Review of Rich Mullins "Ragamuffin" film

I attended the Nashville screening of the new Rich Mullins "Ragamuffin" film last night before a full house at Collins Auditorium at David Lipscomb Univ. 

As a friend of Rich's from '84 to '97, I was hesitant about how I would react to a film about such a complex person who wrestled mightily with fanfare and acclaim. My fears were generally allayed, and for a small budget film by a first-time producer/director, it is pretty good. Most of this is due to the performance in the lead role by Michael Koch, who compellingly captures the creative side of Rich (he is an accomplished pianist/guitarist, and nails Rich's vocal delivery and onstage patter), as well as the brooding, intense side of Mullins' personality.

Some of the drawbacks include: editing weaknesses (it is unnecessarily long at 2 hours and 20 minutes, and somewhat repetitive in several themes); an overly simplistic (and oft brutal) critique of the music biz that deserves more nuance; primitive sets (the recording and radio studios are laughable), and some key characters in Rich's life that were completely ignored. It would've also been nice to see a bit more of Rich's unbridled kindness and silly/impish/downright hilarious sides. But these flaws are not so glaring that it renders the film unwatchable.

To the contrary, the essence of Rich's struggles with an unloving father, alcohol, disappointments in relationships, and loneliness drive the narrative and keep you wondering if/how he would ever find some degree of peace and acceptance. It doesn't give a lot of neat, tidy Christian platitudes or easy resolve. How could it if it were to be honest about the living paradox that was Rich Mullins? So, I give it an A- for effort, a C- for technique, and an overall grade of B- for residual impact it will leave with the viewer. For anyone who was a fan of Rich, or wishes to see faith being wrestled-out with earnest grit, then I recommend "Ragamuffin."

My longtime friend, Bernie Sheahan, wrote this review which gives some further coloring which I agree with...

"I saw "Ragamuffin" last week here in California and was pretty nervous about how I'd react. (Forgot my Kleenex, so I stole a whole roll of toilet paper from the church bathroom!) I knew Rich very well and for a long time. (I'm one of many, and aren't we lucky? Blessed.) He was one of six people at my 25th birthday dinner, in 1982. So when I saw the trailer online, I had a bit of a freak-out. Too weird. I knew David Mullins was part of this, but still...how could they capture him, and how dare they make a movie when he would have hated the thought of it?

"At the end of the film, they had a Q&A session with the director, David Leo Schultz. I hopped right up--"pick me, pick me!" No questions. Just this: "Thank you...Rich was a dear friend of mine...I was afraid I'd yell out or throw things at the screen, but you got him. Thank you for showing the shadows." I said a lot more (you know me; I'm Irish) but in talking to Schultz later on I realized that Rich would have loved him. You will, too.

"As Kathy Sprinkle told me, it's not a biopic. This isn't a chronological, get-everything, History Of Rich Mullins. Don't be upset about not seeing "Rich" in shoes or sweaters, as in his real life, in winter or on hot pavement. Movies are about images. The white t-shirt and bare feet are symbolic, really. I'm sorry if I just just pulled a 'Film as Lit' teacher thing on you.

"The images are lovely. David Schultz did a marvelous job with a tiny budget. He goes from Indiana to Cincinnati to Nashville to Wichita to "the res" along the open roads with color and light that match Rich's musical palette and poetic vision. You'll have to ask him if those are actual locations. I can vouch for a few of them as the real thing. There's one that's surely not, and it doesn't matter, because any countryside four-lane highway will do. That scene is handled with grace and mercy: it's brief, tells little, and moves quickly from dark mystery to sunny memory and life most real.

"You Nashville folk will laugh your head off in some places. There was only so much they could do with a small budget, I guess. No matter. See it with an open heart. Put aside your feelings about the music business, either way (this is, shall we say, less than sympathetic to the "industry" point of view).

