Patrick Todoroff's Blog, page 22

The Grim Fall 3: Luck

Three: Luck

The Black Sands was a beggarly name for an Orc settlement. Before the Grim Fall, a war-horde thundering out of the Unaka Mountains would shake the earth and chill the blood of every king within five-hundred leagues. Now the scraps of the Unaka greenskins eked out an existence in an old iron mine bored in the flank of Mount Geichak. No more Blood Tusk, Gate Smashers, or Gruumsh’s Fist; the place was named after the mounds of tailing swathed on the mountain’s slopes.

When the end started, orcs and goblins all over the region sought refuge in the mine’s twisty dark. As the heavens convulsed and continued to vomit ruin across the land, hundreds of refugees like Addas – greenskin or otherwise – streamed up to the headlands begging food, shelter, the slightest respite from the devastation. Thousands crammed into the mine, the swelling numbers spurring frantic excavation. Spent shafts were re-opened, cramped caves chiseled out, propped with scree and dry-rot timber. Desperate survivors clawed out miles of new tunnel, all twisted, looping, jumbled as a mass of chicken guts. The old mine grew into an underground city; a precarious warren of dark, foul-aired safety that offered a mountain of rock between them and the ruinous skies.

The ancient cliff-side forge was fortified, walls heaped ever thicker and higher with fresh rubble until the ledge around the mine entrance bristled with squat towers, crude bastions and craggy ramparts. Orks known more for tearing down than building, the defenses were thick, ugly things of black stone and slopped mortar. But they stood. In fact, walls of the Black Sands were one of the few barriers between the fragments of the old world and the ravenous brutality of this shattered new one.

Wind knifing into his back, Addas trudged down to the main gate and pounded on the iron-clad beams. It lurched open just wide enough for him to squeeze through, the tower guards spitting their welcome as he passed below their windows. Those orcs huddled around the braziers sneered, but made no move to stop him; the sledge was loaded. Addas figured contempt was the softest cruelty. First dibs on his kills guaranteed they left it at that – most of the time. Or perhaps it was just too cold to give up their spot near the coals.

When he reached the center of the yard, Addas drew the sledge around in front of him, slyly tugging the canvas back to reveal carcass’ meaty flanks. It was a ritual, like a whore hitching up her skirt, he realized. Then he plastered a dumb look on his face and carefully wrapped himself away.

The mine’s entrance gaped low and round like a mouth moaning in the dark cliff face. Warm, rancid air rushed out bearing traces of cooking oil and roasted meat, the musk of livestock, wood smoke, and hundreds of unwashed orks and their goblin-kin. The scent of loss, desperation, starvation, cruelty… the scent of home.

The unicorn horn was suddenly heavy between his shoulder blades. He’d snugged it alongside the javelin, out of sight. A search would turn it up straight off, but with any luck, Ogol and Igmut would only have eyes for steak.

‘Ow many times I have to say it boy? Chalk’s voice rasped in his memory. No luck left ‘cept what you make.

To name is to call; no sooner had Addas thought of them, two orc brutes lumbered out of the shadows. Addas would have prayed if there had been anyone listening. Instead, he averted his eyes and hunched slightly as they drew near.

Ogol twirled a thick studded club in his gloved hands while Igmut swaggered ahead with his thumbs in his belt. A warg’s claws had left Ogol with a milky eye and the lopsided stitched face of a rag doll, while Igmut’s jaw and right tusk caught a Dwarf war hammer in a skirmish before the treaties were signed. Twice as stupid as they were ugly, Snat had labeled them ‘Dim and Dimmer’, the little goblin claiming they didn’t have enough brains between them to organize a hump in a brothel.

Before the Fall, Ogol and Igmut were foot soldiers in the Unaka mob. Hearing opportunity knocking in the apocalypse’s thunder, they started calling themselves ‘captains’, riveting shiny bits to their armor and demanding salutes. Now watch commanders, they spent their days bellowing orders and lurking at the mouth of the mine where the air was cleaner but still warm from the depths. Where they could pinch a bit of everything that came in or out.

Ogol’s beefy hand thumped Addas in the chest. Igmut circled behind.

‘Wha’chu got there, runt?” Ogol demanded.

Addas kept his eyes down. “Horse.”

