Buffalo wins the game
Ratings slow and steady
Til the man with no name
says get three coffins ready
Google gathers for a game
of Guess Whose DNA
taking me back
to memories of Caylee and JonBenét
and bigwigs counting stacks
(though with respect, counting them in black)
In discussions with others concerning belief vs. non-belief in God, at least the God of the Bible, I'm often smugly bemused by some who, when explaining why they don't believe in God, bypass any scientific or logical reason and, instead, cite what they consider God's flaws: "how could God allow this?", "if He's good why would He do this?" etc. It was strange to me that they equated a perceived poor character with proof of nonexistence.
But I recently realized I do the very same thing, in reverse. I think of life with no intelligent Creator as cold and empty, arbitrary and meaningless - but citing those negative views on disbelief in a moral God does not equal a rational explanation of why I don't take an atheistic view.
These mindsets on both the part of the believer and the nonbeliever are cut from the same irrational cloth as: "I want to go to Denny's and I don't like wearing a mask, so COVID is a hoax," or "I don't like that Trump lost the election, so it was rigged."
"It's not true because I don't like it" is an unreasonable and precarious way of thinking.
Among my favorite photographs from my family albums is one taken on Halloween sometime in the late 80s. In it, my father holds me, his firstborn son in a clown costume, then just a toddler; in front of us, also in full Trick-or-Treat gear, are my older half-brother and two of my cousins, half-brothers to each other. The significance of the children that surrounded him that Halloween evening never occurred to me until recently:
my older half-brother's father had been divorced from our mother, and died soon after; one cousin's father spent most of his sons' lives in prison; and the other cousin never knew who his father was until he'd reached his late teens.
These three children were essentially fatherless.
There's a slew of other photographs in the family album that show my father, again, engaged in various activities with my cousins as well as his own two sons and stepson, pictures that remind me how often they joined us for outings like fishing and water balloon fights. He always took the time to include them, as often as he could. When he died in 1996, my cousins seemed more devastated than I was; a sense of shock never really left me, while my vivid memories of his loss are those of my distraught, tearful cousins.
It was as though they'd lost a father themselves, or at least someone they saw as a strong father figure. The importance of my father's role in their young lives had certainly occurred to them far earlier than it had to me. My father died before we reached a lot of "milestones" many fathers reach with their children, particularly their sons. We didn't reach those father-son "heart to hearts," and never reached the point where the son challenges the father when the son feels he's finally "become a man" (whatever an individual renders that to mean) - the young lion challenging the old one. So, many of the things I learned from him only clicked in my brain years later, or had already been taught, unbeknownst to me, by his subtle example.
My mother often worked weekends, while my father usually had weekends off. It wasn't at all unusual for him to cook dinner - especially desserts - and do the household cleaning (while making us do the same). Whether he meant to teach us anything by this or not, it still destroyed a "traditional" notion of the husband-wife roles. It taught me a man is not above what many see as "women's work." It taught me it's a man's job as much as anyone else's to take up an egg beater and a can of Pine Sol.
My father was not a scholar or an intellectual, and I'm glad of it. I'm grateful that his example of domestic life came from modest example rather than long, woke discourses.
The heart of the matter is that my father showed me that caring for children is important. As stunningly obvious a statement as that is, there are countless men who've never let the idea cross their minds. By using his thick, calloused, coarse hands to take up what is depicted as work for the weak, my father showed me a sign of strength. If manliness and masculinity are abstract and intangible concepts, subjective to say the least if we're being honest, I feel no audacity in asserting that one of the essential attributes of being "a real man" is a sincere feeling of duty to care for children; not just by household necessity, but in the way my father cared for the fatherless, for those who feel adrift and lost seeing other children with their own fathers, while theirs are nowhere to be found.
Worldly masculinity - or, "toxic" masculinity if you like - is the kind of masculinity defined by feats of physical strength; towing diesel trucks with a rope clenched between your teeth; initiation by violence, copious intake of alcohol; the flaunting of domination over women; a certain quota of one night stands. These things are all meaningless. If a man seeks to teach children noble values and to be an example they won't regret following, he mustn't only be a father to his own children, but a positive presence for those who feel abandoned, be they sons or daughters.
