"MTV News: A Letter To Jonathan Melvoin"

I'm honored that Longleaf Review has included my prose piece "MTV News: A Letter To Jonathan Melvoin" in their new Wayback issue. It's a true story, and it all happened in the 90s...if you don't understand, I guess you just had to be there. You can read it here.

Life During Wartime: How Do We Pray About War?

There's a strange dichotomy to praying for victory in a war. Any war, really, with all of their moral nuances and intricacies, and their inherent wakes of disaster and death. I don't consider myself pro-war or anti-war: I discern on a war by war basis, or more particularly, by a judgment of the individual belligerents. After all, war is not a war without at least two opposing sides. Sometimes, one is right and the other wrong, and other times neither is right. A perfect example of the former is the 2022 Russian invasion of Ukraine.

If Ukrainian forces had not fought back against the invaders, this would not be a war at all, but simply an invasion. And if Ukraine had, without resistance, given Vladimir Putin whatever territorial gains he desired by crossing this independent nation's borders, it would have been even less than an invasion, and more of an annexation. But, when Russian military forces invaded Ukraine this past February, the latter took up arms and fought. So, we have two belligerents with two opposite reasons for armed violence.

I'm in favor of Ukraine's war, but not Russia's (or, more accurately, Putin's) - I wholeheartedly support a peaceful, sovereign, and democratic nation's right to defend itself against "a wicked and unjust invasion," as my pastor described it. 

I have no doubt that a great a deal of Russian soldiers who've found themselves on the losing end (thus far) against Ukrainian troops fighting tooth and nail to protect their home don't want to be in Ukraine any more than frightened civilians want them there. I'm sure the same goes historically for just about any army ordered by its government to go to war under unjustifiable circumstances: there were obviously Germans soldiers who despised all the violence and Hitler's delusions, who just wanted to go home as much as a homesick American or Soviet soldier; there were no doubt Argentinian conscripts sent to invade the Falklands who hated the cold, miserable landscape, and knew themselves to be expendable pawns played by their dictator Galtieri to deflect from his military junta's dismal failings.

With all the complexities of war, it's no surprise that praying for a victor in a war is no easy task when you really think about it. When I pray for Ukraine to overcome Putin's evil aims, I'm essentially praying that they're successful in blowing up Russian soldiers - human beings - or at least sending them into retreat or surrender by use of fire and force. This is part of the reality of being a Christian: we trust in an all-powerful and merciful God in the midst of a world of weak flesh and merciless minds. This guarantees we'll find ourselves in situations where it seems there's no winning, no good or honorable way out, leaving us with no idea what to pray for. Fortunately for us, we serve a God who understands our predicament. He came to the earth in the flesh and suffered as we suffer, even to the point of death on a cross. When we go to Him in prayer, even when we don't know what to say, we have peace and confidence that we're talking to a God who understands.

It's easy to be morbidly amused at letters and speeches written by politicians and military personnel alike during various wars throughout history - almost invariably, each will claim God is on their side, that God is for right, therefore He will guarantee their armies' triumph. Of course, only one side "wins" (Clemenceau famously described war as "a series of catastrophes that results in a victory"). Thus, one side of the fight was obviously wrong when it declared they knew God to be on their side. Lincoln put it another way: "The will of God prevails. In great contests each party claims to act in accordance with the will of God. Both may be, and one must be wrong [...] In the present civil war it is quite possible that God's purpose is something different from the purpose of either party [...] The contest began. And having begun, He could give the final victory to either side any day. Yet the contest proceeds." 

Lincoln was being quite the realist in his assessment of the will and work of God in a war. And so too must a Christian be in their prayers when they bring to Him their petitions concerning this or any war. It's very much possible - even necessary - to be a realist as a Christian, as much of an oxymoron as that may seem to many. We know that we live in a fallen world, so we must work with things as they are, not as they ought to be. We retain the hope that things will someday be made new, and that hope gives us strength to endure things as they are. The Christians of the early Church who were being killed by Rome for proclaiming Christ did not pretend everything was fine. It was okay for them to acknowledge the misery and horror they were put through. Admitting a terrible thing to be terrible is not denying God to be powerful. 