“‘orse, he says.” Ogol smacked his lips. “Rare find, runt. Horse is good eatin’.”

“Where’d you find ‘orse ’round ‘ere, piglet?” Igmut grunted over his shoulder.

“South of the ridge,” Addas lied. “Near the old road from Dumovaar.”

Ogol flung back the tarp and smiled all teeth. He swallowed hungrily and took a step forward, but then his one good eye narrowed. He stopped, looked Addas up and down. “What happed to its ‘ead?”

Addas shrugged, tried to sound tough. “Fecker kicked me. So I bashed him with a rock. Made him stop.”

Igmut had come around to stand beside Ogol. “That’ll do it,” he chuckled nastily. He slapped his partner’s shoulder. “C’mon. Cooks need to see this.”

But Ogol was on the scent. He took another step, thick muscles sliding under his green skin. “So how’d ya get that gash?” He pointed to Addas’ chest. “Hoofs don’t do that.”

Addas flushed. He hoped it looked like shame. “I slipped,” he stammered. “I tracked it through the Razors. I was creeping over the karst like I seen you do when ice took my feet right out from under me. Damn near cut my own head off. Chased him two miles after that.”

Ogol shoved Addas, sent him backward onto the frozen dirt. “Clumsy git.” Laughter erupted from the gate.

Igmut hawked up a gob and spat at Addas’ feet. “That’s cause you’re only half orc, runt,” he belched out. “Pink little piglet like you will never be good as us.”

Ogol loomed over Addas and hauled him to his feet. He pulled him up until his warty, tusked face was inches away. “Fecking weak is what you are,” the orc growled. “Useless. Can’t hardly kill a mangy ‘orse.”

Addas hung his head. Play the part, he thought. Let them see what they want.

“Piglet and the ‘orse,” Igmut guffawed. “Now there’s a battle, eh?”

Ogol pushed Addas aside, bent and hefted the corpse over his shoulder. “We’ll get this to the cooks for you, runt.”

Igmut on the other hand, rummaged around in his trousers and started pissing on the sledge. When the last drops spattered out, he gave Addas lopsided leer. “Cleaned some of the blood off for you, piglet. See to the rest of it straight away.”

“Will do.” Addas saluted, then watched the two of them disappear into the cave.

Behind him, the tower guards sniggered. An ice chunk bounced off his shoulder. More laughter. Without a word, Addas stooped for the ropes, straightened the load on his back, and followed after.

Plug for Mimetic Tees

Some of the coolest cyberpunk/sci fi shirts I’ve seen on the interwebs. Perfect for gaming, RPG sessions or con-wear, I picked up this little gem for summer.

Browse their selection and enjoy. Yes, you need one. LINK HERE

* Major geek-cred if you ID the quote without cheating. First comment with the correct answer gets a paperback copy of Shift Tense.

An Ocean of Storms

Story from the next Clar1ty Wars installment.

PROLOGUE: AN OCEAN OF STORMS

“– the Check-In at Gate E –”

The man in the deep padded leather couch studied the domes’ apex. Sixteen arched struts joined in a polished steel navel twenty meters overhead. He marveled: it was a flawless join – perfect welding. Not robotic, the man knew: human hands had drawn an electrogas welder over those seams. Some forgotten laborer in a cheap pressure-suit decades ago; skilled and conscientious despite appalling wages and the relentless hazards of deep space construction. An anonymous artist. A serf under a foreign sun.

And now, perhaps for the first time, surrounded by all the black and chrome minimalist opulence, someone finally recognized the only authentic achievement in the room.

The ceiling.

The man stopped staring, surveyed the empty lounge. The Executive Lounge. He bristled at the title. More like executive waste. Here he was, one person in a bubble of light and warmth and oxygen that could easily house fifty. Oblivious, entitled, decadent, the Profligate wrung wealth from the sweat and air of thousands of people slaving in the outer stations – people like the nameless worker – then flaunted it in places like this. Profane is it was.

God damn them all.

The tall windows encircling the room swelled with deep, star-dusted black. The lights at the spaceport’s landing pads were bright enough to edge the rough gray of the crater lip in the windows on his right. Without a reference, he couldn’t gauge the distance, but the glass panels were so clear, he swore he could have stepped out one of the frames and bounded across the dark basalt.

