Joyful Noise

“For there is one God, and one mediator between God and mankind,

the man Christ Jesus” (1 Timothy 2:5, NIV)

            The other day, I found myself explaining my theology to this Christian chap. It was a polite yet conflicting dialogue which initially occurred between us. Despite the pleasantries, he did what many followers of Jesus tend to do, assuming their path is the correct one and the rest of us are lost to the devil or whatever entity they create that day. We discussed the character of God and the anthropomorphic tendencies mankind has little trouble placing upon It. We both agreed to the possibility of there being a single deity. At one point, it seemed obvious to him that I worshipped the “one true God.” I clarified that this was not the Hebrew God or the Christian God but rather the Unknown God, something more akin to agnosticism than some organized religious movement. He chastised me while maintaining his polite manner. Putting a rose on a pile of turd doesn’t make it smell sweeter. Eventually, the conversation jumped from civil to judgmental. Apparently, his way was the only way, although people who believe their way is the only way still finish at a dead end, just like the rest of us. He tossed scripture after scripture at me, accosting me in a much less civil manner. I knew the requirements of salvation from his point of view and he reminded me that my soul was in jeopardy. When I told him I left Christianity years ago because of views like his, he hammered at me with condemnation after condemnation. It was as if Jesus had tossed me to the curb or under the proverbial bus. I felt a little assaulted and insulted when He claimed any other way than through the Christ was a road to oblivion, not salvation. He did not understand why anyone would turn away from such promise. He didn’t understand why anyone would stop believing. I told him, just before the end, that it wasn’t that I didn’t believe in God, I just don’t believe in his God.

“In the name of the Lord Jesus Christ, we command you, brothers and sisters, to keep away from every believer who is idle and disruptive and does not live according to the teaching you received from us.” (2 Thessalonians 3:6, NIV)

            When I attended the Pentecostal Church of Strathroy throughout the early 1980s, I learned rather quickly to shut the hell up or, ironically so, face the consequence. No matter what any scripture might claim, accordingly, I really couldn’t express an opinion and to say the least, I shouldn’t have one. As a disciple of Christ, I was made to follow. It was not my place to question, hell, even thinking for yourself was frowned upon. Unfortunately, for them not me, I have never just laid down and done what people tell me to do. I am outspoken, which could go either way. My power can serve the good but it might as easily serve something wicked. It’s up to you, really. It’s all in the presentation. Don’t tell me what to believe, show me what to believe. Support your evidence, even if you don’t have any. Don’t just expect me to lay there and let you fuck me over. I am not a Stepford Wife, I am not your good little boy, and I never will be. I tried really hard to be an exemplary Christian while I attended the fundamentalist Church. I wanted so badly to fit in and be accepted, not by them, but by Jesus. I believed the lies they told me about Electivism and God’s Favour. I wanted the Spirit, I wanted it all but I just couldn’t keep my comments to myself. If something made no sense, I tried to objectively observe and then make my stance. Even as a little boy I often played journalist, in the most condescending way. Little has changed for me since back then. I have never just accepted what they say. I need proof of the claims made in the name of God or Jesus or even Zeus. When the minister sat down for Bible class, I should have known we were in for a rocky ride. His claims regarding the exclusive nature of salvation I had heard many times before. The formula could be found in those pages. When asked for an opinion, I pointed out the sheer number of people who would be cast into hell if this way of thinking is true. I did not understand why the wants of a few outweigh the needs of many. Why would God hold one person above another when in fact we are all equal in His eyes? We all bleed the same and you would think an omniscient creator would know that. I guess I forgot to mind my place in light of this pseudo-theology. The words had barely come out of my mouth when I was reminded that I was in Bible study, not Philosophy 101. He may not have told me to shut up but he might as well have. All I remember, at this point, is the confusion and angst brought on by the situation. So I just sat there, alienated and muted.

“Do not be afraid of what you are about to suffer. I tell you, the devil will put some of you in prison to test you, and you will suffer persecution for ten days. Be faithful, even to the point of death, and I will give you life as your victor’s crown.”

