E s s a y s

 Index:

What is Truth?   Dave Taylor

The Captain's Last Voyage  Stephen Ellis

A Christian's Art in the World  Carl Groves

What in Hell Was I Thinking?  Dave Taylor

Art       Frederick Buechner

By Dave Taylor

"What is truth?"  That is a question Pontius Pilate once asked, although the answer was right in front of him. Some say that absolute truth is relative, that each man must find out truth for himself. There was once a peculiar man that changed course of history by claiming that HE was the truth, in fact the way, the truth and the life, and that no man could possibly find God without him. How one solitary life could change history, fulfill hundreds of prophesies, change millions of lives, change even our calendars by his life, is a miracle in itself. Now either this man who claimed to be the Son of God was an absolute liar, an absolutely delusional nut case with a god-complex, or he was TRUE. There are no other options. Either he was who he said he was, or he was a liar or a lunatic. He wasn't just a good guy. He wasn't just an "ascended master." Hundreds of his followers in the first century went from being cowards to suddenly being so convinced of the deity of this man that they were willing to literally give their lives for the cause of defending and proclaiming him. What could so change them, what could so change history, but the absolute reality of TRUTH?

The fulfillment of all Spiritual Longing is found in the embracing of the life, person and claims of the Man of Truth, Jesus of Nazareth, the Guaranteed Eternal Sanctuary Man, and living one's life in harmony with Him. This is not about religion, churches, or televangelists. Its not about proselytizing, calling out your sin, or shoving beliefs down your throat. Its about awakening to the "gentle mass touching" of the Creator's desire to know his Creaton - you. Jesus, the creator, the God-Man, the Lamb and Lion, is the Son of God, born in the flesh to rescue us and prove to us that we too could live our lives in perfect sonship to our Father as He did. After healing all who were oppressed by the enemy (the accuser of the brethren), and preaching about laying down one's life to follow Him and His Kingdom, He allowed Himself to be crucified by the religious leaders of His day on a Roman cross. Yeah, Jesus had a problem with religion too. He was beaten and spit upon, and whipped with 39 lashes, (coincidentally, one for each strain of disease known to man), and by those stripes we are healed. At his death the veil in the Holy of Holies in the temple of Solomon was rent clean in two, proving that the way had been cleared for all men to enter into the presence of God through His blood, shed on the cross. Then, after three days in a borrowed tomb, He re-appeared in the flesh, resurrected, and was seen by hundreds of people before being caught up to the sky where He reigns in heaven. Those witnesses to his resurrection were suddenly emboldened to lay down their very lives for Him and the proof of His resurrection. Not a single person from that era could successfully prove that Jesus wasn't resurrected or Christianity would have died right there. It didn't die. That He rules in heaven is borne out in the outpouring of His spirit that occurred on Pentecost and in your life when you ask in faith to receive Him. His Spirit is given as an empowerment to witness, to live the victorious life, to know God intimately, and to walk in supernatural spiritual giftings for evangelism and the edification of His bride, the church. He's returning soon to defeat the dragon once and for all, and take his children home, to lead them to the New Jerusalem, where the supper's ready and waiting for the wedding feast of the Lamb.

Knowing Him intimately like a lover, knowing you are forgiven of your past, present, and future wrongdoings by the blood of the sacrificial Lamb shed for you, and walking in obedience to what the Spirit tells you are the cornerstones of the true life. Casting away your selfishness and pride, turning from those things you know fall short of the mark, and accepting the finished work that Christ did on the cross enables you to overcome the pitfalls and be cloaked in His righteousness. You become a whole new person in Him. All your sin and guilt and shame is washed away for ever. Being born afresh as a child of the Living God frees you to truly be yourself, as He created you to be, following His plan for your life. Allowing the Creator to create through you, to express His love to the world through art, music, and life is the legacy of the true artist. If you ask Jesus sincerely to make Himself real to you, and invite Him to work in your life, you will NOT be disappointed. He loves you just the way you are, and He has an exciting plan and purpose for your life. If you meet and forget me you've lost nothing. If you meet and forget Jesus, you've lost everything. Following Jesus is truly PROGRESSIVE. For more information about God, read the book of John from the New Testament. And try talking to Him yourself. He's always talking to you, telling you how much He loves you, giving you direction so that He can fulfill the secret desires of your heart.

Remember, it's not about religion, it's about a personal relationship with the Living God.

That's the truth.

The Captain's Last Voyage

By Stephen Ellis

Okay my friends, first some of you may have known me as Captain MDA.  A
handle I had proudly worn since 1973.

I will attempt to explain an "event" (how small that sounds at this point)
that has truly changed my life.