He snorted. The electro-stat needed to keep this view dust-free for a month probably cost more than he made in a year. More squandering. He ground his teeth. His old suit, a few hours oxygen, a good ship, and he could be far away from this blight, this mockery, back where God spoke in the endless silence among the frozen dunes. Back where he belonged.

But no. Leaving wasn’t an option. The Prophet had declared a great and effective door was open – only for a season. They must move swiftly, at any price.

“– Jumaat please report to –”

And what a price. He tugged his shirt collar for the hundredth time. The tie was still tight, but not knowing how to retie it, he feared loosening it further. The jacket, with its smooth, iridescent silk, bunched under his arms and cinched around his waist. This mission must have cost the brothers dearly; the outfit, a new identity, a Movado Charm, this Shuttle ticket. Yet he had been assured even such extravagant sowing would reap a thousand-fold reward. How then could he refuse?

God willed it. He was coming home.

Drop City was below the horizon. He craned his neck nonetheless, hoping against reason the blue and white orb would peek into view.

He calmed himself. This was a layover – a minor delay. Lakshmi Lunar Station was one stop from the end of his journey; he’d be planetside soon enough.

If he wanted, he could watch the azure oceans and pearl-swirled clouds until they broke atmosphere. After all, Executive Class view screens tapped video feed from all around the shuttle, even the cockpit.

Fifteen years ago, he had been certain he was gone forever. Sentenced to permanent indenture to the biotech giant Genzyme, he been assigned to their deep-space arcology near the gas giant Zang Guo. That day, booster’s shuddering, he had elbowed his way to a bulkhead seat and stared for hours out a tiny porthole, first at the receding pale blue orb, then when the tears dried, at the stars.

There was so much light. He had been stunned to think of space as bright; a billion suns scintillated in the void. The farther out, the clearer they were. Sorrow begets revelation begets rebirth. This too was from the hand of the Almighty.

That was long ago and he was here now. Today.

A wall screen beside him pinged on. Twice his height, it blossomed in high-def color. Are they blind as well, that it needed to be so huge? At least the Auto-Serve had stopped pestering him about alcoholic beverages.

Two News Net personalities began blathering about a mega-storm south of Drop City’s equatorial land-chain. Massive oceans and twin moons conjured furious weather patterns on a gigantic scale, and Drop City’s southern hemisphere was particularly volatile. Oceanum Procellarum, they called it. An Ocean of Storms.

“– please report to the Check-in at –”

The broadcast’s satellite imagery flashed a cotton swirl arcing across a bed of jade-blue. The inane, frowning faces of the newscasters gazed thoughtfully at projected path icons and wind speed data as if they were divining arcane symbols of life and death. Raging thousands of kilometers wide, the storm churned northward toward the capitol.

He smiled at that. He realized years ago irony was God’s most common figure of speech. A storm was coming indeed.

“Will Mr. Tenuk Jumaat please report –”

That name…

He froze. Panic tingled down his spine. Why were they calling him? Had he missed something?

His cell leader had drilled vigilance into him: every step closer brought another level of surveillance. Threatened, defensive, the Orbital Corporations and their TTA lackeys layered it around their dens: soldiers, monitors, retinal scans, voice and facial recog-ware, chemical and biological sniffers… Paranoia revealed their corrosion, their weakness. He can never relax.

He glanced around without moving his head, checked the reflections in the glass. No CE uniforms burst in, no security turrets sprouted up, no micro-drones…

“Will Mr. Tenuk Jumaat please report to the Check-In at Gate E.”

He stood, swept his hair back, smoothed his jacket. Slender, with dark, delicate Malay features, he looked every inch the refined technocrat. The skin next to his eyes was still tender from where they lased the crow’s feet smooth. Spacer Squint would have been a dead give-away – something Mr. Tenuk Jumaat would never have.

No, everything was fine. He pulled disdain on to his face like a helmet visor and strode out the door.

Twin female TTA attendants, eerily beautiful in their bio-sculpted symmetry, perked up as he approached the desk.

The one on the left smiled as bright as an arc-light. “I’m so sorry to disturb you, Mr. Jumaat. We are personally informing all our Executive Class Passengers the storm system has delayed all in-bound flights to Bradbury Space Port. We apologize for the inconvenience.”