"What it does is present the essence of Rich. How he was, as in the title of his brother's book, "an arrow pointing to heaven". Rich didn't want you to "get" him. He wanted you to get God--to be gotten by Him. The director found, in the four years working on the film, that Rich Mullins has some intensely loyal fans. Yup. Some who seemed to almost worship Rich more than God. Rich, shall we say, discouraged that. "Be God's" -- that's how he signed every autograph. Be God's. So it's not that important, really, what I think about how Rich was portrayed in any film. I am a loyal friend, yes. But he never said, "Be Rich's." Even so, I, and all of us who knew him, are a little protective of his essence. As dumb as that may sound.

"The fellow who plays Rich was not an actor but a musician, and he surprised me with his skill and passion. He sounds like him, enough for me to lose myself in the story for much of its length (it's long!) He does the shadows well. And this film doesn't shirk from the dark, thank goodness. He's exuberant, he spins, he gets angry. He's not funny and playful like Rich--it's not in his repertoire, not in his personality. That's OK. He pulls it off well enough that it made me miss Rich. A lot. That's something, considering it's an actor who's singing and playing, talking, saying things like "You like it? You really like it?"

"I like it. I really like it."        -Bernie Sheahan

Listing of all the showings and where to get tix here (once you get to the page, click on the "Events " tab):

http://www.itickets.com/artists/27150/Rich%20Mullins%20Film_concert

"Love needs to find form, intimacy needs to be whispered." Bono on the grace of Advent

Bono’s thoughts on Advent from an extended interview he did in 2004:

I remember coming back from a very long tour.  I hadn’t been at home for months.  Got home for Christmas, very excited of being in Dublin.  Dublin at Christmas is cold, but it’s lit up, it’s like a Carnival in the cold. 

On Christmas Eve, I went to St. Patrick’s Cathedral.  I had done school there for a year.  It’s where Jonathan Swift was Dean.  Anyway, some of my Church of Ireland friends were going.  It’s kind of a tradition on Christmas Eve to go, but I’d never been.  I went to this place, sat.  I was given a really bad seat, behind one of the huge pillars.  I couldn’t see anything.  I was sitting there, having come back from Tokyo or somewhere like that.  I went for the singing, because I love choral singing.  Community arts, a specialty!  But I was falling asleep, being up for a few days, traveling, because it was a bit boring, the service, and I just started nodding off since I couldn’t see a thing. 

Then I started to try and keep myself awake studying what was on the page.  It dawned on me for the first time, really.  It had dawned on me before, but it really sank in: the Christmas story.  The idea that God, if there is a force of Love and Logic in the universe, that it would seek to explain itself is amazing enough.  That it would seek to explain itself and describe itself by becoming a child born in poverty, in shit and straw…a child…I just thought: “Wow!” Just the poetry…unknowable love, unknowable power, describes itself as the most vulnerable.  There it was. 

I was sitting there, and it’s not that it hadn’t struck me before, but tears came down my face, and I saw the genius of this, the utter genius of picking a particular point in time and deciding to turn on this. You see, love needs to find form, intimacy needs to be whispered.  To me, it makes sense.  It’s actually logical.  It’s pure logic.  Essence has to manifest itself.  It’s inevitable.  Love has to become an action or something concrete.  It would have to happen.  There must be an incarnation.  Love must be made flesh.

My understanding of the Scriptures has been made simple by the person of Christ.  Christ taught that God is love.  What does that mean?  What it means for me: a study of the life of Christ.  Love here describes itself as a child born in raw poverty, the most vulnerable situation of all, without honor.  I don’t let my religious world get too complicated.  I just kind of go: Well, I think I know what God is.  God is love, and as much as I respond in allowing myself to be transformed by that love and acting in that love, that’s my religion.  Where things get complicated for me, is when I try to live this love.  Now, that’s not easy.

There’s nothing hippie about my picture of Christ.  The Gospels paint a picture of a very demanding, sometimes divisive love, but love it is.  I accept the Old Testament as more of an action movie: blood, car chases, evacuations, a lot of special effects, seas dividing, mass murder, adultery.  The children of God are running amok, wayward.  Maybe that’s why they’re so relatable. 