As Christians we sometimes equate labeling a situation as bleak with resigning to doubt. This is not the case. The Bible is full of passages that detail how dark and unjust this fallen world can be. In such a chaotic environment, we're bound to find ourselves facing situations where it seems any and all outcomes are attached to some terrible caveat. Just like my prayer that Ukraine will repel Putin's invasion: being a realist, I don't believe God will suddenly strike the Russians with sunshine-filled minds that cause them to drop their guns and return to their own country in peace; I don't believe each side will say "nuts to this," shake hands, and leave each other be; and I doubt Vladimir Putin will humbly acknowledge he was morally in the wrong and withdraw his troops without first suffering a string of military defeats (nor do I hope Volodymyr Zelenskyy sets a dangerous precedent for Eastern Europe by giving Putin what he wants if he'll just stop the attacks). This all certainly can happen, as God is capable of any such miracle, and I'd be delighted to eat my words if that were the end result. But until then, I must accept that my prayer for Ukraine's restored peace and the safety of its citizens includes a victory of firepower over another army of human beings, made as much in the similitude of God as anyone in this violence-ridden world.

In all of this, I'm abundantly grateful for the words the Holy Spirit speaks through the apostle Paul: "In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us through wordless groans. And He who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for God’s people in accordance with the will of God" (Romans 8:26-27).

King David cries out to God in Psalm 139, but ultimately rests in His omnipotent power and knowledge: "You have searched me, LORD, and You know me. You know when I sit and when I rise; You perceive my thoughts from afar. [...] Search me, God, and know my heart; test me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there is any offensive way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting" (Psalm 139:1-2, 23-24).

We say it so much that it can ring with cliché, but no matter how often something is repeated, it never loses its strength if it is the truth, spoken in sincerity: "God's will be done." No matter what we pray for, no matter how confused - or confident - we are when we go to Him, may we seek God's will and not our own. God's sovereignty outweighs that of any sovereign nation. A day is coming when all will be restored, and He will judge with righteous judgment.

Poem: "Ghost Tape Number 10"

If I ever mutter something magnificent

Something sarcastic and succinct enough to scar

and forever vanquish my vanity

It'll be born of mad mumblings in a bar

of precious snippets of a sinner’s sanity

It'll come far removed from fields in fall

Millions of miles removed from Mars

and the cliches in the comets and their tails

It'll come from something strange,

from lobotomy scars

and haunted county jails

It'll come, whatever beast it may be,

an omen of hell or heaven,

from Waco in '93

from Rwanda, from 9/11

It'll come, as all great things begin,

from something sick and rotten

Something I heard

on Ghost Tape Number 10

Something furious and forgotten

A faceless Jane Doe,

estimated height: five-feet-two,

discovered in summer '69

It'll come from Death Row

It'll come from Swine Flu

It'll come from me

but it won’t be mine.

from the book Balladmonger: More Bad Poems & Prose

Poem: "A Dream of Lightning, Poorly Dreamed"

In a sterile room colored white

with a dash of pink to calm the nerves

The Conductor of light explained again

what purpose he serves, my pupils

wide as dimes, sweat on the palms of

my hands. The Conductor advised me

to send my mind to other times or,

if need be, to other lands.

He turned a switch that made me ache

His narrowed eyes watching, hoping I didn't

mistake his advice to retreat to unknown skies

as a license for madness so impure,

the very thing his machine was built to cure.

General Nathaniel Lyon, stark raving mad

Hero of the Union and the Bonny Blue flag

was a comrade in my dusty room, born of

books rotted to rags. The wearied ugly men

they described rose from the tomb, contrary

to what was prescribed, smelling of mildewed

air, soothing my heart from despair with a

beautiful gloom.

I accompanied him to Missouri, 1861,

where we drilled the German volunteers

in cannon and gun, the fanatic General's

disdain for the mutineers driving his every

order, his instructions strict for every man,

his every lunatic harebrained plan.