I have been a seeker a searcher since I became aware in 1968. There was
more to this life than what we were being fed.

I discovered mind-expanding drugs and they offered me a small peek under the
tent flap of time, of life. I have always valued the visions the insights I
gained from them.

In fact, it was said chemicals that first turned me from a card-carrying
commie and atheist to a believer in God.

I need to add just a tad of background to fill this in.

My last LSD trip was January 22, 1988. On that night I went way past the
edge of my mind and I was not sure if I had the road map back.

That night I had a vision of God and Satan throwing dice for my soul. In
this vision (in hind sight) Satan planted the first true lie in my heart. I
saw God and Satan as they were throwing dice for my soul, become one, as if
half the face was God and the other half was Satan. In my small mind I took
this to mean that God and Satan were one. That all Good and all Bad were
just part of God.

Thus, no true heaven or hell.

This was a truth that I have carried AS A REALITY until last Saturday
night. (September 21, 2002)

I have not done a chemical psychedelic since that time. But in the mid 90's
I rediscovered 'shrooms. Like wow. A spiritual experience that your could
go to sleep after.

Now there have been random psychedelic events between then and now that were
great fun but also I had a recurring vision of Satan waiting for my soul.
Most times I could "talk" myself out of the issue and get back to the fun.
But several times Satan made it clear he owned me.

So on a recent Saturday (09/21/02) for some reason after a day of working in
the yard, cleaning cars, cleaning house I asked Jo if she would like to "do
some 'shrooms. She never had liked to let me "trip" alone so she said yes
but wanted only a small dose.

At some level this bothered me and would ultimately be the lynch pin to the
door soon to open.

I took offense and instead of doing a normal dose, I did at least three
times what even "the Captain" would recommend.

The cool things about 'shrooms is that they do not hit you over the head
like a hammer, they creep up on you.

But this night they did not creep. The first thing of significance was that
out of the 1000 plus CD's I could not find one thing that sounded good to
me. This fact alone sent me reeling into a place of uncertainty. I even
asked Jo to help and she could not.

Thus we went on w/ no music.

It was raining, an important event as we have been in a five year drought
here in the Carolinas.

Jo and I decide to go outside and listen to the rain. I chose to go play in
the rain. After sitting out in the rain for a while I asked Jo to come join
me.

Reluctantly she did. And in doing so I felt the "reluctance, the distance".
She ultimately went back to the porch.

I then came and attempted to make peace (I must have been the typical
Captain and insulted her for not wanting to sit in the rain with me). But
what came out of my mouth was an unknown tongue, a voice of a lost soul?

I can still recall Jo looking at me. Her eyes were looking at someone she
had never seen before, a total stranger.

I remember strongly her gaze and knowing she did not see me, she saw
'something else'. This infuriated me and I stripped off my shirt and shorts
and ran back out into the dark night and rain naked and scared.

Jo called to me several times to come in but I ignored her. She then turned
off the porch light and went inside to bathe.

Now understand, in all the trips we have had together, Jo has never left me
alone. This was a first and in her heart and mind must have known what was
about to happen.

I recall laying on our concrete drive (it helps to live in the country,
three acres of land, end of cul-de-sac trees all around) naked Christ like
(on the Cross) and the cold rain was falling all over me.

My deep depression of the last few months was boiling inside me and I was
weeping like a baby. I looked to the sky and simply asked God for the
Truth. I could no longer go on without it. I could no longer play the
game. It was killing me and those around me.



Here is something I need you all to understand. I was not high. I
recognized this fact in the seconds before Christ came to me. The buzz
normally associated with the dose of 'shrooms I had ingested was not there.
No flow of colors, no geometric shapes in the sky, no enlightened state of
euphoria.

I noticed that right before.

As I said, I was lying completely naked in the rain as if on my own cross
and I asked God to answer me, tell me the truth.

As I was looking up into the sky, the rain no longer fell on my face, it
became dry and warm. I looked and a Bright and Wonderful light was directly
above me. My arms and legs were still being rained on. Christ's face
appeared to me. No, I cannot tell you what God looked like, I just KNOW.
Christ began speaking to me. Christ explained WHO I WAS. (Folks I
literally wet myself). I cried so hard, I remember sitting up and pounding
my fists on the concrete and Christ wrapped his arms around me.

Christ told me of my struggle as if He had been watching it all. WOW

It was around this time that Christ told me of my Salvation, that He had
waited for me and was Here to Wash me. My friends, the cold rain became
warmer and warmer and then I noticed it was red, first a dark red then a
lighter red until it was a bright warm flow. As I looked up, back into
Christ's face I could see His wounded hands outstretched to me, His blood
flowing in wonderful drops of peace and cleansing grace.