But the way we would see it, those of us who are trying to figure out our Christian conundrum, is that the God of the Old Testament is like the journey from stern father to friend.  When you’re a child, you need clear directions and some strict rules.  But with Christ, we have access in a one-to-one relationship, for, as in the Old Testament, it was more one of worship and awe, a vertical relationship.  The New Testament, on the other hand, we look across at Jesus who looks familiar, horizontal. The combination is what makes the Cross.

It’s a mind-blowing concept that the God who created the Universe might be looking for company, a real relationship with people, but the thing that keeps me on my knees is the difference between Grace and Karma. I really believe we have moved out of the realm of Karma into one of Grace.

You see, at the center of all religions is the idea of Karma.  You know, what you put out comes back to you: an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, or in physics—in physical laws—every action is met by an equal or opposite one.  It’s clear to me that Karma is at the very heart of the Universe.  I’m absolutely sure of it. 

And yet, along comes this idea called Grace to upend all that “As you reap, so will you sow” stuff.  Grace defies reason and logic. Love interrupts, if you like, the consequences of your actions, which in my case is very good news indeed, because I’ve done a lot of stupid stuff.  I’d be in big trouble if Karma was going to finally be my judge.  I’d be in deep shit.  It doesn’t excuse my mistakes, but I’m holding out for Grace.  I’m holding out that Jesus took my sins onto the cross, because I know who I am, and I hope I don’t have to depend on my own religiosity.

(From Bono in Conversation with Michka Assayas, copyright 2006, Riverhead Books)

Pi's ponderings on Jesus

This is one of my most choice excerpts from Yann Martel’s novel, The Life of Pi. Twelve-year-old Piscine, or “Pi” for short, was raised Hindu by his mother, but also trained to have a skeptical mind by his atheist father. This sequence takes place while he and his family are on vacation in the northern part of India. His older brother dares him to enter a small Catholic cathedral…which no one in their family had ever done before.

I dared to enter the church.  My stomach was in knots.  I was terrified I would meet a Christian who would shout at me, “What are you doing here? How dare you enter this sacred place, you defiler!  Get out, right now!”

There was no one.  And little to be understood. I advanced and observed the inner sanctum.  There was a painting. Was this the murti? Something about a human sacrifice. An angry god who had to be appeased with blood.  Dazed women staring up in the air and fat babies with tiny wings flying about. A charismatic bird.  Which one was the god?  To the side of the sanctum was a painted wooden sculpture.  The victim again, bruised and bleeding in bold colors.  I stared at his knees.  They were badly scraped. The pink skin was peeled back and looked like the petals of a flower, revealing kneecaps that were fire-engine red.  It was hard to connect this torture with the peaceful priest I had seen from a distance in the rectory the day before.

Catholics have a reputation for severity, for judgment that comes down heavily. My experience with Father Martin was not like that. He was very kind.  He served me tea and biscuits in a tea set that tinkled and rattled at every touch; he treated me like a grown-up; and he told me a story.  Or rather, since Christians are so fond of capital letters, a Story.

And what a story. The first thing that drew me in was disbelief.  What? Humanity sins but its God’s Son who pays the price? I tried to imagine Father saying to me, “Piscine, a lion slipped into the llama pen today and killed two llamas.  Yesterday another one killed a black buck.  Last week to of them ate the camel.  The week before it was painted storks and grey herons.  And who’s to say for sure who snacked on the golden agouti? The situation has become intolerable. Something must be done.  I have decided that the only way the lions can atone for their sins is if I feed you to them.”

“Yes, Father, that would be the right and logical thing to do.  Give me a moment to wash up.”

“Hallelujah, my son.”

“Hallelujah, Father.”

What a downright weird story.  What a peculiar psychology.

