The Hour Of Judgement

Author's note: I don't really write fiction, but I wrote this short story on a whim a few months ago. It may or may not be somewhat or completely autobiographical. It isn't meant to call into doubt the reality of salvation; I was simply trying to honestly depict a struggle that I feel a lot of kids who grow up in Christian homes go through.

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“Lights out!”

Levi slowly closed Matilda, and tucked it carefully under his pillow. The light switch above his head waited for his next move. It waited. And waited...

“Levi! Mom said light’s out!”

“I know! I could hear her!”

“Then turn the light off.”

“I KNOW! I’m not stupid.”

Levi’s hand slowly reached for the switch, and flipped it.

Across the room, Elijah was still reading his lovingly-worn collection of Calvin and Hobbes comics by the dim glow of his maglight. It was nice to know that someone else was still awake. That he was still safe.

Then, a click. And total darkness.

At Sunday school that morning, Mrs. Carlson had taught everyone how they could make sure they were safe forever. Levi had heard about this so many times that it was hard to care. But when it was dark, things were different. Lying there alone in the dark, without a single distraction, death seemed so close. And that place beyond death...

“Hell is being separated from God. You can never be loved by God again. When you’re in hell, you’re all alone. Forever.”

Death. Hell. Darkness you couldn’t get rid of with the flick of a switch. Levi pressed his face firmly into his pillow. Maybe if he tried hard enough, the thoughts would vanish. All he could feel was a big empty space in his stomach. Or was it his soul?

But -- there was a way out! Levi knew he shouldn’t have to worry about anything. Jesus had saved him. He was... almost... sure of it.

“Jesus makes things right between us and God. All you have to do is invite Jesus into your heart, and you can live with God forever in heaven!”

Did Jesus really live in his heart? He always imagined a tiny room inside of his heart, sparsely furnished, where Jesus would sit on a small red couch reading a book. (Probably the Bible, although Levi felt that Jesus might tire of reading his own book all the time.) But as much as Levi strained, he just couldn’t feel him in there. The little heart-couch was empty.

“Jesus stands at the door of your heart and knocks -- all you have to do is let him in!”

Levi had invited him in so many times. But one more time couldn’t hurt, just to be safe. He took a deep breath, concentrated, and began to pray.

“Lord Jesus Christ” -- using His full name couldn’t hurt -- “I want you to come live in my heart forever, and forgive me of my sins.”

What else?

“Jesus, I want to live with you forever. Please come into my heart.”

Just... one... more... time...

“Jesus Christ, please come into my heart.”

“Please.”

Beads of cold sweat began to collect on Levi’s brow. He couldn’t feel the door of his heart opening. He couldn’t feel anything. The method. It had to be the method! He was only thinking these prayers. What if he spoke them out loud? He’d have to keep it to a whisper...

“Jesus, come into my heart,” Levi whispered.

Again, and again. An incantation.

He had to fall asleep eventually, didn’t he?

And when he did, Levi hoped he would dream of the end times again. Those dreams were always the same. He would see his family, and others -- the Smiths from down the street, Pastor Will, even Mrs. Carlson -- herded like cattle into dark pens. Above them he could make out the decaying roof of a vast warehouse, barely illuminated by the dim electric lights hanging from the ceiling. Not that Levi had much of a chance to study his surroundings.

“Keep moving, CHRISTIAN.”

As they marched to the holding place, everyone was assigned numbers by tall men with dark glasses and gloved hands clutching M-16s. As soon as the rusty gates clanged behind them, Levi’s father would gather the family around him, and everyone would link hands. Then, they sang. But it wasn’t a lament. It was always a hymn of triumph, sung with heads raised toward heaven.

Finally, a distorted voice on the PA system would summon them to their executions, one by one.

It wasn’t a nightmare. Because when Levi’s number was called, and the guards’ clammy leather mitts gripped his wrists, he finally felt at peace. The peace that passes all understanding -- just like they sang about in Sunday school! After all... if he was giving his life for Jesus, Jesus had to be in his heart.