The one on the right checked her station screen. “TTA Control is re-routing shuttles as we speak, It shouldn’t be more than a twenty minutes before we have you on your way.”

Relief washed through him but he nodded thoughtfully, just like the newscasters on the wallscreen. “No worries. It’s the season for storms, right?”

“Exactly,” she said.

“Five flaming torches on the rolla-bolla of death!” *

Glass-wise, in the last two weeks I’ve made a large beach scene window, a pair of half length sidelights, sandblasted two full-size kitchen doors, made five leaded-glass panels for cabinets, twenty-four fish suncatchers, five blue-star banners, one Chicago city flag, drawn up a set of full-length sidelights and started two panels for personal projects. Make hay while the sun shines…

Writing, I’m scribbling in the gaps: lunch, after dinner, thirty minutes here, an hour there. Page count is increasing, however slowly. I’ll have another section of Grim Fall soon-ish.

Lots of work is a good problem to have, but the writer in me almost wishes for winter.

Almost.

*uttered by street busker in Halifax, N.S decades ago and now part of our family argot.

Redeeming art?

“REDEEMING ART”?

Stumbled across this idea skimming the aether last week. Don’t recall the specifics, but it was some ministry’s call to arms, and it’s been a thorn in my mind since. So wait a sec… ‘art’ needs to be redeemed?

Seems to me it’s one of those high-sounding but utterly inaccurate statements. As a Christian, I believe people need redemption, sure. But if by ‘redeem’ you mean demand artistic endeavor conform to a specific morality or ideology, then all you’ve done is reduce it to propaganda.

As I understand it, ‘art’ is a synergy of techniques mastered and the artist’s exploration/expression. It’s a reflection of person’s soul. Directly or otherwise, who they are comes out in their work. Censorship is a dubious panacea, a definite placebo when it comes to genuine transformation and rehabilitation. Redeem the person and renewed paradigms will manifest in their creations.

I remember the brouhaha over JKR’s Harry Potter books: dire warnings of occult, ghosts and magic, the likelihood of demonic possession if read, the oft-repeated/quoted “interview” wherein she declared her desire to indoctrinate children into Satanism, (which, in a phenomenal lapse of discernment, was lifted from The Onion) I was ostracized by church leadership for defending her and the books, for questioning the source of information, for drawing parallels to Lewis’ Narnia and Tolkien’s Middle Earth… ‘If you need to criticize YA books, (why?) then advise people on Phillip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy’, I said. He has stated his contempt and agenda in real interviews as well as his novels. His convictions are explicit in his work.

Speaking of often-quoted, (at least by me) Flannery O’Connor said “Your beliefs will be the light by which you see, but they will not be what you see and they will not be a substitute for seeing.” ― from Mystery and Manners: Occasional Prose

This is one reason I don’t have a problem with Christian crossover artists, or what the market now terms ‘Inspirational’ art. If they’re diluting their convictions for cash and fame, that’s lame. But if an artist’s faith informs and infuses their work, more power to them. A sermon is not a symphony is not a painting is not a novel. Individuals need to be true to the medium they work in and artists shouldn’t have to shoehorn homilies in their pieces to avoid charges of heresy or compromise. So back off and look to your own soul. They are obeying their calling, employing their gifts, and reflecting a facet of the manifold grace given them.

After all, isn’t that the idea?

* In all fairness, I don’t think the top poster is real. At least I hope it isn’t.

The Grim Fall, chapter 2

*No sooner do I decide my next writing project, my work schedule fills up with serious commissions. Ah well, “The best laid plans…” Too much work is a nice problem to have, particularly for an artist.

Here’s chapter two of the Post Apocalyptic fantasy, currently titled “The Grim Fall.”

Two: Tracks

The snow stopped on the way back to Black Sands. Hunched against the cold, dragging the sledge, Addas was too busy not breaking a leg to notice the exact when. The ridge trail though the pass was treacherous at the best of times, but the storm had draped a coat of ice slick as lies over every rock and hole. Each step was a wager. Wasn’t until a huge shadow skimmed the ground, something long-tailed and jagged, that he looked up.