If men, be they dads or not, seek to shape a better generation of men and women to succeed them, they must take up God's definition of chivalry - not fist fights and drunken carousing, but in this simple, almost childlike mission: help those in need: "Learn to do right; seek justice. Defend the oppressed. Take up the cause of the fatherless; plead the case of the widow." (Isaiah 1:17)
The search turned up no one alive
as searches often go
They found the victim
Joanna-Not-Afraid
sixteen years old of the North Cheyenne tribe
(or maybe the Crow)
She lived on some reservation
the kind you hear about
in little stories about curious little things
but nothing new –
the government
the Highway of Tears
(though that was a bit further west)
etc etc.
They buried Joanna-Not-Afraid
in the earth, so she could return to it
as you’re supposed to do
But she did not stay there
She wandered the ethernet ether
the electronic space of chatter
and theory and rage
In the dimension of cables
and talk, talk, talk, talk
Joanna-Not-Afraid encountered a Captain
who had committed felo-de-se
(That was still a crime when he was alive
but not now when he’s dead)
“Where are you going
with that kind of expression on your face?”
asked Joanna-Not-Afraid
“Never mind,” said the Captain
“They put me in the void with you
and you’ll hear all about it soon enough
They won’t bury me in St. Mary’s church
because it’s against the rules”
“I’ve had quite enough of voids,”
thought Joanna-Not-Afraid
“This place and its pixels
is sufficient with tears and trivia”
She took the Captain by the hand
He was shaken by such a tender thing
A shock to his decaying system
“We’re going away from here,”
said Joanna-Not-Afraid
“This fat belly of broadband
is sufficient with tears and trivia
I know somewhere we’ll rise again”
“No! This isn’t right!” protested the Captain
But he followed Joanna-Not-Afraid
He felt helpless and embarrassed
On the way to the place Joanna-Not-Afraid had in mind
she and the Captain encountered a woman
She was drenched in blood
and petting her belly, swollen with a baby inside
“What’s your name?” asked Joanna-Not-Afraid
“I’m Sharon Tate,” the woman replied
as if surprised someone had to ask,
“and this is my baby”
Joanna-Not-Afraid took her hand
even more gently than she had taken the Captain’s
“Come with us. I know somewhere we’ll rise again”
“No! Please don’t!” Mrs. Tate protested
“Murder made me famous!
It’s my lot in life and my lot in death
They told me so when I got here!”
But Mrs. Tate was compelled to accompany them and
far too exhausted to argue
On the way to the place Joanna-Not-Afraid had in mind
they found a man in a shirt and tie
belying his dazed and weathered face
his thousand yard gaze not matching his polished shoes
“What’s your name?” asked Joanna-Not-Afraid
She had to ask twice to stir the man from his stupor
“I don’t have a name,” the man said groggily
“If I do, I’ve forgotten it. Or someone swiped it.
They only call me the Somerton Man”
“Come with us,” said Joanna-Not-Afraid
“I know somewhere they’ll give you a name”
“Well, what’s your name?” asked the man
as he struggled to stand up straight
“My name is Joanna-Not-Afraid”
“Well, that’s an odd name,” said the nameless man
in something of a Lancashire accent
“Besides, having no name suits me fine
because I’m only dead. Nothing more than that.
Somerton Man is sufficient for me”
Joanna-Not-Afraid paid no heed
and the Somerton Man stumbled along behind her
On the way, she took the hands of all of them
Every form that once thought, heard, saw,
tasted, wept, laughed, and all those things
Every human shape blurred by poor resolution
that once had eyes like moonbeams
or some other such pretty thing
She took all of their hands
Irish bombers, Arab bombers,
American bombers,
a million John and Jane Does,
Jimmy Hoffa, Jeffrey Dahmer,
the Lindbergh Baby,
all of Jack the Ripper’s prey
(both canon and otherwise),
and a soldier called Juan Soldado
whose body has its own chapel in Tijuana
“No one will pray to me in a pauper’s grave,”
protested Juan Soldado
“I beg you to leave me in my chapel
Anywhere else I’ll be Juan Morales again
and if you’re telling the truth
if we rise again
there’ll be no more mystery over me!”
No one would pray to him
if he were to escape the dot on Google maps
But she said to him as she’d said to the others
“This place is sufficient with tears and trivia.
“And besides,” she said, “we’re not going to graves.