At night, alone, on that bed, you could never tell if you were destined for heaven or hell. But on the Antichrist's killing floor, salvation was an absolute certainty.

'Murican Cuisine And Other Things

I had a Taco Bell chalupa for lunch today. And it was beautiful.

Yes, I know I risk becoming someone who just writes ridiculous stuff about food.  But please, let me explain:

America's vast excesses are usually mocked. The sprawling suburbs. The ubiquitous Wal-Marts. The fried Twinkies. People tell us that Americans are destroying the world with our uncultured culture of unsustainable consumption. 

Maybe that's true.

But in all of America's absurdities, there's a terrifying beauty.

Take the chalupa, for example.

In Mexico, there is something called a chalupa. The Taco Bell chalupa is not that thing. The Taco Bell chalupa is a deep fried taco drenched in some kind of fatty sauce. But, of course, none of the tacos served at Taco Bell -- including the chalupa -- resemble a Mexican taco. The chalupa is an advanced food product scientifically developed in a corporate laboratory to appeal to your body's survival mechanisms. Nothing about it is natural. Which makes it amazing.

It's fattening. It's salty. It's a freaking chalupa. Your primal nature craves it.

On one hand, things like the chalupa will probably kill us all. But on the other hand, it's a miracle of the capitalist system.

It's an easy target for derision, but the sheer scale and ingenuity of the consumption-driving society we've built is jaw-dropping. Viewed as a panorama, the endless tracts of identical homes in our suburbs can be as arresting as the pyramids. Our big-box stores sell an array of goods unparallelled at any other point in history. And our titans of fast food produce tiny miracles like the chalupa every day.

The Titanic may inevitably sink. But until then, it's a pretty impressive boat.

On Urban Missional Cultural Relevance.

According to conventional wisdom, the American city is back. And the American church seems to have gotten the message. If you’re young, ambitious, and entering the ministry, planting an urban church is the thing to do.

Even if your congregation is actually made up of middle-class suburbanites.

(Google “City Church,” and you’ll find a multitude of churches -- many of them located in gritty metropolises like Anchorage and Chatanooga).

The trend toward bringing the gospel to previously un-churched and culturally influential urban areas is exciting, and necessary. I would argue that this movement is one of the most important developments in modern Christianity. However, it’s important to draw the line between truly serving a city, and attempting to capitalize on the image of urban hipsterdom. Buzzwords like “cultural relevance” can mask a real cultural disconnect with the local community.

The vast majority of Christians in middle-America aren’t that artistic. They aren’t overly concerned with refuting the deconstructionist philosophy of Jacques Derrida. They don’t all enjoy sitting through Swedish art films from the ‘60s. And like it or not, they need pastors too.

This isn’t a screed against hipsters, or so-called “hipster Christianity.” Many of the people that get branded as hipsters aren’t trying to put on a phony identity. Some people (including Christians) have a passion for art, listen to obscure bands because they genuinely enjoy them, and wear retro glasses because they have bad eyesight, and thought they just looked good, dangit! That’s okay. But it isn’t a sin to wear dad shorts and listen to Casting Crowns. The chronically un-hip aren’t second-class citizens in the kingdom of God.

The return of Christian interest in urban ministry is an incredible development. A few decades ago, few would have believed that New York City and Seattle would become vibrant centers of evangelical Christianity. But the church is made up of Christians. It should exist wherever Christians are, and reflect where they live. A church on Manhattan island won’t be the same as a church in Manhattan, Kansas.

If being “relevant” in your community means discussing grad-school level literature and cinema, more power to you. If you’ve been called to serve in a true cultural center, you should take that mission to heart. There’s no doubt that the church has a long way to go in ministering to America’s great cities. But if “authenticity” is going to be more than a buzzword, church leaders need to truly take into account the needs and identity of the specific community they’ve been called into.

Even if that community thinks Bud Light is a legitimate beverage choice.

You Know You Want To.

Some things in life are complicated.
Banana bread is not one of those things.

There’s only one reason why someone decides to make banana bread. You make banana bread because banana bread is extremely delicious. It’s moist, and sweet, and tastes like bananas. Eating banana bread is a good experience. Always.