It was vanished in a blink, swooping behind snow-piled crags, its screech shattering the brittle air behind it. Addas threw down the ropes and abandoned the sled, floundering through drifts to the nearest ledge. He tucked himself as far back as he could, shivering against ice-ribbed granite, craning his neck, javelin ready. The bloody carcass lay in the open thirty paces away like bait, or an offering. Depending…

All manner of things roamed these mountains now. It was six kinds of stupid to stand and see what turned up. Hide and peek was the smart game, fear the key to staying alive.

Near the end, when Chalk was wheezing, hacking up bits of lung, he would yell at Addas to pack a big dose of it whenever he went outside. The world had turned a darker shade of murderous, the old orc snorted; fear would keep him breathing better than anything else.

Addas was the only scavenger past the gate today. Two leagues distant, he’d get no help in a real fight.

But he was used to that. So Addas studied the grimy vault of the sky while his teeth chattered out a hundred count.

The storm had hammered the clouds into a blanket of dirty wool stretched over the peaks as far as he could see. In the west, a pale sun oozed behind them like a wound under gauze, its sick light bruising their edges purple and yellow. The dark stone scarps of the Unakas rose like walls all around him, a north wind moaning off their peaks. Other than the creak of snowfields on the mountainsides, the uplands felt as still as a crypt.

Not that quiet was ever a sign of safety – usually the opposite – but with no second shriek, no new slice of shadow, Addas finally thrashed his way back to the sledge, warily took up the ropes and shouldered on.

***

Two hours later, he stood bone-tired and shaking in the ruins of Gruumsh’s Henge, overlooking the settlement. Down slope – five hundred paces to be exact- squatted the thick walls and mawing cave, the entrance to the Black Sands. Addas could see the second watch crowded around glowing braziers, weapons stacked, their thick armored shapes bunched like cattle. He watched them as he flexed warmth back into his hands, almost feeling the delicious burn of the coals, smelling the singed hair, the baked iron and body stink. At this hour, cooking smells would be wafting up out of the mine tunnels. Smells of home.

“Home. ” He spit out the word.

Truth was there was nowhere else to go. The thought of going down the slope, through the gate and descending into mouth of the cave chilled him. Addas almost felt safer here, in the big outside, in the freezing rubble. Almost.

At least out here he could catch his breath with no one jeering, booting, shoving him into the next filthy job. Privacy like this, moments alone were rare as eggs, and Addas snatched them whenever he could. He soaked them in, squirreled them away like the memory of sunshine against the dark.

Addas had discovered this refuge by accident years before, in the wretched, blighted weeks of the Grim Fall. The world tearing itself apart, he’d been thrust from despair and confusion straight into Chalk’s cruelty and the orc clan’s contempt. Refugees were boot-scum and a plague; more mouths to feed, strangers who took up space. Anyone not blood-bound to the clan was kicked, lashed, abused. He and the other fugitives fought dogs for scraps and a place to lie down. Only those who worked could stay. Being youngest and a half-breed at that, when Chalk wasn’t beating lessons into him, Addas emptied the shit pits, two buckets at a time.

He studied the calluses on his palms and kicked a lump of brown ice. It skittered and smashed against a stump of carved granite. Two rows of them, broken pillars, lined either side of the hilltop. Gruumsh’s Henge had been the heart of greenskin power for centuries, the orc deity’s stone colossus bellowing perpetual defiance from its sacred plateau across the circle of the world. Hordes of pilgrims would gather every year for his bloody, brutal festivals, pledging blood, strength and eternal fealty.

Part citadel, part arena, part temple… it was one of the first casualties in the war, smashed like an egg by some Elvish godling’s wrath.

The temple’s massive stones had been heaped into walls around the settlement’s entrance, but the feet were rooted too deep, too solid to break apart.

Out of sight, out of the biting wind, ankle deep in filthy slush, Addas squatted in the lee of the Boots, two gigantic mounds of marble – all that remained of Gruumsh One-Eye’s great statue. The Black Sands clan dumped their filth there now. And Addas had brought most of it up the slope two buckets at a time.

The wind bit into his skin and the shadows were lengthening on the mountains. Addas sighed, turned to pick up the ropes. Then he spotted the tracks.

They came straight up the valley, made a wide path churned by riders. Lots of riders. Whoever it was had scuffed through the icy crust down to the mud; a shit-stain on a swathe of frozen linen, arrowing right toward the main gate.

Caravan wasn’t due for another month, Addas mused. Raiders then?