We’ve all had enough of graves”
“Where are we going?”
the scores of shadows asked
All of them were tired from walking after so long being still
from being disturbed from their troubled sleep
“We’re going to find a heart to live in,”
said Joanna-Not-Afraid
“A pure heart, one that’s genuine.
A heart that won’t treat us like ghosts”
“But we are ghosts,” slurred the Somerton Man
“It’s our destiny,” said a Jane Doe
“The world knows us as ghosts,”
said the Black Dahlia
“we’ll never be anything more. We’d might as well accept it”
Joanna-Not-Afraid replied, not scathed in the least
by the objections of these haunts and haints
“Only if we stay here can they make us ghosts
If we find a heart, a pure heart
an aching heart
will we rise again.
Haven’t you ever seen someone with an aching heart?”
“Oi! I was someone with an aching heart!”
said the Somerton Man
“Then you know full well that if your heart ached
you must have loved someone,”
said Joanna-Not-Afraid
The Somerton Man hung his head
“I suppose I did”
An Iraqi bystander once blown to pieces
wiped a tear from his eye
In honor of the new box set edition of Jethro Tull's 1980 album A (which you can order here), here's a piece from my book Rocktology Exam (which you can think about buying here), covering this complex and ultimately engrossing album. (Note that my opinion on the track "Flyingdale Flyer" has changed, and I somewhat enjoy the song these days.)
But it’s not anything like that. A’s humble beginnings found Jethro Tull leader Ian Anderson attempting his first solo album (hence A for Anderson, you see). He later told MTV, when they were into this kind of thing, “It wasn’t really Jethro Tull music. It wasn’t really Ian Anderson music, either. But setting out do so a solo album, the whole point was that I would be unfettered with any stylistic straight-jacket.”
The previous year, Anderson had served notice to the classic Tull lineup of the 70s that he wished to perform with different musicians, albeit still under the Jethro Tull banner. He then recorded A, and was convinced, with great difficulty, by Chrysalis Records to release it as the new "Jethro Tull album." Perhaps the record execs feared the band’s Dickensian minstrel rock would see its demise in the new decade, and saw the uncharacteristic use of synthesizers and electronics as a step ahead, a sure fit for the ever-growing technological “advances” in rock music. It would be sure, they felt, to seal Tull a place in the new decade.
Unfortunately, the rest of Jethro Tull, save for faithful guitarist Martin Barre, who played on A, weren’t made privy to the decision until they read a statement from Chrysalis in the music press, of which Ian Anderson was apparently unaware, that they’d been fired from the group – which hadn’t been the case at all. Feeling betrayed, their understandably bitter feelings toward Anderson made his job of reforming Tull with new musicians a bit easier, though not under ideal circumstances. Keeping Barre on board, Anderson enlisted drummer Mark Craney and bassist Dave Pegg (formerly of Fairport Convention); the latter, signed up for a one-off solo project, would remain with the band for over a decade, proving the fallout from the solo project was not for naught.
Also on board, temporarily, was violinist and keyboardist Eddie Jobson; his seethrough electric violin was quite a sight on stage, matching the haphazard “futuristic” look that Anderson, with great regret, had formed for their live shows; he traded his vest and troubadour neckerchief for a white parachute material jumpsuit. “I hated it – I don’t care if I never see it again!” he said in 1987 during a rare spot as a guest MTV VJ – yes, the guy from Jethro Tull was a guest VJ on MTV. It was once an amazing world.
Accompanying the album was a home video release, Slipstream. The video preserved for all coming time the unique sight of Jethro Tull performing pixie-rock staples like “Songs From the Wood” and “Heavy Horses” in cheap space-age costumes, but the visual was blown away by the audial, as Anderson retained his acrobatic energy throughout. He is truly one of rock’s greatest frontmen, among the ranks of Freddie Mercury or Ray Davies.
Back to the album, A is by no means a bad record, and some of its numbers could have become concert staples and possibly classics. If the infectious, exciting “Black Friday” had been pushed as the single, instead of the dull “Flyingdale Flyer,” the album might not be so out of mind in the Jethro Tull discography. It’s strictly conjecture, but that one change in singles plans could have given A a shot in the arm commercially, and the record’s more memorable songs – “4WD,” “Batteries Not Included,” “Working John, Working Joe,” and the great opener “Crossfire” – might not be as obscure in Tull’s catalog.