A brambled red beard matched his uniform, 

rumpled, dirty, overworn. Lyon was not

revered, as a dog reveres a storm

and delights in peace when it's done -

he was called insane, “an old son of a gun, 

punished properly at last,” said the officers 

when he was slain, a figure obscured by night and past. 

Not one would mourn his life when he was dead - 

“the army is my wife,” he always said.

General Lyon, soldier, native son and trooper

was just mad enough to retake the state

from the South, and I in my stupor for science's sake

would rouse the troops with the might in my mouth.

Lightning corrupted the sky like

Leviathan in the sea; we feared not,

hearts and caps in hands, the men under

my command in Battery C.

We responded to the lightning in kind

as the Missouri sky turned a hideous hue –

“We are fighting under a man out of his mind!

General Lyon, we who are about to die,

salute you!”

We drove them back, the traitors, the Rebs

with powder and fuse. Washington sent

wires, “attack!” and we fired every steel

and metal shape a cannon can use. 

We thought of our sweethearts at home 

So proud, waiting - my Zuzana, my belle -

as the lightning angrily shone, 

illuminating wrinkles in the clouds 

like a brain lit by fires of hell.

Governor Jackson trembled, but he was

relieved at the sight of McCulloch, Price and Pearce;

a rabble they resembled, as eager as we to fight,

their mad mutiny so wretched, the lightning

above so fierce.

boom

I could not help but gaze at the sky as the

bolts cracked boom the blue; things certain things 

turned to haze as General Lyon fell, bleeding 

brains and Union blue.

I tried to rally my Battery, but no words came;

it was as though the battle had faded, 

as though the lightning struck my brain, 

the Conductor somewhere satiated.

Bolts of Zeus, raining spite, struck boom crack my men,

took them away, turned them to puffs of smoke; 

a spear of white struck General Lyon where he lay,

not a drop of blood left to stain the earth where

his final rally he spoke.

zuzana send help

boom The men were called to retreat - the order was not mine

My legs were like worms bang crack, my boots like concrete

as wore and were taken time faded. pow  

the lightning struck again Zuzana 

to die un repentant benumbs me

I saw my men flee, those not eviscerated 

boom

Not a soldier left in Battery C

Strike again! I dared. 

No. No, I didn't. I couldn't have dared.

boom crack pow

Not such an electric sky, not a fool such as I.

Never surrender. Fight for the bonny blue and for Zuzana.

But who's Zuzana? Nobody. Never surrender

boom rumble

Nobody

quiet

My toes curled in my boots but my

boots were in a corner

I remember putting them there because 

that's where the nurse said.

One mustn't die with his boots off

though I am not dead

I am not dead

Tho' I may as well be

Like my friend the General

The dream is lost for Battery C

pow

Zeus has taken my cannons from me

from the book Amen, Bad Luck To You

Album Review: Creedence Clearwater Revival - "Mardi Gras"

Breakup albums should not be pretty. They shouldn’t be full of bittersweet well-wishes and vulnerable introspective emotion like Bridge Over Troubled Water, nor should they be solid, cohesive efforts like Synchronicity. Not that Simon & Garfunkel’s farewell had been a bad album by any means, but, they were folk musicians, and folk artists by nature are more delicate and fragile creatures than rock and rollers. Elegant breakups don’t befit rock and roll. If rock songs about breakups are as biting, bitter, and vicious as they are melancholy, a breakup of a band itself should be no different. And, when that’s conveyed in the band’s final album, that band has, sometimes unintentionally, sometimes not, accomplished something great. 

Creedence Clearwater Revival certainly wasn’t aiming to make an album that reflected the crumbling relations between the rhythm section of Stu Cook and Doug Clifford and leader/guitarist John Fogerty. Although, theories about the album that were printed after its release claimed Fogerty, CCR’s visionary and artistic force, knew exactly what he was doing when he gave in to Cook and Clifford’s alleged demands for equal songwriting opportunities. The music press opined that by allowing the tight rhythm section to produce mediocre songs, their complaining and clamoring for creative input would prove once and for all how much the group depended on John Fogerty and John Fogerty alone. Hence the album’s nickname, “Fogerty’s Revenge.” It was certainly a more fitting title than Mardi Gras, that’s for sure. Maybe naming the record after a New Orleans festival was meant to tie into the group’s unmistakable bayou “swamp rock” sound. 