I asked for another story, one that I might find more satisfying.  Surely this religion had more than one story in its bag—religions abound with stories.  But Father Martin made me understand that the stories that came before it—and there were many—were simply prologue to the Christians.  Their religion had one Story, and to it they came back again and again, over and over. It was story enough for them.

I was quiet that evening at the hotel.

That a god should put up with adversity, I could understand.  The gods of Hinduism face their fair share of thieves, bullies, kidnappers, and usurpers.  What is the Ramayana but the account of one long, bad day for Rama? Adversity, yes.  Reversals in fortune, yes. Treachery, yes. But humiliation? Death? I couldn’t imagine Lord Krishna consenting to being stripped naked, whipped, mocked, dragged through the streets, and, to top it off, crucified at the hands of mere humans, to boot. I’d never heard of a Hindu god dying. Brahman Revealed did not go for death. Devils and monsters did, as did mortals, by the thousands and millions—that’s what they were there for. Matter, too, fell away.  But divinity should not be blighted by death. It’s wrong…

Why would God wish this upon himself? Why not leave death to the mortals? Why make dirty what was beautiful, spoil what is perfect?

Love.  That was Father Marin’s answer.

And what about this Son’s deportment?  Why did he give himself up? Hindu gods never did that. No spindly cross would’ve kept them down.  When push came to shove, they transcended any human frame with strength no man could have and weapons no man could handle.

That is God as God should be.  With shine and power and might. Such as can rescue and save and put down evil.

This Son, on the other hand, who goes hungry, who suffers from thirst, who gets tired, who is sad, who is anxious, who is heckled and harassed, who has to put up with followers who don’t get it and opponents who don’t respect Him—what kind of god is that? It’s a god on too human a scale, that’s what. There are miracles, yes mostly of a medical nature, a few to satisfy hungry stomachs; at best a storm is tempered, water is briefly walked upon…any Hindu god can do a hundred times better.

This Son is a god who spent most of his time telling stories, talking. This Son is a god who walked, a pedestrian god—and in a hot place, at that—with a stride like any human stride; and when he splurged on transportation, it was a regular donkey. This Son is a god who died in three hours, with moans, gasps, and laments.  What kind of god is that? What is there to inspire in this Son?

Love, said Father Martin.

And this Son appears only once, long ago, far away? Among some obscure tribe in a backwater strip of West Asia on in the confines of a long-vanished empire? Is done away with before He has a single grey hair on His head? Leaves not a single descendant, only scattered, partial testimony, His complete works doodles in the dirt? …What can justify such divine stinginess?

Love, repeated Father Martin.

I’ll stick to my Krishna, thank you very much.  I find his divinity utterly compelling.  You can keep your sweaty, chatty Son to yourself.  That was how I met that troublesome rabbi of long ago: with disbelief and annoyance.

I had tea with Father Martin three days in a row.  Each time, as teacup rattled against saucer, as spoon tinkled against edge of cup, I asked questions.

The answer was always the same.

He bothered me, this Son.  Every day I burned with greater indignation against Him, found more flaws to Him…but I couldn’t get Him out of my head.  Still can’t.  I spent three solid days thinking about Him.  The more He bothered me, the less I could forget Him.  And the more I learned about Him, the less I wanted to leave Him.

On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave Munnar, I hurried up the hill to the cathedral on more time…. short of breath I said, “Father, I would like to be a Christian, please.”

He smiled. “You already are, Piscine—in your heart.  Whoever meets Christ in good faith is a Christian. Here in Munnar you met Christ.”

He patted me on the head.  It was more of a thump, actually. I thought I would explode with joy.

“When you come back, we’ll have tea again, my son.”

“Yes, Father.”

It was a good smile he gave me. The smile of Christ.

I entered the sanctuary, without fear this time, for it was now my house too. I offered prayers to Christ, who is alive. 