This truly scared me and I jumped up and ran inside. Jo had as I said gone
in to shower and then to bed.

I came to her and sat on our bed with her, she ran her hands over my back
and felt the wet leaves and grit from the driveway and told me to go shower.
I could not. I felt the blood of Christ on me and at that point to wash it
off was so wrong.

I lay with her and looked into her eyes. It was at this point when Satan
attempted to steal me back. My Jo, had become possessed. She attempted to
invite me into sexual intimacy. But when I looked into her eyes they were
black holes and her mouth as well. Blacker than anything I had ever seen
and darker than the darkness of hell.

I held her and then had to get up, a voice told me this was not my Jo, I was
being tempted. My Jo has a very inviting body and Satan made her offer it
to me in a way designed to keep me from KNOWING. I got up and turned on the
light in our bedroom.

The voice from Jo said, "I knew you were going to do that" as I walked into
the living room.

I looked back into the room and saw Jo in the tightest fetal position I'd
ever seen crying like a tiny baby. Her words were, "I thought we'd always be
together," as she wept like a mere child.

(This was Satan weeping that He had lost Jo and me too) When Jo and I
talked about this on Sunday, she recalled weeping but did not know why.
Satan used her. I'm convinced if I had had sexual intimacy with her when
Satan demanded it, I would have lost the battle for both us of that night.
Satan even used Jo in an attempt to seduce me in ways that only Jo knows and
Her light and Christ's touch made me see Satan's lie)

At this point I walked back out into the dark and sat down on the driveway
again. Almost immediately Christ was at my side. He took my hand and we
started walking around our property. Rain was falling and it was still warm
and red, I tasted it, I smelled it. Christ's blood. Each step washed more
and more of the sinner out of me. Christ talked to me. I know, I believe.
What were His words? I have not a clue. I know they washed me clean, I
know that I saw the truth; I know that I was forgiven. I know that The
Captain left me as Christ filled me.

Christ walked with me to underneath our large deck. He sat next to me as I
drank gallons of water. (There was an earlier moment when I went into our
house and could not find ANY water, even though I was standing in front of a
fridge that dispenses water, that had cold bottled water inside it and a
sink 5 feet away with a working faucet) from a container I had been unable
to find before.

As we sat I began to hurl. Seriously. Large chunks of my dark soul, bits
and pieces of Satan that were being expelled. It was a glorious and awesome
event.

It was at this time I realized all the things that had happened. Christ
touched one more time, His outstretched and wounded hand touched my brow,
His blood dripped into my eyes and a red hue was everywhere and then I was
alone.

I sat in that chair under my deck and laughed, cried, and Praised God. I
had seen the Light and would never go back.

Was this all a drug-induced event? That can be your call. But not to me.

I have been struggling with this issue since I was 17. There finally came a
time when I could honestly ask God for answers and He gave them to me.

I could go on and on about my thoughts the rest of the night as I sat up in
bed evaluating my life. Wondering why God cared for my one useless soul.
But that is discussion for a later time.

My friends, I share this with you as many of you have stood by me when
probably you should not have.

I've been blessed for years and could not see it. I hurt inside when I
think of the times when I may have insulted all of you or hurt my Jo with
some flippant comment.

I beg your forgiveness and understanding.

I'm very scared but strong at the same time.

I am changing, will change. The Captain, while a dear friend that helped me
survive times of loss and confusion, is no longer needed.

I am Stephen. Proud to be a child of God and cleansed in Christ's blood.

Y'all just bear with me as I continue on this journey.

Peace to you all.

Ralph Stephen Ellis

A Christian’s Art in the World

By Carl Groves

Through inspiration, James writes “Do you not know that friendship with the world is enmity with God? Whoever therefore wants to be a friend of the world makes himself an enemy of God.” James 4:4. Before we can proceed, it is incumbent upon us to define what James meant by “the world.” In His priestly prayer recorded in John 17, Jesus laments to God, “O righteous Father! The world has not known You, but I have known You…” v 25. Earlier, in John 14:30, Jesus states that “…the ruler of this world is coming, and he has nothing in Me.” So we clearly get the impression that to be “of the world” isn’t a good thing—certainly not by God’s standard. And an exploration of the original Greek word kosmos is of little help, giving definitions of “orderly arrangement, décor, adorning, beauty, symmetry, etc.” (Strong’s #2889)—not helpful in light of the fact that rarely in the New Testament is there a positive reference to “the world.”