The recording and production, however, was anything but festive. Now a trio after a creatively frustrated Tom Fogerty left the band a year before (described by his brother in two of the group’s most recognizable songs, “Have You Ever Seen the Rain” and “Wish I Could Hideaway”), tomorrows seemed less and less likely with each passing square on the ‘72 calendar. John Fogerty – according to Cook and Clifford’s side of the story – demanded the pair contribute songs, as well as vocals, rather than submitting to their desires to be more involved in the songwriting. The pair’s version of events seems to some a low-key excuse for any substandard quality in their efforts, implying Cook and Clifford had insufficient time and means to prepare better material. 

The other side of the Mardi Gras tale, however, suggests an ungrateful pair pressuring their creative force during a fragile time for the band, trapping him – and themselves – into making an album far below the standards CCR had set in the years prior. Whichever side of the story one chooses to believe, the fact that Fogerty refused to sing on or produce his bandmates’ songs lends credence to either version, and shows how frustrated and fed up he was with the band’s situation. The album’s opener is Fogerty’s, the very country “Looking For a Reason.” The somewhat pedestrian song finds the singer an open book: 

I’m lookin’ for a reason to stay / I’m all wound up and tied in knots today... Yesterday I tried once more to find / a way to share the trouble on my mind / It seems like you turn away every time / I used to like it here – I can’t remember why. 

Stu Cook’s first song on the album, “Take It Like a Friend,” meanwhile, is anything but longing or sad, and takes an obvious shot at Fogerty, even if the song itself gives contradictory claims about how the bassist wound up finally singing (shouting) lead vocals on a Creedence song: Maybe you’d move over, give someone else a chance, try they luck / Instead you run up closer / Tryin’ to grab a page before they close the book. Later, however, Cook seems to describe a catch-22 situation, knowing he and Doug Clifford’s efforts would be quashed – 

We moved out toward the light, showin’ empty hands. 

Cook’s second solo tune is the crude but lyrically relatable “Sail Away.” Even if the words coming out of Cook’s mouth are butchered on their way out, they could certainly resonate with anyone who’s ever felt trapped in a one-way relationship. Cook laments bitterly, Spent a long time listenin’ to the captain of the sea / Shoutin’ orders to his crew – no one hears but me. 

The bassist suddenly changes gears on his next song, the undeniably infectious “Door To Door,” a fun, harmless tune about Cook’s time as a door-to-door salesman. Someone decided the song was at least good enough for the B-side of Fogerty’s “Sweet Hitch-Hiker,” undoubtedly Mardi Gras’ best, most memorable, and most Creedence-like track. Or, back to conspiracy theories, “Door To Door” was purposely paired with “Sweet Hitch-Hiker” to further bring out the perceived contrast in quality as it inevitably paled in comparison in the ears of the majority. Not withstanding, “Door To Door” was played with regularity on the subsequent tour to support the album, a performance of which was included on Live In Europe the next year (an album whose release John Fogerty strongly protested, but lost the fight with Fantasy Records – an institution that would be a thorn in the rock genius’s side for well over the next decade, well after CCR was no more). 

Behind the drumkit, Doug Clifford didn’t seem to have much of a grudge to bear, at least not on record; his songs are laid-back, country-colored standards, a wise move, as the style fits his softsung voice. “Need Someone To Hold” and “Tearin’ Up the Country” are both enjoyable, even if they’re nothing spectacular. These songs are generally more well received than his bass playing counterpart’s offerings, probably because, again, Clifford’s voice is less abrasive and forced. The drummer sings with an inoffensive twang, making Cook’s I-Just-Stubbed-My-Toe shouts all the more jarring when played side by side with Clifford’s songs in the tracklisting. The two briefly team up – possibly against Fogerty specifically – on “What Are You Gonna Do,” the best non-Fogerty song on the album, a knee-bouncing, well-constructed song whose chorus borders on earworm (that’s not a bad thing, despite that “worm” thing; an “earworm” is a piece of music that’s extremely catchy). Though the lyrics’ lecture to an unwise character could describe any half of any failed relationship, of any kind, the temptation to assign them to John Fogerty is overwhelming in the context of the rest of Mardi Gras. If he is indeed the target, it’s Clifford’s only gripe on the record, and again he wisely handles the vocals, toning down any bitterness the song may or may not contain. 