(from Life of Pi by Yann Martel, 2001, Random House)

The long-awaited return of Rick Elias with Jōb

It was a chilly April night in 1990 when I met Rick Elias for the first time. The venerable Exit/In rock club in Nashville was hosting a showcase of various artists as part of the Gospel Music Week convention.  A few weeks before, I had received an advance copy of Rick Elias and the Confessions from Frontline, a small west coast label, and was quite fond of what I heard.  It was guitar-driven Americana with gritty vocals…akin to Springsteen, Mellancamp or Petty…not comparisons often heard in Contemporary Christian Music.  But it was the penetrating, gutsy lyrics that were so honest that really set it apart. Most CCM was rather banal when it came to its message…you really didn’t want the “gatekeepers” to question anything about one’s reality in sharing the gospel message thru song.  It was always best to keep hard questions, doubts, and insecurity out of the equation.  That’s what made this bold album from this unknown entity so compelling, And it only grew with repeated listening.

Rick was kind of hard to miss when he sauntered into the loud music room. He was an imposing 6’ 6” with flowing black hair in a sort of pompadour cut, chiseled features, and covered head-to-toe in black (well worn leather jacket with tassels, frayed jeans, and scuffed biker boots).  He looked like his music sounded: ready to fight for what he believed. Once again, not your typical preppy-looking Christian pop act.

His handlers had flown him in for the convention, but hadn’t landed him any performance slots.  So he was just trying to understand this whole new industry.  He’d been in the southern California club scene for years, close to some major label deals on several occasions, but never quite consummated.  His disappointments had been punctuated with some severe substance abuse issues, and it was in recent years that he had been able to find some peace and hope via a renewed faith that he had abandoned in his late teens. All of this led him to be somewhat flummoxed by all the professional Christians he was encountering at this Music City confab. 

Recognizing him from the cover of that debut CD, I walked up to him and introduced myself, telling him that I thought his album was truly terrific. We talked on and off throughout several sets by other artists, and at one point stepped outside so we could better converse.  He asked what I did, and I shared that I worked with musicians who had a concern for the poor who might like to partner with Compassion International to find sponsors for needy children around the world.  He was intrigued. Thus began a long friendship.

Within weeks we began phone conversations, and I was able to get him added onto an Artist Vision Trip to Guatemala several months later. I thought this particular grouping had great potential to bond significantly.  Rich Mullins and Geoff Moore had both been friends of mine for five years, but had never met. I thought their Midwestern sensibilities to their music along with their desire for realistic discipleship would blend well.  Chuck Tilley, a famed concert promoter, and my boss, Devlin Donaldson (also a much-published rock critic) were also along. My hope was Rick would find some cohorts in his yearning for honest communication, too. We all had a meaningful time engaging with the poor of Guatemala, but also in the fellowship of our own poor-in-spirit conditions. Everyone hit it off right from the get-go, and the rest, as they say, is history.  Not only did deep connections begin across the board, but the seeds for the “ragamuffin band” idea that Mullins had rolling around in his head were birthed on that excursion.

Within a year, Rick and Rich were heading up said band, touring across North America and recording award-winning albums. Rick also did two more solo albums of his own, and made major alliances on soundtracks for films like That Thing You Do, My Big Fat Greek Wedding, as well as TV shows. His notoriety as a producer grew as well.  After Mullins’ tragic auto accident five years later, Rick helped carry the flame with several more Ragamuffin Band albums. 

But with the demise of the CCM industry and ever-tightening playlists at Christian radio in the past dozen years, Rick has been unable to move forward as an recording artist.  He continues writing, producing, and occasionally playing live shows. He’s also a professor at a music school here in Nashville, passing on his deep knowledge of art, craft, and business sense to younger musicians. 

It’s been 13 years since Rick has been in a studio to work on any of his own compositions. Seeing some of his contemporaries launch successful Kickstarter campaigns to raise money for self-released projects, he decided it was time to give that a shot.  The money came in from eager fans that have waited well over a decade to hear more from Elias. And, despite a serious tumble that caused a debilitating shoulder injury in the midst of production, he was able to get his first solo album in over 15 years finished this year, and it is releasing to the public this week.