You may be asking yourselves, “So, uh, what does this have to do with art?” The true answer is nothing. And everything.

[For the purposes of this article, I’ll adopt the biblical definition of “the world” as denoting those outside the Body of Christ, i.e. non-believers.] As an artist, creative output—secular or Christian—is offered up to both God and the world. To God as a fruit of the gift(s) He has given you; to the world as something simply to be beheld. And there’s the challenge: As a Christian, how do I make sure that my art is both pleasing to God as a full offering of the talent He has given me and to the world as something that they will regard aesthetically? Even more challenging is having the discipline to ask yourself “will this piece/picture/article/photograph/story/song draw someone of the world closer to God, at least point them in a spiritual direction, or will it reinforce an already steel barrier that Satan has spent millennia constructing?” I must confess that I’ve not always asked this question, and even when I do, it’s usually after I’ve written something. However, as an artist, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing. One of the worst things an artist can do is create to please an audience. On the surface, this might seem contradictory to what I’ve just written above. But it’s not. Sure, regardless of the angst-ridden, modesty feigning poseurs we see shrugging off praise or criticism, all artists want folks to appreciate their art. But a true artist creates because he or she must. It isn’t something we do, it’s something we are. And we create what pleases us—“pleases” not necessarily being synonymous with “pleasant.” Some of the stuff I write disturbs me. But I’m pleased by the honest expression, not the pleasantness of the actual piece. And honest expression in art is the foundation on which my following arguments rest.

In 1995, I wrote a conceptual piece entitled “The Robbery of Murder.” It was inspired by a real tragedy that one of my co-workers had experienced. She had to deal with the double loss of her husband being killed by a drunk driver and the emotional strain of the psychological brokenness of her little boy who, from the passenger’s seat, witnessed his father’s death in the accident. You can read through the text of my story and readily realize that there isn’t an overtly “Christian” theme to the piece. In one song, I even use some mild profanity to convey the boy’s anger. And after I’d written and recorded the album, I found that the above question begged to be answered. Does this piece—secular in any definition—glorify God or simply build upon the girders of worldliness?

In 1997, I wrote another conceptual piece entitled “Catatonia.” This album was certainly more overt in its “Christian” themes. However, these weren’t the typical “feel good-praise God” sentiments one comes to expect from so-called Christian rock. The first half of the album deals with the protagonist making his case for turning away from his faith—the world is corrupt, I’m numb by the monotony of everyday existence, etc. Halfway through the album, he actually declares to God, “I turn my back on You.” The album ends with a realization that regardless of his lot, our protagonist is always in God’s presence. Still, I didn’t tie the story up with a happy ending. The album closes without the protagonist having taken action on the epiphany he’s experienced. The question still stands: Did I glorify God by not taking the step and showing a proverbial prodigal son repenting and returning to the Fold?

For Salem Hill’s “Not Everybody’s Gold” album, I wrote a simple song called “We Don’t Know.” The premise of the song is that humans don’t fully know what love is. In the arranging of this song, all the members of Salem Hill had gathered. My three Christian colleagues in the band were upset that the lyric of “We Don’t Know” contained “the queen mother of all cuss words.” I argued that it most accurately conveyed my thought. They countered that it would ruin the overall impact of the song and offend the majority of our fans. They ended up winning the argument (with the help of my wife), and I rewrote the offending verse. Two questions: Is it possible to glorify God through vulgar means? ––and—should an artist who calls himself a child of God even be using vulgarities in his art?

Forgive me, but I leave it to you to answer the questions in the three examples above. The reason is simple: My answers would have little or no meaning to you. These are questions which must ultimately be answered by every member of the audience. And that’s as it should be. The aesthetic response to art should be different from individual to individual. Many will be offended by Andreas Serrano’s controversial “Pisschrist.” I respect the rights of those people to be offended. However, I also respect Mr. Serrano’s honest expression in his art. I’ve known people who converted to Christianity due to the powerful depiction of Satanic horror in “The Exorcist.” Personally, I feel that the recent movie “Dogma” is a masterpiece, deftly examining Christianity in our modern world. However, the movie also contains relentless swearing and crude humor. These are, perhaps, extreme examples, but I cite them because I see in them successful art. That is, they succeed in eliciting an aesthetic response. As a Christian, I may bristle. But I also imagine someone who’s not a Christian is bristling too. And I am encouraged by that.  Perhaps they’re scratching their head after the experience and thinking about spiritual things. I’d be willing to wager it’s more likely to happen from provocative and “controversial” offerings than from the latest sterile, homogenized, and (dare I say it?) pleasant “contemporary Christian” record.