He crept out of the stones’ shadow to peer down at the walls again. Cocked his head for screams and ringing steel, but the only thing drifting on the air was oily smoke off the fires. Everything was business as usual.

Not raiders. Then who?

Forewarned is forearmed, he remembered Chalk saying. Addas coiled the sledge’s ropes, set them down, then slid down the reverse slope out of sight of the walls and crouched beside the trail.

He traced a deep print with his finger. Not paws, so it wasn’t wargs. Not that there were many of the giant hyenadons left alive, but a few had survived with the orcs and goblins who fled underground. They were reserved for clan chiefs and favored warriors.

The tracks weren’t split-toe great boars either, so it wasn’t Orcs from the Craters either. Weather this time of year ruled them out anyway. No, the hard crescent imprint meant shod hooves, which meant ponies. And ponies meant Dwarves, and Dwarves meant trouble. Graspy, bearded little feckers.

Dwarves any day set the Orc Chief on edge. Large bunch of stunties pounding at the gate unannounced would make him nastier than usual. And seeing as slop runs downhill, the Chief would vent his spleen on the clan, and the clan would take it out on him.

“Shit and shit again,” Addas spat.

He almost turned around right then. Almost.

Chalk had told him about his ‘bolt hole’ the week before he died; a tiny hollow on the western cliffs. There was enough kindling and unicorn to hold him a while, providing he was sparse about it.

Addas looked up at the sky and wondered how much daylight was left. Enough to reach the cave before night? Time ran strange these days, sometimes greasy fast, other times the sun seemed nailed in place. Freezing was better than a beating any day.

But if the Chief sent anyone to round him up and they found him, not only would the beating be worse, but he’d lose a good hiding spot. And maybe get kicked out for good.

Between the sword and the cliff, ain’t you? Chalk sniggered in his head.

“Even dead, you don’t leave me be,” Addas muttered.

The wind dragged a wheezing cackle off into the crags. Resigned, Addas clambered up and shouldered the ropes.

Maybe Snat would have something up his sleeve, he thought as he started downhill.

thoughts on inheritance

Inheritance

Money already asserts itself,

as will the need for prayer

and that each must find their way

to the God that seeks them.

I have little of the first,

plenty of the second

and the third is not mine to give.

But if I could pass on just two

gifts to my children,

my grandchildren,

(one for their bones

and one for their blood)

they would be Calvin and Hobbes

and poetry.

Bridge over the Amazon?

http://mobile.wnd.com/2014/05/end-of-the-book-for-barnes-noble/

Latest tectonic shift in the publishing industry and another huge empty space at the Mall. Not that we didn’t feel it coming, but now that the Richter needles are trembling, what are we going to do as consumers? As writers?

First to admit I’m not a fan of the glam and frenzied consumerism that is an American shopping mall. I feel cheap walking into one. B & N is the only store I enter with any regularity and only because it has a separate entrance on the end. I also confess I use it as a hang out and for scouting expeditions; a place to bring the grandkids, have a coffee and cheesecake, then search out what’s new in the SF/F section before Carting it at Amazon. (for less $$ plus free shipping) It never became the ‘den away from home’ that Borders was, but it was decent. And now it’s collapsing into the sea.

So the question is where are readers going to hang out now? Are we going to see the rise of Independent Bookstores/Cafe’s again. I hope so because I think the need to congregate, to browse, to socialize over coffee and a magazine is hard-wired in us. I’d open a place in a heartbeat, but for that damned overhead. Who can afford space in a decent location, with parking, insurance, utilities, staff, all the attendant expenses of a Brick and Mortar and still have a few bucks left over when the smoke clears? Especially when online competitors offer merchandise at cutthroat rates. Who’s gonna build a bridge over the Amazon?

As a writer, I have mixed feelings. So I don’t have to compete with massive marketing budgets, shelf placement charges, kickbacks, etc. in a store now. Not that I did or can anyway, and not that those same $$ aren’t going to be loosed on consumers over the Internet, but if traditional venues (chain stores, publishing houses, agencies) are the stop gates in the dam, adjusting, controlling the prose released into the market, now it feels like it’s all coming down. (I guess waters have been spilling over the top with self-pubbing for a while now, but still…)

It was John Gardner who said “Mastery is not something that strikes in an instant, like a thunderbolt, but a gathering power that moves steadily through time, like weather.” I don’t believe in the knockout punch. There’s no one-shot silver bullet for success. Slow and steady wins the race, is my motto. (Has to be, walking with a cane, right?) A good book never read is the same as a bad book, so what can I do to genuinely raise awareness of my work without taking out a second mortgage, resorting to shill and gush techniques, or hiring a full-time publicist? How to get my books in front of potential readers and distinguish them in the clamor of the other million books surging into the market each year?

