engaging in many of the behaviors that I plunged into without restraint. As a result, these people didn’t get to have the experiences that I had or the memories that I still reflect on. Things like being arrested for underage drinking, almost getting busted numerous times for drugs, being watched by the police, known as a bully by classmates. They have been denied the privilege of having memories of immoral relationships and one-night stands; they don’t get to look back on a dark history of breaking the law, lying to parents, stealing money, malicious trespassing, drunk driving; they don’t get to wonder about blocks of time for which they have no memories due to taking a few too many sopers at once.

These poor souls didn’t get to take over college administration offices, destroy brain cells, do permanent psychological and physical damage to themselves, or come close to dying in any number of ways. They don’t get to feel bad for having turned others on to drugs, being ridiculed and ignored as a Christian, and then getting to bury these same friends years later. Betraying best friends, trust, and relationships.

The church and their rigid Christian upbringing denied them all of this.

Forgive me if I don’t have a lot of compassion for such whining believers. They think they had it so terrible, so horrible because their parents tried to protect them from the perils of strolling ignorantly through Satan’s domain, of consuming his pleasures and being consumed in return, of choosing freely but not getting to choose the consequences.

Sometimes I’m torn. Part of me wishes that I had, like these fellow believers, grown up in a church so that I wouldn’t have the memories, scars, and history that I do. Maybe growing up would have kept me from ruining the lives of friends and strangers alike who had the misfortune of running into me back then. I have to think that it would have.

Another part of me isn’t sure about it, though. I’m afraid that, if I had grown up in the church, I’d be as ungrateful and bitchy as they are. I wouldn’t want that. I know what I’ve been saved out of; they need to think about what they’ve been saved from. It’s not pretty.

Their horrible churches - and maybe some of them were bad - kept them safe within the fold while some of us were being thrown to the wolves. I’m not saying churches shouldn’t do it better; I’m saying that it’s better for those churches to do the right thing badly than to do nothing and allow bad things to happen to ignorant people like me.

It’s better to grow up deprived than depraved. Trust me on this one.

[On the other hand, see my post Losing My Way for my sorry discernment and life in the church.]

I have lost my way. Again.

Back in the ’60s and ’70s, before I became a Christian, I was a Freak. A Freak in those days was not merely someone who smoked marijuana and perhaps did other drugs; a Freak was a person who had rejected the culture and lifestyle of the day and was now living a quite different existence. Hippies wore the clothes and did the drugs, but they were part-timers: they didn’t reject the lifestyle but continued to value the same things they had previously. Freaks looked down on Hippies, considering them to be insincere and inconsistent. Hippies were the Samaritans of the drug culture. Freaks, we told ourselves, were the real deal. Stoned snobbery.

As a Freak, I lived a pretty austere lifestyle. Along with a roommate whom I rarely saw, I lived in a one-room cabin in the woods with no running water and no telephone. Whenever possible, we took baths in a creek that was a hundred yards further into the woods and down a hill; in the winter, we showered at work, a friend’s home, or at our parents’. We had an outhouse with a fingernail of a moon cut in the door. No telephone meant visitors were rare: if someone wanted to see me, they had to drive the 25 miles or so out of town and hope that I would be there.

I drove a simple vehicle - a VW Bug, of course - and had few possessions. When I moved to Colorado once, everything I owned fit in the back of my VW. My primary possessions were a huge collection of select albums - vinyl - and a stereo system with speakers the size of a file cabinet (I still have them, 30+ years later, along with the turntable). My wardrobe was simple: jeans, t-shirt, boots, and an old, dark, drab sports coat. I didn’t spend any money on haircuts: my mane was past my shoulders and my moustache was thick and long. Long hair was a badge of defiance and a celebration of freedom.
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