Not surprisingly, none of Cook or Clifford’s songs would see a place on either of CCR’s bestselling Chronicle compilations, the first being universally hailed as a definitive representation of the band’s work. Chronicle Volume 1, released in 1976, saw Mardi Gras represented only by “Sweet Hitch-Hiker” and Fogerty’s deeply personal but relatable “Someday Never Comes.” Volume 2, released a decade later saw a stranger song selection, with a preference for the band’s several great covers of doo-wop, folk, and blues standards like “The Midnight Special,” “The Night Time is the Right Time,” and “Cotton Fields.” Mardi Gras, however, is represented the second time around by the mediocre “Looking For a Reason” and the album’s least interesting recording, a meh cover of “Hello Mary Lou.” The fact that this song was chosen for inclusion rather than “Tearin’ Up the Country” (the B-side to “Someday Never Comes”) or even the admittedly novelty “Door To Door,” more than hints at how Cook and Clifford’s work was received. 

Released in April 1972, Mardi Gras must have been either enormously satisfying to John Fogerty to see his bandmates’ work turned to cannon fodder by Rolling Stone’s minions, or devastatingly reaffirming that the death of Creedence was near. “Fogerty’s Revenge” was probably a much preferred nickname to the distinction given it by Rolling Stone – “the worst album ever recorded by a major band” up to that point in rock history. 

The band as musicians was, somehow, still in great shape; they played tours of Europe, Australia, and Japan, to a surprising amount of press hype and fanfare despite Mardi Gras being panned as a huge disappointment (though it still went Top 20, for what it’s worth). Fogerty, Cook, and Clifford seemed on the surface a jovial trio of brothers, their interviews abroad betraying no friction at all. Many other bands wouldn’t even try to put on a performance. A photograph on Mardi Gras’ back jacket showed the three sitting in careless conversation, and the gatefold sleeve of Live In Europe sees a photograph of the trio side by side in the back of a limousine, all smiles and silliness. It’s actually a heartbreaking photo – forced or miraculously genuine, the camaraderie it captures was, or would soon be, no more. Despite Fogerty’s objections, Live In Europe showed the band still an exciting, tight unit as a trio; Fogerty’s guitar playing is especially impressive as he doubles on lead and rhythm duties in the absence of brother Tom. Whether actually recorded in concert, or a counterfeit, a soundcheck allegedly dubbed with crowd cheers as some maintain, CCR still sounds strong. 

In October, however, the inevitable could no longer be postponed, and the announcement was made – Creedence was done. The band, in the four-piece lineup in which they’d played since 1957 under various names, played together again in 1980 at Tom Fogerty’s wedding, and even posed for a picture together. It would be the very last time the Fogerty brothers shared a stage. Tom died in 1990, estranged from his brother by record industry politics. When CCR was inducted into the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame in 1993, his widow was in attendance, carrying with her Tom’s ashes in an urn. Her gesture was for naught – after their acceptance speeches, John refused to play even one Creedence classic with his former bandmates, opting instead to share the moment with Bruce Springsteen on “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” Cook and Clifford got up and left. 

Again, breakup albums should not be pretty. Albums recorded by bands in danger of falling apart should be scattered, uneven, and should sound as if the band could crumble at any moment. Mardi Gras is the quintessential breakup album. Like an awkward week after the charges are dropped in a domestic dispute, the tension is there, the anger only thinly veiled, the hole kicked in the bathroom door gaping and providing insight into what really goes on in the life of a major rock band. It’s not always fun, and more often than not, egos and power struggles prevail over the band of brothers each garage act sets out to be. 