I have no frigging idea right now.

But I have to keep going. Like that invisible bridge in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, I write because I have to go forward. I need to. And I have to trust not only will I eventually write something worth reading, but that good work is worth it in and of itself.

Courage, Passion, Imagination to all of you.

Scoundrels, Tightropes, and Turncoats.

It was Andy Rooney who tweaked Samuel Johnson’s statement and said Religion (not Patriotism) was the last refuge of scoundrels. I’ve met my share of scoundrels, in and out of church, but don’t let anyone convince you Christian faith is the coward’s way out.

If an unexamined life isn’t worth living, an unexamined faith isn’t worth having. I am truly blessed as a Christian and person, but almost nothing in this journey has turned out as expected. It’s all been stretched and challenged. The struggle to live in authentic relationship with God, to honor and retain what Jesus did in my heart 29 years ago is constant and very real.

Of all these challenges, finding myself in a respectable Baptist church after decades in a controversial, militant, evangelical Pentecostal organization is presently the most difficult, namely because of vastly different approaches to salvation and saving faith. While one can turn the ‘narrow road’ into a precarious tightrope by legalistic regulation and spiritual-sounding addendums, thus undermining the completed work of Christ’s death/resurrection, the other seemingly reduces believers – flawed, precious, noble, fallen, confused human beings – into near inanimate objects arbitrarily selected by arcane process, divorced from response or responsibility. For those in the theological-know, I’m touching the classic Calvinism vs Arminianism debate here.

Richard M Weaver noted ideas have consequences, and it has been said Calvin wouldn’t be a Calvinist today, what with the way his teachings are interpreted. But therein lies the problem: interpretations and their consequences. Now I’m certainly not going to solve the Calvin/Arminian debate with my little blog post, but I’ll exorcise it and hope for some clarity at arm’s length. Maybe dispense with a couple of the more ridiculous caricatures foisted on the general public too.

***WARNING: block of Scripture coming

1And you were dead in your trespasses and sins, 2in which you formerly walked according to the course of this world, according to the prince of the power of the air, of the spirit that is now working in the sons of disobedience. 3Among them we too all formerly lived in the lusts of our flesh, indulging the desires of the flesh and of the mind, and were by nature children of wrath, even as the rest. 4But God, being rich in mercy, because of His great love with which He loved us, 5even when we were dead in our transgressions, made us alive together with Christ (by grace you have been saved), 6and raised us up with Him, and seated us with Him in the heavenly places in Christ Jesus, 7so that in the ages to come He might show the surpassing riches of His grace in kindness toward us in Christ Jesus. 8For by grace you have been saved through faith; and that not of yourselves, it is the gift of God; 9not as a result of works, so that no one may boast. 10For we are His workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand so that we would walk in them.

Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. Ch 2. Vs 1-10

FAITH AND TRUST

In my understanding, salvation comes down to faith and trust: what is real faith, and what do I trust in to address the sin in my soul?

We can all admit ‘faith’ is more than acknowledging the concept, conceding the possibility or fact of the matter. The real article digs deeper – it hinges on personal acceptance. We exercise ‘faith’ all the time: eating in a restaurant, getting on an airplane, shuffling out on an ice-covered lake… Our actions reveal our beliefs, and I submit genuine faith is an inner conviction that prompts an outward action. If I really believe, I act on it.

A GIFT

God offers the gift of eternal life and complete forgiveness in Jesus Christ. God loves you even as a sinner. He deals, reveals, convicts, but you don’t have to accept it. God will not violate your will.