So, to summarize, the challenge for me as a Christian artist in creating fare for my Brethren and for the world is not so much in the content, but in the craft. I don’t think I can glorify my Creator or positively impact a lost and searching soul by offering less than my best. Likewise, it is anathema to God and transparent to the world to submit dishonest art. And I want to make it clear to both my believing and unbelieving audience that to be in the world does not necessarily mean to be of the world. Art—good art—will do that.

(Carl Groves is one of the creative forces behind the progressive band Salem Hill.  If you would like to contact Carl with comments on his essay, please send it here.)

'What in Hell Was I Thinking?"  

By Dave Taylor  (aka Trout Hound)

One of my close friends recently asked me what made me turn to God for my spirituality. I'm not sure if this is the answer she was expecting, but I had to lay out the facts in some sort of chronological order so that they made some sense.  So for good or ill, here's the deal.

Talking about God is a can of worms if I've ever seen one. Mention Christianity, and people sprint to the exits. The term spirituality is a little more palatable, since it can mean many things to many people. Spirituality is a good thing for humans, it helps us center, and provides strength and resolve when life is tossing us turds, and thankfulness when it is springing up flowers.  I have searched a lot of paths in my day, and have stuck with the answer I found because it continues to involve tangible encounters with "something more" and is not just ideas or doctrines I read in a book or based on someone else's experience.   It's very real to me, because I encountered something, or rather someone, tangible.

My parents were anything but spiritual growing up, and their concept of God was wrapped up in the suffocating folds of "religion" and "tradition" and had little to do with God as a person. To them, being "religious" meant deciding which "denomination" of church to join, and my mom kept telling me I should be a Catholic since her mother was or else a Methodist since someone she knew was a Methodist. I was confused.   I had friends who went to Catholic school, however, and had heard the stories about the nuns who rapped their knuckles with rulers, etc. I wanted no part of that religious expression. I never understood how an infinite God, if such he was, could be boxed up into so many differing partitions, each of them claiming they were "right." God, if He existed, had to be bigger than that.

My parents never went to church, and only three times in my childhood did I ever grace the doors of a church myself. Twice I went with neighbor kids who invited me to Sunday School (and I don't recall hearing anything about God), and once with neighbor kids who were breaking in to a church to steal money and smoke pot inside. I thought far more about God and who He was on the last episode, I assure you. I returned what I took the next day with an anonymous note of apology. I think I was in 7th grade at the time, and had suddenly learned the fear of God.  Although my mom had told me that God existed as a child, I never had any concept that he was a Person one could approach on one's own, without the assistance of some ancient and stuffy institution and through the help of an old man in vested robes and a seminary degree. And I had even less of a concept that God actually wanted me to talk to him, to be wonderfully dependant on him.

My dad was a drunk, hardly ever home. There was a lot of shame and embarrassment as my dad made a fool out of himself at various public places and as the coach of my brother Dan's baseball team. Dan was mortified watching the other kids make fun of his inebriated dad. I was too little to really comprehend it much, though.  One time when I was maybe 5 or 6 we took some of my brother's friends to the drag races, and afterwards my dad passed out on the front seat of the truck and we all had to spend the night in the back of a pickup. Needless to say, my brother's friends parents never let them come to OUR house again. In response to all those family problems  my brother tuned out, getting heavily into drugs fairly young, and he just naturally included me because I was the little tag along. I had begun smoking pot with Dan and my sister (they were 9 and 8 years older, respectively) when I was seven years old.     After my parents got divorced when I was in the 5th grade, my siblings moved out of the house for college and private school (my sister's deaf). Later, I  did cocaine, opium, PCP, LSD and mushrooms while I was in the sixth grade, and spent hours grooving out to Camel and Tangerine Dream in my brother's secret weed growing room up in his attic.

My mom worked full time, and I was the prototypical latchkey juvenile delinquent kid who smoked pot all day and lost himself in a world of progressive rock and dime store fantasy and sword and sorcery novels.  I probably listened to Rick Wakeman's Myths and Legends of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table hundreds of times in a row that year.  Escapism was the key to my existence. Smoke from bong hits and the refrains from Yes albums filled my bedroom every day after school.

Out of the house now, my older brother Dan began to get into witchcraft, studying under an esteemed wizard who owned Seattle's only occult bookstore at the time, Bell, Book, and Candle.  He lured me into that realm by providing me with books, artifacts,  and my own set of Tarot cards, and I began to spend my summers and Christmas breaks hanging out with him. He moved out to an ancient old hippie house with no running water or electricity out on the Olympic Peninsula rainforest on the coast of Washington.