Elsewhere though, some material is admittedly lifeless and easily forgettable, some tracks barely discernible from others. Even if “Black Friday” had gained more airplay, and if A had climbed higher on the charts, the aforementioned standouts would still have been paired with a few less interesting tracks like “Protect and Survive,” “Uniform,” and “And Further On,” none of which stay long in the membrane or command repeated listening.
Fortunately for the album’s drastically more technological sound, Anderson’s trusty, trademark flute was not left at home. The woodland instrument never seems out of place in the synthy landscape, and adds much warmth to some of the album’s more studio-sterile sections.
A is a curious album, a sudden exception to the Jethro Tull sound from the albums that immediately preceded it. But it’s no less interesting and adventurous, and even no less terribly British, even if it “wasn’t Jethro Tull music or Ian Anderson music.” Though not a “proper” Tull album in technicalities and origin, it’s stuck in the band’s canon. The circumstances surrounding A are an integral part of the band’s history, which, even if it had been released as an Ian Anderson solo album as intended, impacted the band’s history and future. It ended an era that had lasted a decade-plus, almost completely disintegrating its most well-known lineup, and sending Tull headfirst into the 1980s. A transported a rock band that could have entertained the court of Elizabeth I into the court of digital doodads, its leader clutching his trusty flute as a talisman.
Four years later, Jethro Tull released Under Wraps, an album gilded in drum machines and songs of Cold War espionage, a distinctly 80s record, making A sound like Songs From the Wood by comparison.
But there was still the flute. There would always be the flute.
If by God's grace, and the questionable literary tastes of the American book-buying public, I ever achieve widespread recognition for my writing, I desperately hope it's not for my more overtly "Christian books."
Modern successful Christian authors are often turned into demagogues of sorts, their books rendered Gideon's ephod. Big names in Christianity* like Mark Driscoll, John Piper, Tim Keller, Rachel Held Evans (RIP) have developed fandoms that border on cults of personality, so to speak. Whether this is the author's conscious goal or not is different with every heart. There are those who eschew such celebrity worship and give the glory of the message to God, while it seems many are clamoring to be the next theological rebel, the next boat-rocker and wave-maker, rather than meek preachers of the Gospel.
My first two Christian books, Sheep Named Spike and Hog Heaven were, in hindsight, little more than The Bud Sturguess Show; Christ came second. I don't want to put myself before Him anymore. John the Baptist says of Him, "He must increase, but I must decrease" (John 3:30).
I once saw an interview with John Piper, who strikes me as a very humble and genuine preacher, in which he answered questions written by readers. One of the questions, of course by no fault of Piper's, was, "if you had 2 minutes with the Pope, what would you say?" I hope no one ever wonders or cares what Bud Sturguess would say to the Pope. I hope they have no delight in my Reformed Protestant theological sass and spunk setting Francis straight on a thing or two.
If - again, by God's grace - any of my work should receive notice and acclaim, I don't want it to be for my "Christian books." I do believe God can be seen in secular works - partly because, nothing is truly secular. There is either that which acknowledges God and that which doesn't; that which gives Him glory and that which ignores or curses Him. Neither "Bootylicious" nor "My Utmost For His Highest" can escape His judgmental and discerning eye.
"And whatever you do, do it heartily, as to the Lord and not to men, knowing that from the Lord you will receive the reward of the inheritance; for you serve the Lord Christ" (Colossians 3:23-24).
Not every Christian woodworker builds crosses, but the woodworker who builds a porch for God's glory does more than the cross maker who etches their own name on each one. If I write a book for God's glory, and someone is positively impacted or moved by it, I'd much rather they say "I read some thing by this guy, and this one character said something that really touched me..." than someone read my sermons and gush, "OH. MY. GOSH. BUD STURGUESS IS SO GREAT! HAVE YOU READ BUD'S STUFF?!"
Heaven forbid there ever be a BUD STURGUESS STUDY BIBLE or a BUD STURGUESS DAILY DEVOTIONAL CALENDAR. I want to be a Christian, not a Christian media personality.
"And they said, 'Come, let us build ourselves a city, and a tower whose top is in the heavens; let us make a name for ourselves, lest we be scattered abroad over the face of the whole earth.'" -Genesis 11:4
PS Yes, I'm aware of the irony of using Christian writing to declare how I hope to never become famous for Christian writing...and while I'm bordering on hypocrisy, you can check out my books here: lulu.com/spotlight/BudSturguess.