-From my book Rocktology Exam: Classic Rock's Hidden Gems (but you don't have to buy it if you don't want to)

Money and Your Local Church: A Layperson's Thoughts

It's amazing, but it's also not very amazing, that there are those of us in the body of Christ who can go so long not knowing what the Bible has to say about certain topics. Many of us even blindly believe there are things in the Bible that are simply not there - "this too shall pass" comes to mind, "God will never let you go through more than you can handle," and even "It is better to cast your seed onto the belly of a whore, than to let it fall to the ground" (yes, there are people who think that's a Bible verse).

But it's even more challenging when a piece of actual Scripture is misquoted, misrepresented, or manipulated in such a way that Christians and non-believers alike develop a false idea of what the Bible says on certain matters. These are more challenging because of the difficulty in separating what the verse actually says from the way it's paraphrased - it's easy to do a word search on biblegateway.com and show someone there's no "belly of a whore" verse. But if a paraphrased and distorted version of Scripture becomes embedded in someone's memory, it's difficult to put that verse or passage back in its proper order and gather again what was taken out, or take out what was added.

The best example I can give is the idea that the Bible says: "Money is the root of all evil." This is so often repeated that it's even a cliche amid secular circles of the world. Even my favorite band Pink Floyd gets it wrong in their classic song "Money."

In fairness to Pink Floyd, however, the actual verse contains much more substance and wouldn't fit the meter of the music. The quote in question is from 1 Timothy 6:10, which actually says:

"The love of money is a root of all kinds of evil" - that's the first part, the part that's become shortened and changed - and continues, "for which some have strayed from the faith in their greediness, and pierced themselves through with many sorrows." (NKJV) 

The actual verse, and the context of Biblical teachings on money and finances, reveal far more than our pithy paraphrasing: that money itself is not the root of evil, much less all evil, but rather the worship and idolatry that develops when one loses sight of the good God desires for us to do with money. This verse even expounds on how destructive that greed can be to one's faith and general life.

If money was the actual root of all evil, a lot of things wouldn't make sense. People who live by the false paraphrase and not the actual Scripture are faced with some tough questions. For example, how do sins not related to money or greed have their root in money when none is involved? If two people commit the sin of, say, fornication, or if one person takes the Lord's name in vain, how can this be traced back to money?

A social media post that reeked of the ignorance sparked by misquotation of Scripture asked, "If money is the root of all evil, why do churches ask for it?", implying that if a church claims to teach from the Bible, it displays hypocrisy in asking for tithes and offerings. But as we've seen from the actual verse, this philosophy is not a Biblical one. This would contradict the teachings of the epistles in the New Testament, wherein the apostle Paul instructs believers to help their local churches in many ways, among them materially, while also warning leaders not to become greedy. 

Also, if one believes "money is the root of all evil," and seeks to avoid such evil, that person then sins against their own conscience by accepting a wage from their employer. Fortunately, the amended form of this verse is a lie to which no Christian is bound.

As a sinner myself, I'm certainly not immune from ignorance of the Scripture. In my case, it's usually willful. I used to scoff at the idea that a pastor should be paid for his work. I glossed over Paul's instructions to the various churches, and was blissfully unaware of the apostle's words in 1 Corinthians, chapter 9: he elaborates that, though he has not used this privilege among the Corinthians, those who preach the gospel have a right to be supported by the church(es) to whom they preach.

Speaking of making a living as a pastor of a church, as my edgelord attitude toward a minister's wages faded in light of what Scripture teaches, I began to see just how perilous an honest preacher's position can be. If a pastor preaches only the truth, that pastor runs the risk of unsteady job security. I speak this from experience within my own local church during the past two and a half years.

During the height of the pandemic, my church implemented a mask mandate: worshipers were required to wear masks. This greatly offended certain congregants, who left our church because of it. Their ire wasn't eased when my church began a campaign to help get as many people vaccinated as possible.

Then came 2021. My pastor bravely, publicly condemned the January 6th Insurrection in no uncertain terms. This caused more exiles from our congregation. Then, this year, he released a book denouncing Christian nationalism, and explored nationalism as an entity itself. The book has received much attention, though you certainly wouldn't know it if you'd never attended my church before, as my pastor has upheld his conviction that he should not use our pulpit to promote his literary work. Not all of the attention was positive, however, as - you guessed it - the book's message (and even its cover) rubbed some people the wrong way.