In seventh grade I became a vegetarian, and had hair down to my shoulders, and started attending hippie healing gatherings like the Rainbow family gathering in Eugene Oregon. My friends would tease me at school because I wouldn't eat meat or things with chemicals. I was also incredibly skinny, which added to my sense of isolation.  Maybe I was just an average junior high kid growing up in suburbia in Belleview in the late 70's, but I felt like a freak.

So my summers from age 11 to 15 were spent tripping on acid and mushrooms, and doing intense occultic rituals and ceremonies in the dead of night under the moon. I was hungry for spiritual things, and I adopted a pagan deity at the time as my patron, Pan.  I was obsessed with divination, and used the i-ching and the tarot almost daily, although I was always bewildered when my personal card always came up as zero-the-hero ..the fool.   As I got further into witchcraft, at around 15 or so, I began to realize I was playing with forces beyond and out of my control.  Spiritual entities were manifesting themselves and creating havoc, and things began to get downright freaky. The culmination came one summer out at my brothers old house near Port Angeles when pictures and mirrors were being flung off the walls at us and large objects outside were buffeting the house with a mighty shaking late at night. I am not making this up! You cannot convince me that there are NOT positive and negative spiritual entities at work in the world around us.
Twisted but real.

My brother decided to marry his girlfriend Melissa in an occultic ceremony, and I was the ring bearer. My relatives all came down to the wedding, which was outside in a grassy field, and we fed them all magic mushrooms secretly. My uncles figured it out, but my grandma for some reason decided to chow down on them. My uncle's had to pull her away from the bowl. They were a bit freaked out, and rounded up everybody to get the heck out of there. "C'mon everybody, we've gotta go. Grandma's getting high." They all laugh about it now, and how grandma stayed up all night at their motel, tripping.  My dad hung around there since the party was just starting for him.  Later that night my new sister-in-law slowly freaked out, which culminated in her manifesting a demonic possession. Anyone that was left at the party bailed at that point. Talk about a conversation killer. Too much weirdness. She was screaming like she gave birth, and then this weird deep voice began talking out of her, and it freaked us all out pretty bad. A few weeks later we were 20 or so miles away in town shopping, and Melissa had this premonition that a bad thing was happening back home at the house, so we rushed back. Sure enough, when we got back we found that their dog,  a very mean and aggressive German Shepherd named Merlin, had killed their two tethered goats just for the milk sacks.  We decided we had to kill the dog, but rather than just shoot him, we opted to...pretty frickin scary.. ritually sacrifice him. So we had this occult ritual, just me and my brother and the circle and the candles and the chants, and well, did it, using these ornate swords. It was by far the most disgusting thing I have ever participated in, and both of us weirded out bad. After that night we both decided that we wanted nothing more to do with witchcraft.   I began to get more involved in a new-age type of spirituality and meditation.   I began exploring zen meditation, Carlos Castaneda, and Native-American mysticism, although my search often left me feeling empty. The forces out there all seemed so impersonal. I even began reading A Course in Miracles with a teacher from school, which was a supposedly new revelation of the bible which I quickly discovered was hooey. Spirituality was all so confusing.

While I was back at school that fall my junior year in Seattle,  my brother and his wife ran into some hippie "Jesus Freak" types in their travels and suddenly became Christians.  They sent me a letter apologizing for bringing me into their world of occultism, and they sent me a bible and told me to read the new testament, just to see who Jesus was. I never really had a problem with Jesus growing up, although I had never really thought about him much. I had always avoided using his name in vain out of some vague respect, although I didn't really know why. But I had always avoided anything to do with organized religion.

I had not looked at a bible before in my whole life, I don't think my parents even owned one. I didn't know the foggiest thing about it, but as I read Matthew Luke and John and the rest, I was somewhat captivated by this Jesus guy, and the words that he spoke. He was nothing like the supposed Christians and religious people I had met. He actually reviled religious people who pretended to be better than anyone else. He hung out with the sinners, loving on them, helping them. The religious folks called him a drunkard because he drank wine with the sinners (he even kept a party going once by miraculously creating a barrel of wine out of water -- this guy wasn't the stuffy dude I had imagined at all!). Yet his words were sparkling, alive. I was intrigued, to say the least. So one night, after I finished the Book of Revelation, the heaviest thing I had ever read in my life, I sort of reached out to him. Not knowing how are what I was doing, I prayed. I asked Jesus that if he was really alive, really real, that he would show himself to me, to let me know somehow that He was real.