If you do however, if you believe the Gospel, grasp who Jesus is and what he did, then it will radically transform you. Genuine faith changes the way you look at everything: life, death, people, money, sex, position, possessions, yourself… all of it. Not that we suddenly act perfect, selfless and eternal, but the core of our being shifts from small, self, temporary toward God, others, compassion. We start to concentrate on the important over the urgent. That is the essence of true religious conversion. I’m not saved by works/prayer/bible reading/faithfulness/sacrifice/evangelism/doctrinal confession… rather these flow from the forgiveness, redemption and relationship I have with God in Jesus Christ. They stem from my faith – a ‘root to fruit’ thing.

Contrary to a lot of religious spittle and rant, Hell is not the exclusive destination of homos, illegal immigrants and liberal democrats; we must all give account to our creator for our souls. As I understand it, God would much rather be our Savior than Judge – quite literally dying to know us. Knowing this, and that God sees all: the good and the bad, the wounds, the attempts, the dreams and fears – along with my sin and selfishness, the question becomes what do I trust in to be the remedy for my sin on that day? Do I deny it? Rationalize/justify? Demand God grade on a curve? Try to pay it off with good deeds, good intentions, religious ritual and observations? The enormity of moral choice, the gravity of sin, the perfection of God means all that falls short. Way. Short.

The offer of redemption in Jesus is free, complete and eternally secure. Its strength is based on who He was and what He accomplished in His incarnation, death and resurrection. You can’t get ‘more saved’. You also can’t ‘lose’ salvation as in ‘holy crap, it was here a second ago and now I can’t find it’

But you can give it back or pawn it for something else. It’s still your choice.

In the same way a heart decides to trust in Jesus as sin’s remedy, it can come to trust in something else. We are and remain free moral agents – Salvation and Conversion don’t change that. The language and dynamic of free will – calls to choose, invitations, the weight of decisions, accountability, the challenge to continue, to put some things off and others on, etc, etc, is throughout the Old and New Testament. This is nothing to do with ‘works’ or ‘earning your salvation’. You can simply repent of repenting. What starts as reliance on love and grace becomes trust in membership, spiritual disciplines and observances, ministerial success… the evangelical status quo as proof of ‘righteousness’ instead of Jesus. You can pull a Benedict Arnold return to old allegiances. That’s what Paul’s letter to the Galations is all about – indeed, that’s one of his main struggles throughout the New Testament.

Jesus is not a ‘get out of jail free card’ you play on the last day. Salvation is not a flu shot – one time and you’re all set. Grace may be free but it’s not cheap or greasy. Even a cursory reading of the Gospels show following Jesus required serious commitment. He made that quite clear.

The night before the Exodus, the Hebrews put the blood of a lamb on their doors, a sign for the angel of death to pass over them. I submit a Hebrew firstborn out on the street would have been chalked at dawn, while an Egyptian’s eldest son who sought refuge in a blood-marked Jewish home would have been safe. It’s the blood that saves. And any of us scoundrels can take refuge under it.

The struggle is to stay there.

Charlatans for Christ

So WORLD magazine has yet another expose in the Parade of Shame for mega-ministry train wrecks. This month’s culprit is Ron Luce of Acquire the Fire fame. You can read the full article HERE if you can stomach it, but it is the all-too-typical sordid fare of shallow dealings, megalomania, dissembling, deception, and rationalizations rather than repentance. “Be sure of this, your sin will find you out,” seems to have dropped off the memory verse list.

“You have given occasion for the enemies of God to blaspheme” the Lord said to adulterous, murderous King David. As a former minister and present Christian, thanks for that brother Ron. As if it ain’t tough enough.

This is really just another fine example of Western Christianity’s “TET Offensive” style of ministry: reliance on Talent, Emotion and Technology over Character and Anointing. All genuine ministry is fundamentally supernatural, rooted in who Jesus is and what He did. It’s His story preacher, not yours. It’s the Chef, not the Waiter, so stop spitting in the food. Don’t believe your own press and hog the spotlight. Ministry isn’t a cruising altitude – it’s a diving bell. Hide in Christ and let Him get the glory – He’ll reward you soon enough. (and any crown you get you’re going to throw at Jesus’ feet anyway, so…)

I don’t know which is worse: that there’s enough scandal fodder for WORLD to do monthly articles, or the general undermining of Christian credibility. It’s rather discouraging, all you leaders getting caught with your pants down or hand in the till. I swear, If it wasn’t for Jesus, I’d give up on Christianity altogether.

*apologies to jesters all over the world.