Less congregants means less tithing, which means the threat of a preacher - and church staff, from sound engineers to janitors - being without a salary. Our church also uses its tithes for mission work, including a program that teaches English to refugees settling in America, planting multicultural churches, and supporting children in Kenya and drilling water wells there. If our church had suffered a catastrophic loss of membership, certain people in Kenya may not have access to water. 

Tithing also helps those within the local church who are in need. As one of our deacons preached just this morning, the "loner Christian" is not a Biblical Christian. There are no instances in Scripture of an apostle or disciple going it alone, the misunderstood lone wolf. "A man who isolates himself seeks his own desire; he rages against all wise judgment" (Proverbs 18:1). The idea that one doesn't need to go to a building once a week, and can "worship in their own way" is tough and edgy on the surface, but it's a philosophy built on sand and not a stone; it is not a Biblically founded Christian life. Thus, if a church is a community of believers, that community will inevitably have needs and troubles, to which their brothers and sisters can minister with their tithes and offerings. We forget this in our isolation, which so often leads to a worship and serving of self rather than God.

Fortunately, however, despite the backlash my pastor received for his preaching of the truth, God was faithful to protect us from fiery arrows, and our church thrives. We have even grown since the departure of so many whose sociopolitical ideologies outweighed their spiritual priorities. 

What a job, the ministry. It's such a strange position, when adhering to the truth is a risk to your employment and livelihood. "Yes, and all who desire to live godly in Christ Jesus will suffer persecution" (2 Timothy 3:12). There are many megastar evangelists we can all name whose aversion to strict Biblical truth and the needs of the underprivileged puts them in no danger of the unemployment line. I'm grateful God has given me a community whose leaders are brave and faithful enough that they would risk such hardship. Therefore, a church's response to God's generosity is to in turn be generous to its own, so that they as a local body might spread the Gospel and minister to the needs of the suffering. And it starts with a wise and godly understanding of the role of money - and of good and evil - in a Christian's life.

Incident At the Sonic Drive-In

There’s something humbling about going to the Sonic Drive-In on foot. The Hyundai-jockeys all around you stare like you’re some kind of novelty. Which, in a way you are – you’re at a drive-in fast food place, driving nothing but a pair of Rockports.

It can make you feel rather small. But that feeling, the shrinking feeling when you know everyone is gawking at you, doesn’t matter much when you’re there to buy your last meal.

Nothing much mattered then. It didn’t matter that I didn’t drive. Too many medications made my brain feel like soup. The anomaly of being a pedestrian at the drive-in was lost on me as I pressed the button and ordered my greasy last meal before I sent myself to the gallows. Eating Paleo, or some other such healthy meal, when I planned to leave the world just an hour or so after would have struck me as pointless. I hadn't even closed and locked the door when I left my house that ugly summer day. Why bother? What did it matter? I wouldn’t be back.

It was quite a shock when the fog was so suddenly cleared. When you sleepwalk through every day, it’s jarring when something jolts you awake. A bright beacon of orange made its way through the haze, and there she was – Allison (so we'll call her for privacy's sake), the pale, skinny ginger girl with whom I’d have graduated a class above or below me, just a few years ago.

I was so alerted from my zombie-like trance that I even had the awareness to wonder what Allison of all people was doing back in our tiny town, working as a carhop at Sonic no less. Basic small town stereotyping, and the traditions in which those stereotypes are based, tells you someone who had been as popular and accomplished in high school as Allison didn't come back to town to work at Sonic. I was sure Allison had left town to go to college, as did everybody who had such a chance. In those days, we weren't as disillusioned with the debt-ridden idea of college as we are now. Something important must have brought her back. Maybe she blew her parents’ money. Maybe she couldn’t handle it. Maybe someone in the family got sick. Maybe it wasn't something as mundane as a summer job or just a realization that college wasn't for her. In any case, the Sonic Drive-In certainly wasn't where one who knew the protocol and promise of small-town youth would have pictured Allison.