A few weeks later, I was walking home from school when some friends of mine drove by, and they picked me up. They were going to look for some weed that they had dropped up in the woods about 10 miles out of town. I had nothing better to do, so I climbed in back seat of this 72 Monte Carlo and we sped off. We drove up this windy back road, and they clamored out and found their baggee. We got back in the car to leave, and cruised back down this old road. I didn't get high with them. The road has a particularly nasty L corner on it that had been the demise of two high school kids the month before when they crashed their VW off the cliff. My friends were eager to show they were superior drivers, and they were arguing about the corner. "O'Malley made it in his Caprice, but he was only going 40 mph. I am a better driver. I'm doing it at 55." So here I was sitting in the backseat of this car with two stoned dudes, feeling aloof and having this somewhat surreal experience as he hits the gas and speeds up to 55 mph right before a hairpin corner marked 20 mph on the sign. Tires screeching, we skidded around the corner and slowly drifted into the shoulder toward the cliff. Dave Neville, the driver, overcorrected, which aimed us at the rocky upland bank as we fishtailed, and then he overcorrected again, and the next thing I knew I am weightless as the car launched straight off a cliff into the forest below. No seatbelt, just sitting alone on the backseat bench with a detached feeling of doom.

Suddenly I was confronted with a vision in that split second, my life flashing before my eyes, and I was in this strange white place like a palace, and I am facing a King, someone more powerful and holy, and by his eyes, those kindly eyes, more good than anything I can comprehend. No word is spoken, but I feel this vibrant, almost overwhelming love, from this being whom I knew at once to be Jesus. And the message those eyes of love conveyed was of ownership, that I was somehow His, and I was never to forget that.

Meanwhile the car left the road and launched into a nose-dive, flipping in mid air and landing with a huge crash right on the roof, with two huge Douglas fir trees within inches of either side. Suddenly the vision was gone, and I found myself squatting on my feet on the headliner inside of the car's roof amongst broken glass. The car flipped around me in the air, and since I wasn't wearing a seatbelt, I actually just landed on my feet, squatting inside the car on the roof when it hit! I crawled out of the car, and found my friends unhurt also. A car drove up with a lady inside that knew the two kids that had died there the week before, so she gave us a ride home. Before I knew it, I was dropped off at my doorstep, in a daze. I didn't know what happened, but I knew my prayer had been answered, I was alive, and from that moment on I was convinced Jesus Christ was definitely no myth.

So then my search began anew, to find out more about this Person, man and God, supposedly come to woo the sinners of the earth like a lover woos his bride. "You don't have to be good, you just have to believe in Him," the words in his book read, and I was mystified, since I had been taught that only good people went to heaven. And it wasn't "go to church, be confirmed, get baptized, act like us.." it was "Come to Me, know Me, love Me, have faith in Me, and you will have Life, abundant life, eternal life." It blew my mind, and I felt like I had been betrayed by all those religious people that had made finding God so complicated and so full of rules when all along it was so simple, and that He was really just a prayer away. And he loved me just like I was, and the lie that He was waiting with a huge thumb over my head to snuff out any misbehavior was washed away with a comprehension of his unconditional love for me, that I was his child, his brother. He was real, and He actually loved me like His son, and the peace of that flooded me and for the first time in my young life, I actually felt joy, and I was at peace. Grace! What a concept. A thought that can change the world, like Bono says in the song of that name on the new U2 album.  My search was over, yet it was just beginning. It was new territory, after my childhood and drunken father, to find a Daddy that loved me unconditionally, and so I pledged myself to seek him daily, to open myself up, expose my weaknesses and inabilities, and so allow him to reveal his great plans for my life. And God showed me things, helped me make decisions, and I began learning to discern His still, small voice.

After that, I began to consider myself a follower of Christ, although the term "Christian" has always bothered me because of the Pharisees and institutions out there that have used his name to build their own kingdoms instead of His. I just can't relate to people who beg for money from the poor in the name of Christianity rather than giving their money to help the poor. Its a tragedy, and I'm certain it breaks God's heart as well.

And He continued to make himself real to me. A year later, I was hiking with my brother Dan deep in a remote part of Glacier National Park when we were charged by a huge grizzly bear. The beast came out of the forest and barreled right down on us, and without knowing what else to do, we both yelled "Stop in the name of Jesus!" to the thing as it came at us like a freight train (there were no trees to climb). And strangely enough, as soon as we said "Jesus" the bear's eyes got big and it skidded to a stop right in front of us, then turned and scampered off into the woods. Who was this Jesus, that even the beasts listened to his name?