You will often hear in sermons detailing how God can use inherently imperfect people for great things that Abraham could be a coward, David committed adultery and conspiracy to commit murder, and Simon Peter had a short fuse and could be wishy washy. These Biblical examples are all true and accurate, and are testaments to God's faithfulness to use us, flawed and fallible, to do mighty and wondrous things. But, you will seldom if ever hear among these examples the likes of Martin Luther, John Knox, or any of the most pivotal figures of what we came to call the Reformation.
Being a member of a Calvinist church, I often hear great reverence of the titans of the Protestant Reformation, the great theologians who helped steer the Christian faith out of the clutches of the Catholic Church. The immense respect for these men to which I've been subject is one of the reasons why I was so dismayed and disappointed over time to read that many of these figures were, frankly, some rather vile people.
It should have come as no surprise that they were dirty, rotten sinners like me, because that's what we all are, from the pulpit to the porcelain. But when one is surrounded by such high praise for these men - men who are seldom, if ever, mentioned in the same ilk as an adulterer like David or a murderer like Moses to point out how God can use the worst of the worst - it makes the discovery of their "dark sides" much more devastating. If one is well versed in the flaws of Biblical heroes, but those who teach them dare not utter anything negative about Reformation heroes, a kind of subconscious reverence can be built for these men, and one is prone to forget that they, too, were awful human beings who God used to further His kingdom.
Again, it shouldn't have been so shocking that these men, as fallible and fallen as Hezekiah or Job, were guilty of some awful deeds, just as I am. But I assert that our praise of these Reformers has become so borderline idolatrous that we are prone to forget - or willing to leave out - what despicable acts accompanied their efforts. Christians should openly condemn the atrocities and seedy acts of those that many praise to the point of portraying them as blameless and spotless. This is the same mistake that we Americans made with the likes of George Washington and Thomas Jefferson when we heralded them as heroes of our country; patriots and visionaries they were, but we swept their sins under the rug for so long that our very culture became affected to the point of serving them as flawless idols.
But what a Christian must also remember is the same lesson we're taught from the Bible and the pulpit about Peter, Paul, David, and a slew of other Biblical figures - that we are all fallen human beings. Scripture tells us, "in Your sight no one living is righteous" (Psalm 143:2), "there is not a just man on earth who does good and does not sin" (Ecclesiastes 7:20), and most memorably, "all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God" (Romans 3:23).
There can be, however, a difference when looking at the lives of David - who repented of his crimes against God and strove to live a just life - and Martin Luther, of whom there is no evidence that he ever repented in his hatred towards Jews. But if God can use those who don't even believe in Him for His purpose - Nebuchadnezzar and the Babylonians for example - then He can certainly use those who proclaim Him but continue in evil ways: the most obvious example being the Pharisees who were among the instruments through which Jesus went to the cross to fulfill God's purpose of shedding His blood to redeem you and me for our multitudes of sins.
Again, the most disheartening aspect of reading about the flagrant evils of many Protestant Reformers is the amount of heroic praise they are given by the Church today, and the fact that their work was so important in Church history. It can become tiring to hear "God uses flawed people for great things," so this blog's closing passage from the Book of Revelation puts it into much better perspective. We must remember that the flaws of Knox and Luther is irrelevant in the bigger picture, in the story of Christ's Church, against which "the gates of Hades shall not prevail" (Matthew 16:18). If every Christian in the world today were to turn away from Christ and convert to scientology, that would not render Him any less true. To claim that it's the faithfulness of Christians who make God all-powerful is nothing but laughable vanity.
The bigotry of Martin Luther can never render Jesus' love and grace ineffective. If a hypocrite proclaims Jesus as Lord yet does not obey Him, the hypocrite is only a hypocrite, but Jesus is still Lord. It is Christ who overcame - not John Calvin.
"And I saw in the right hand of Him who sat on the throne a scroll written inside and on the back, sealed with seven seals. Then I saw a strong angel proclaiming with a loud voice, 'Who is worthy to open the scroll and to loose its seals?' And no one in heaven or on the earth or under the earth was able to open the scroll, or to look at it. So I wept much, because no one was found worthy to open and read the scroll, or to look at it. But one of the elders said to me, 'Do not weep. Behold, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has prevailed to open the scroll and to loose its seven seals.'" -Revelation 5:1-5