There's nothing shameful about working as a fast food carhop. It's hard work. Like any job, a carhop puts up with any number of problems and frustrations. The Iraq War, for instance. If you're old enough to remember, in 2003 the United States and a coalition of other nations went to war with Saddam Hussein's Iraq; France, however, refused to join the effort, much to the ire of some Americans, who expressed their disdain for the French by calling french fries "Freedom Fries." I am not making this up. People were rolling up to Sonic and, with a straight face, ordering "Freedom fries." And of course, the carhops and cooks who repeated the orders were expected to use the absurdly jingoistic term, or risk a lecture on patriotism by the customers. 

But that's another story, I guess. Anyway, whatever brought Allison to work at the Sonic Drive-In that ugly summer of 2007, hardship or nothing special at all, it must have slipped her mind. There wasn’t a trace of embarrassment in her big green eyes – only shock. The same was written on my face. I could feel it (I could feel something!). It was probably the first time my expression had changed in weeks.

Allison was shocked to see me, and I her, but somehow I knew it wasn’t the surprise of seeing an old schoolmate after so long. It wasn't my disheveled appearance, sweaty and clad in a wrinkled plaid shirt. Somehow, I knew that she knew. And somehow, she knew that I knew what had made her eyes grow so wide.

It was some kind of telepathy. No one can tell me any different. We didn’t say a word to each other for the longest, quietest moment. As far as I remembered, our paths had never crossed much in school. It wasn’t a reunion of pals. This silence was different. She knew. I can’t be convinced otherwise.

Allison began to stammer something. It wasn’t about my order, my final order on Earth – she wasn’t looking at the brown bag on the red tray she held. Her big green eyes were still on my muddy brown ones.

“I'm sorry you’re hurting,” I felt her say.

I felt her say it. Or, I felt her think it. It was telepathy, some kind of holy intervention in the form of a para-psychological phenomenon.

“I can’t do it anymore,” I replied. That must have been how my mind answered. Or my heart. I don’t know how much the heart is involved in telepathy.

When Allison finally spoke, with her mouth and vocal cords, it was nothing profound or moving. She repeated my order and delicately handed me my last meal.

She knew. She knew what morbid milestone she held in her hand.

I said, with actual words, “thank you.”

We stood there for another long moment. If anyone had seen us – and come to think of it, I don't remember there being a single car parked at the drive-in at that moment, as if they'd all just faded into the ether as soon as I placed my order – they’d have thought we were both dumbstruck by some unseen, unspoken revelation. As if one of us had just told the other something shocking. And, I suppose, that was indeed the case.

I know that was the case.

I couldn’t take all that beauty anymore. If I was going to do what I’d promised myself to do, I had to leave right then. All that wordless beauty, as sappy as it sounds, was breaking through to me. I couldn’t have that.

I backed away, as if the burger and fries that had just changed hands had been a hostage exchange.

Fifteen or so minutes later, I found myself in a swing in the park, eating my greasy burger and fries. I don’t remember the walk getting there. Despite still being in a daze, I had my wits about me just enough to realize I was the only person in the park. There were no dog walkers, no Frisbee players, no parents and squeaking children. Maybe everyone else had looked out of their windows and seen how ugly, how heavy a summer day could be, and had the sense to stay home.

Stuffing my fries in my mouth, made all the more salty by my tears, I felt the gentle sting of Allison’s telepathy from Sonic again. “Don’t do it. Please, don’t do it.”

I spat the tear-soaked food from my mouth and had a good sob – an actual heaving sob, not just streams of tears. When I caught my breath, I replied to Allison’s mental communique, too exhausted to argue with such mind-power. I used real words.

“Alright,” I managed to croak. “Okay. Okay, I won’t do it.”

I took a drink from my Coke and winced from the acid like it was a long swig of whiskey.

All that maudlin beauty was enough torture to convince me to do, or not to do, anything.

“Just lay off with all this sap before it makes me sick,” I thought. 

I hoped Allison didn’t pick up that last bit of my groaning, grouchy inner monologue. It seemed like such a nasty thing to say to someone who’s just saved your life with the power of telepathy.