It is entitled Jōb, and the moniker is appropriate, not just for the long-suffering chronicled above, but also Rick’s desire to probe a thorny theological issue. It isn’t just the ancient Old Testament story that is examined, but also contemporary--perhaps even autobiographical--musings on the purposes of pain and disappointment that are brought to the fore.

Opening with “Do Ya,” Elias serves as a guide of sorts, leading us into places none of us would choose to go. The plaintive acoustic guitar is joined by a slowly building cadre of instrumentation and layered voices blowing across a dusty soulscape.

Who am I?

Do you know me?

If you know

Well then tell me

Ring those suffering chimes

Tell me whose fate is mine

Do ya feel like an angel?

Or a pawn in a fable?

Son of Jōb

Son of betrayal

There are no strangers at this table

Ending with one of the coolest chords since the beginning of “Hard Day’s Night,” the stage is then set for the ripping title track, which is easily the top rock song of 2013.  Delivered with the edginess of late 60s Rolling Stones but the ferocity of  mid-tempo Metallica, this slide guitar-fueled cruncher lifts the downtrodden questions into a realm of righteous anger.

Naked I came from my mother’s womb

And naked I will return

My serpent skins shed in the tomb

And a lover’s heart that still burns

A spoken word section halfway through, reminiscent of Bono’s laments in “Bullet the Blue Sky,” was written and voiced by Rick’s old high school chum, the illustrious Luis Alberto Urrea, now a Pulitzer Prize nominated and New York Times Best Selling author.

Templars in the alley performing esoteric rites

Junkies howl their hosannas in the galleries of night

Gathering upright citizens running from the light

Just another blind boy, blessed and cursed, with visions instead of sight

And I’m still walking…

If I fell down in the city would I make the slightest sound?

One the sidewalk where the saddest of the seraphim can be found

Where the children of the morning chalk their scriptures on the ground

And sing their hymns with the voices of the drowned

I hear them talking…

“When It All Comes Down” follows next as protestations begin to turn inward, examining how sometimes we help create our own quagmires. The sophisticated arrangement and cool elements like a backwards guitar, stark keyboard textures, and Tim Chandler’s lyrical bass figures broaden the pallet that provides paint for the picture.

I watched the level rise

Debris brought me to my knees

With all my crimes

And all my lies

I circled the drain

Like a spider going down the sink

When it all came down

It was like a mist that tuned to rain

Until the rain

Became a stream

The stream a river

An open vein

Bleeding out across the lowlands

Swallowing summer and spring

When it all came down

It took everything

Willing inner deception is also spoken of in a lament about divas and drama queens, and the men who are pulled under their spells in “A Kind of Brilliance.”

Critics, fakes, and cheap alcohol

Clumsy, mumbled dialogue

Would never bring her down

She’s lost in her soliloquy

Her lonely, bittersweet elegy

To love lost, not found

While here in the shadows I am bleeding, baby

But you can’t even hear my voice

And I admit

It requires

An exquisite

Kind of liar

A kind of brilliance

To believe

Melancholy and nostalgia soaked in resignation characterize the aching account of the years of a marriage; good, bad, and indifferent. Surely “When We Built This House” is one of the frankest songs I’ve heard about the ongoing challenges of life-long commitment.

Those were the days

When grace threw long shadows

And light filtered through

Now we see through a haze

Smoke and dust from a battle

Ghosts wander from room to room

I told you, “Love is never abstract

It will break your heart and never look back”

Then you ask me how I am

Well what do you see?

One heart left to chance

And the other to bleed

Two souls in a dance

A fait accompli

Then I remember

Your eyes, your laugh

You smiled and the world was right

And I still remember

When we built this house

A reworking of “Help Thou My Unbelief,” originally on the Prayers of a Ragamuffin album, continues the flow of recognition within the heart of Jōbs and Thomas’s everywhere that there is, indeed, a loving God in the midst of the trials and apprehension. A gentle, earnest plea for anyone that is wrestling with uncertainty.