So that is how my journey into God began, and I am still a long way from the end, as I discover more and more about his goodness and open myself up more and more to allow his divine nature to work within me, to cleanse me, change me, awaken me to Him in all I see. I could tell you more about the angels and miracles I've seen (like the time in College I was rear ended by a guy going 100 mph and my gas tank in my Corolla exploded with me trapped inside, and an angel pulled open the door..), but another time perhaps, as I have gotten so long winded I could put up a windmill ..he he.

Anyway, so now you know somewhat of the where's and why's of why I turned to the God of the New Testament for my spirituality. To me, God is real, a Father, a friend, a protector, and He has continually answered my prayers and made my life fuller. He is the spark of creativity in me, the guider of my hands, and the author of the still small but growing reservoir of love I have in me for his creatures.  So if that is any help to you, I submit it humbly, not as a proselytizer, but as a friend. That is my journey, and it is certainly not for everyone, seeing as the cost of following Christ is more than most people can pay. But in traveling all the spiritual roads I did, I can truly say that I never found true peace until I encountered Him, and allowed Him to invade my life. I am still broken and imperfect, and fail miserably most of the time, but like a father hold's a little child and loves it in its imperfection, so I know God does the same for all of us, His children. Give Him a chance to prove Himself to you. Let Him put His arms of love around you. Let Him be your Daddy.

ART

Frederick Buechner    from Whistling in the Dark, a Doubters Dictionary

"An old silent pond. / Into the pond a frog jumps. / splash! Silence again." It is perhaps the best known of all Japanese haiku. No subject could be more humdrum. No language could be more pedestrian. Basho, the poet, makes no comments on what he is describing. He implies no meaning, message, or metaphor. He simply invites our attention to no more and no less than just this: the old pond in its watery stillness, the kerplunk of the frog, the gradual return of the stillness.

In effect he is putting a frame around the moment, and what the frame does is enable us to see not just something about the moment but the moment itself in all its ineffable ordinariness and particularity. The chances are that if we had been passing by when the frog jumped, we wouldn't have noticed a thing or, noticing it, wouldn't have given it a second thought. But the frame sets it off from everything else that distracts us. It makes p0ossible a second thought. That is the nature and purpose of frames.  The frame does not change the moment, but it changes our way of perceiving the moment. It makes us NOTICE the moment, and that is what Basho wants above all else. It is what literature in general wants above all else too.

From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention. Pay attention to the frog. Pay attention to the west wind. Pay attention to the boy on the raft, the lady in the tower, the old man on the train. In sum, pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein.

The painter does the same thing, of course. Rembrandt puts a frame around an old woman's face. It is seamed with wrinkles. The upper lip is sunken in, the skin waxy and pale. It is not a remarkable face. You would not look twice at the old woman if you found her sitting across the aisle from you on a bus.  But it is a face so remarkably seen that is forces you to see it remarkably just as Cezanne makes you see a bowl of apples or Andrew Wyeth a muslin curtain blowing in at an open window. It is a face unlike any other face in all the world. All the faces in the world are in that one old face.

Unlike painters, who work with space, musicians work with time, with note following note as second follows second. Listen! says Vivaldi, Brahms, Stravinsky. Listen to this time that I have framed between the first note and the last and to these sounds in time. Listen to the way the silence is broken into uneven lengths between the sounds and to the silences themselves. Listen to the scrape of bow against gut, the rap of stick against drumhead, the rush of breath through reed and wood.  The sounds of the earth are like music, the old song goes, and the sounds of music are also like the sounds of earth, which is of course where music comes from.  Listen to the voices outside the window, the rumble of the furnace, the creak of your chair, the water running in the kitchen sink. Learn to listen to the music of your own lengths of time, your own silences.

Literature, painting, music -- the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives, as a vastly richer, deeper, more mysterious business than most of the time it ever occurs to us to suspect as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot. In a world that for the most part steers clear of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left where we can speak to each other of holy things.

Is it too much to say that Stop, Look, and Listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us? Listen to history is the cry of the ancient prophets of Israel. Listen to social justice, says Amos; to head-in-the-sand religiosity, says Jeremiah; to international treacheries and power-plays, says Isaiah; because it is precisely through them that God speaks his word of judgment and command.

And when Jesus comes along saying that the greatest command of all is to love God and to love our neighbor, he too is asking us to pay attention. If we are to love God, we must first stop, look, and listen for him in what is happening around and inside us. If we are to love our neighbors, before doing anything else we must see our neighbors. With our imagination as well as our eyes, that is to say like artists, we must see not just their faces but the life behind and within their faces. Here it is love that is the frame we see them in.

In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that "Consider the lilies of the field" was the only commandment she never broke. She could have done a lot worse. Consider the lilies. It is the sine qua non of art and religion both.