(Revelation 2:10, NIV)

            For several years, she followed me around like a panting dog in need of a drink. She was my friend but otherwise I was just not into her. The fact she had a vagina made things a lot more complicated than they needed to be. You could tell she liked me, she even told me that she did. It’s not that I wasn’t interested in her but my penis was not. I didn’t tell her the truth until after my first partner died. For weeks, I would talk to her on the phone for hours, every other day or so. She helped, until our conversations started to focus on our personal theologies. While I maintained my unbalanced view of that time, she made it clear that salvation was only for a few and the reward for a Godly life was a crown covered with jewels and gold. Each failure in this life meant a jewel would be removed from the diadem. The Elect can never lose their salvation, their crown might well be barren but it is a crown just the same. When I asked her for a scriptural reference, she tossed it out like an old friend. I have always found it amusing how religious people most certainly know their words but rarely meet them with action. I was not comfortable with the notion of physical reward in heaven. Heaven had always meant something ethereal to me. Even as a boy, I recognized that paradise was untouchable. My Mom used to say, “You pick your heaven while you are still here on earth.” Eventually, I came to understand that our ideas of heaven are simply anthropomorphic. It’s really the best we can do. The very idea that we are rewarded by God, in trade, struck me as absurd. I actually laughed to myself at the thought of it. Some people don’t like to be motivated into thinking. Safe archetypes and high myth bring safety and security to billions of people every day. We are led by our ideas rather than our ideals. We worry about our just reward of one day and forget to live this day. I suppose I should have expected no less. She told me the second she realized I was a heathen. I refused to allow her to talk to me that way and attacked accordingly. I pointed out that I don’t recall seeing any crown on her when she offered me her pussy just the year before. She was then gone and all that friendship nothing more than wasted time. It was all irrelevant anyway. Her salvation was secured so she could do anything she wanted or say anything that came to her convoluted mind. It has been a quarter century since I last heard her voice and her school of thought. I have read about it, this doctrine of crowns and jewels. People actually live their lives believing such vacuous notions. Apparently, inane should be considered a lifestyle.

“Shout for joy to the Lord, all the earth.

Worship the Lord with gladness;

come before him with joyful songs”

(Psalm 100: 1-2)

            I grew up singing. I always had a passion for it and I always took my performances in the most serious of ways. I was born to carry a tune. I trained my voice in the same manner I cultivated the instruments I played. I may be considered an amateur but I never once felt that way while I was belting out one song after another. I sang at charity events, talent contests and mostly in the churches I attended. It didn’t matter the character of god they followed, I was there to sing and little else. I made the most appearances at my family’s final sanctuary, the United Church of Canada, Strathroy edition. I sang solo, I sang in chorus and quite often would sing with my Mom. She would sit on the front stairs leading to the choir while I lingered beside her, standing before a congregation and my memories. There is much less music in my life now that my Mom has left us. I’m not sure where she left us to go to but I am sure she has an autoharp with her and the time to crank out a ditty or two. As I got older, the depth and expression of each piece, that I chose to perform, became very important when deciding whether or not to appear. I reached for new heights and in doing so ended up with little to show for it. The first words out of her mouth when she heard the song was, “We gotta sing it!!” So we set out to do just that. Heaven, performed by Michael English, is a blend of traditional and modern gospel, with a touch of Pop to stir it all in. I love, love, love this song. It speaks to the true nature of any divine being and reminds us that there is a place called hope if we just believe it. You really do create your own heaven, the rest is still just a dead end. We practiced that song so many times we would sprout wings by the end of each rehearsal. It was good, we were good. Just three days before our performance and the choir director joined us in the sanctuary. He sat on a pew and watched the entire thing. He left as swiftly as he had come. The next day, they pulled the rug out from underneath us. We both got tossed under that bus and just left there. The choir director refused to allow “that kind of music” in HIS church. His contract gave him exclusive rights over content. Fucker. When I sat down with the minister to discuss the how and why of it all, I was insulted at the lack of response. It didn’t seem to matter to anyone but me and my friend. Twenty years have come and gone since our censoring. I still have the sheet music and I still get pissy when I think about what happened. The death of the villain meant little to the overall story itself. You can try to silence me, to control my message but you cannot take away the one thing some may never have, resolve. I just keep going. Fuck them if they can’t handle the joke.