The deliciousness of banana bread is such that it can turn normally awkward social situations into times of awesome. Example: need to host disgraced former governor of Illinois Rod Blagojevich? Banana bread has you covered.

You: Oh, Mr. Governor, your company is a delight! Are you enjoying your fresh slice?
Blago: I would sell out my ****ing mother for this ****! It’s ****ing delicious.
You: I agree with your views on banana bread whole-heartedly! Can we share hair secrets later? Please, do say yes!
Blago: **** yes! I can do whatever I ****ing want! I’m a ****ing god!

In the end, everyone is happy. Because everyone’s eating banana bread.

So, I’m basically just saying that you should make banana bread. And eat banana bread. I know I will.

Movementarianism.

This isn’t a post about Occupy Wall Street. But it does have to do with the driving force behind the movement. One of the driving forces behind it, that is.

I’m not talking about the tanking economy, corporate welfare, or American consumerism. In my mind, the most fascinating thing about Occupy Wall Street is what it shares with almost every other movement of political activists -- even the conservative Tea Party.

When you distill them down to their essence, movements have an appeal that goes far beyond the specifics of ideology. They promise the one thing everyone lacks the most: significance. Yesterday, you could have been a Wal-Mart greeter, or an unemployed student covered in ill-advised tattoos. But today, you can belong to something. You can do something about what’s wrong with the world.

(Of course, it won’t do anything about those ill-advised tattoos. Sorry, brosef.)

The mass protest is a religious experience. A group of absolute strangers comes together and experiences a kind of spiritual communion with one another. They stand together, and understand one another. They might even sing together. Out of many, one. At least, for a brief moment.

Which is precisely the problem with movements. They burn brightly, and then fade. Everyone wants a mountain-top experience, but you can’t live on that mountain. Eventually, you have to come down. You have to go back to work. You have to go back to your life. Your real life.

And on an existential level, your real life is almost certainly hard. Our lives are so full of the things we have to do to survive that everything else gets lost in the shuffle. The clarity of the cause is gone. The significance is gone.

None of this is to dismiss political activism. When activism is paired with concrete policies and widespread support, it can change things. But it can’t fill the emptiness inside our souls. When the dust settles, we have to eventually stop looking at the system, and look inside.

Screaming against a millionaires’ greed is easy. What’s wrong with ourselves and the choices we make every day is harder to fit on a picket sign.

An Opening Salvo.

I used to write a lot.
I wrote about politics.
Then, for over a year, I stopped.

The reasons were complicated.

First of all, my thoughts had become complicated. Writing is easy when you can confine yourself to being a “conservative blogger” or a “liberal blogger.” Your posts can conform to a simple formula, and you have an automatic fan base. The words come easily; the praise feels good. However, it’s a bit harder to honestly express your own thoughts, regardless of where they put you on the map of political, social, and religious subcultures. On a personal level, it’s risky.

I think I’m ready to risk it.

Secondly, I had turned my blog into an outlet of thoughts on politics, while my interests moved to other areas. I’m still a political junkie, and I still intend to write about politics. But if I’m more interested in muffin recipes or the design of residential subdivisions on a given day, I’ll write about those things instead. Or maybe I’ll just skip the writing and eat a delicious muffin. Hence this blog’s exceedingly ironic title. (LOL!)

Thirdly, I came to the realization that what I wrote didn’t really matter. I was essentially writing to feel some sense of importance, even while I knew I contributed 75% of my own page views. Now, I further realize that not mattering doesn’t matter. To heck with it -- I enjoyed reading my blog.

Finally, I became busy. That hasn’t changed. I’m still busy. But I realize that there are few things I truly love doing, and they’re worth doing. Writing is one of those things.

So, I plan on writing, and posting what I write on this blog. I won’t make promises about posting daily, or weekly, or monthly. There’s a good chance that I’ll end up abandoning this site, like a hairless kitten named Lil’ Scrappins. But even Lil’ Scrappins deserves a chance.

Follow your heart, little guy. Somewhere out there, there’s a home for you.