Father you led me as I crossed the wasteland

Conquering the mountains, the rivers, the lowlands

But you would not conquer me

Abba you touched me, you heard all my cries

I sat at your table, I lay by your side

But as Thomas, no Judas

It’s you I denied

Still, you loved me

Bringing everything to a close is “Jōb, Naked,” and addendum to the title track that starts as an edgy acoustic Steve Earle-like thumper. The ultimate questions still resound, but there’s an allowance for clemency from the great beyond, and a hope for the coming redeemer.

Well, yer straight out of luck

The hand’s dealt from the bottom tonight

Deals have been struck

And the seersucker suits came to buy

After all their manipulations

Yeah, all those clever moves

Comes a single act of mercy

As a child in a young mother’s womb

The final several minutes morph into a middle-eastern whirling dervish, reminiscent of the eclectic instrumentation utilized on the Page-Plant Zeppelin Unledded tour back in the mid-90s.  The interaction between Elias’ frenetic guitar and drummer/percussionist Steve Hindalong’s accents builds in hypnotic intensity.  The rising string section adds to the mounting crescendo, that ends with an Olympic droning sustain that washes over the whole procession.  As it fades, one is reminded that Yaweh does speak, usually as a whisper, through the howling winds on occasion.

Sonically, Jōb is by far the best sounding album Elias has done. Rich in texture, warm when needed, stark in the right places.  Little instrumental flourishes and sweeteners from accordion, organ, piano, vibes, mandolin, etc. lend just the right grace notes. The contributions of the aforementioned Hindalong and Chandler, who make up the rhythm section of The Choir, are stellar. Their band mate, Derri Daughtery, does a premium effort engineering and assisting on the mix. But it is Elias, who plays nearly every other instrument, and blends in many intriguing harmonies alongside his ardent lead vocal, who carries the day.

All said, Jōb is such a satisfying listen, and worthy of the wait.  It is certainly one of the strongest releases of the year.  And all of it combined begs just one more question: how long until the next one?  I’m confident that Rick has much, much more to offer, and can hardly contain myself in anticipation of more to come. Lord knows, we need his brand of literate, seasoned, and fervent rock to help us navigate the thorny questions.

You can buy Jōb as a digital download here (as well as hear samples):

http://www.cdbaby.com/cd/rickelias

You can also purchase it at iTunes (as well as hear samples):

https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/job/id742173399

If you want a physical CD (and maybe some other swag such as a signed album art poster, autographed B&W pic, comp CD, etc.) go here:

http://www.rickelias.com/store/#!/~/category/id=7020679&offset=0&sort=priceDesc

Twin Beauties and a Broken Bed in Bogota

While preparing for my third Radio Vision Trip for Compassion International coming up in ten days, I was reflecting on a touching story from my first visit there 6 years ago...

While in Colombia recently, I met two extraordinary young ladies. Twelve-year-old twins named Monica and Hesblaidy.  They live in a rough southern neighborhood of the sprawling metropolis of Bogata, along with over ten million other souls.  Their mother, Marisol, has raised them and their adorable little sister, Vanessa, on her own since her husband deserted her around five years back.  They live in a meager one room apartment about 15’ x 15’, with tan concrete walls, two beds, two dressers, atiny black and white TV, a little ghetto-blaster tape player/radio, and some stacks of scrap wood and discarded furniture piled in the corner.  The other six families in the small building share a small kitchen and bathroom amongst them.

A solitary four foot wide window looked out onto a busy square where dozens of rag-tag children were happily playing soccer with a ball that appears to have been kicked to Pluto and back. A roving gang of glue-sniffing teens were working the neighborhood as well…a dangerous reminder of how sad the downward cycle of poverty can be…little relief from the lack of long-term hope.