“Do not give dogs what is sacred; do not throw your pearls to pigs. If you do, they may trample them under their feet, and turn and tear you to pieces.” (Matthew 7:6, NIV)

            It would be the last time I would lecture anyone. I only agreed as a favour to one of my friends. The topic set a gigantic task before me, editing down an entire theology to a twenty minute speech. It did not help that the class was made up of teenage boys and girls, each one staring aimlessly out the windows right behind me. I tried to present the logical and scholastic approach. I was not surprised when they started shifting in their chairs. I went off-script. I ventured into personal opinion rather than staying on the original course. Always follow the prompter. When in doubt, don’t do it. You could tell that it worked, I got back their attention. My reproof only made it all worse. I should just learn to shut my mouth in mixed company. Some Christians can be so touchy and defensive. The class instructor let me have it good. Right in front of all those kids, she tried to put me in my place. I’m sorry but if you align yourself with a problem then you become part of that problem. If you do not condemn a person for their “behaviour” then you condone that behaviour. I think she wanted more learning and less subjectivity. She was right but she could have handled it differently. When the display was well over and the lights all turned out, I walked past her in the hallway and went outside to smoke. Apparently, my craving for nicotine was a common ground for us. She waltzed outside like a cocky chicken, all ruffles and plumage and peck peck peck. Apparently, it was enough to chastise me in front of children but I didn’t even merit standard protocol in public. She just stood there, puffing on a fag not knowing that I was one. She chose to be there. She saw me from the side door and still came out. She could have easily waited, or went to the other side of the building, but she decided to venture into my personal space. She drained the life right out of that cigarette. I think the filter was charred by her powerful nursing. She downed that sucker before mine was half gone. Her absence did not make my heart grow fonder. I guess there are those people who cannot handle the truth, at least not the truth as I know it. Of course, everyone has a difference of opinion and that opinion is always right. This is not the issue. I decided to take the scholastic approach with the lecture. I did not have to be considerate, no prerequisites or restrictions were placed upon me. I could have easily taken a different angle, an angle which may well have expressed the same views that I was being chastised for. Sometimes you are damned if you do and damned if you don’t.

“Make a joyful noise unto the Lord, all the earth: make a loud noise,

and rejoice, and sing praise” (Psalm 98:4, KJV)

            I am at a point in my life where I don’t give a damn about what people think of me. It’s not that I cared before. Everyone is entitled to their opinion, even if they are wrong. My writing, my profile, my lifestyle are only your business if I allow them to be. I find religion and related social issues fascinating. I have studied both for well over twenty years now. I suppose one of the greatest challenges for me as a theologian has been dealing with the religion of my youth. Christianity regularly reminds me just how myth and fable can be used to imbed moral ideas in the very fabric of a society. This is the purpose of all those tales people used to tell. They still do all over the world. I, for one, never wanted to just sit there and let someone tell whatever they want to me. I’m not comfortable with anyone going around speaking for God. I was tamed in my youth by restraint and a promise that I made to my mother. I kept it back, never questioning in public, never throwing things back in the face of hypocrisy and xenophobia. Those days, like my mother, are long gone. The times have changed. Do not tell me what to think and most certainly don’t assume that I believe as you do. This is my life and I hold little room for silly ideas or superstitions. It is strange the way things are for me now. Somehow when God is near to me, it is I who is near to God. I even sing with greater conviction than I used to. Somehow amidst all the baggage. among all the relics, and all the dogma, I have found my voice. 

It is a joyful noise.

Photo

Hanover, Ontario

Summer 1985