As we were invited into the room, we didn’t see any chairs, but Marisol gestured for us to sit on the edge of the two beds.  So a few of us did.  Unfortunately, the workmanship wasn’t designed to hold the weight of five larger Americans, and the frame cracked and collapsed with a resounding thud.  It was one of those moments where having a good sense of humor was equally mixed with shame over wrecking their meager bed.  Several of us surveyed the damage, and felt that it could probably be repaired somewhat easily, but it didn’t lessen the embarrassment. 

We asked our interpreters what they thought it would cost to hire a carpenter to fix something like this.  They conferred for a moment and said “probably no more than $10.”   I quickly offered it to Marisol, but she would have none of it.  We were her guests she explained, and she was honored to have us visit her home…absolutely under no circumstances would she accept any donation.  We nervously smiled and moved on with our visit.

Both girls had quite unique speaking voices—much huskier than most girls their age, with a bit of rasp. But because they were so animated in their sharing, the Carol Channing tone actually was mesmerizing.

They spoke with unbridled enthusiasm about how much they had been learning at school, and proudly showed us their stellar report cards.  They were quite well-read for their age, and could recite large portions of their favorite poetry and scriptures.  When we would ask them about social studies or Colombian history, they would excitedly rattle off information.  One of the parents of teens in our group whispered in my ear that they had forgotten what zest towards education looked like in a young person.

All three girls were sponsored by individuals in America through Compassion International. That sponsorship helped them with their schooling, skills training, supplemental nutrition, and school clothing.  Marisol was so grateful that it also provided her daughters with a safe place to stay after public school since she had to work ten to twelve hours each day. 

The twins showed us prized letters and photos from their sponsors that they had committed to memory.  They went on and on about how much they had been encouraged by those letters and their prayers. It was their goal to be worthy of the expectations their sponsors had for them, and to make them very proud. I whispered back to my friend that I could only think of one or two teenagers I knew in the States who could even approach the responsible tone I was hearing from these tweenies.

We asked Marisol what difference did she see in her children because of sponsorship.  She smiled meekly and said, “They have learned much more about discipline and good manners.  I don’t have to correct them as harshly as many other mothers do their children because they have learned more of the ways of the Lord at the church school.”  The girls looked adoringly at their mom, and nodded their agreement.

After our group of twelve people had finished another twenty minutes worth of questions, Monica politely asked if she and Hesblaidy would be allowed to ask us some questions.  We were taken back by her politeness (especially in such an unforgiving environment as their thug-infested barrio).  We were even more impressed by the depth of their inquiries, like: What cities were we from? What type of careers did we have? Did we miss our families while traveling? When did we come to know Jesus?  How were we seeking to serve Him in our work?  What did we think of their city and their country?  Every response was met by at least two more follow-up queries.  What inquisitive kids they were!

While the conversation was going on between the girls and the rest of the group, I once again tried to reason with Marisol about paying for the damage done to the bed. She resolutely refused to accept anything; despite the fact that I knew she was raising her daughters on a very meager income of $60 per month.  As I kept digging in my wallet, she put her hand over mine and said “Please, no,” in broken English.

A member of my group asked if the twins would like to sing a little acapella duet for us.  What ensued was the loveliest rendition of a medley of Hispanic hymns that you can imagine.  It was obvious that they spent much time singing together, and their sibling harmonies were terrific for such a young age.  They reinforced that they really wanted to use their talents to sing for God—and none of us doubted that they indeed could do just that. 

As it was getting close to the time for us to return to our bus and cut through the late afternoon Bogotá traffic, I suggested that we gather around and have some time of prayer together.  Normally when we would do this at a home visit, different folks in our troupe would take a turn at leading.  But before we could say anything, Hesblaidy asked if she could have the honor of praying for us. “Why, yes!” we all replied. We asked Marisol and the three kids to all gather in our midst so we could lay hands on them as a sign of encouragement and unity.

The twelve-year-old’s ensuing intercession was the definition of meekness.  She tenderly expressed deep appreciation for the opportunity to meet brothers and sisters from America who traveled all this way just to visit them.  She thanked God by name for each of their sponsors, their children, and even their pet dogs.  After many more words of appreciation for their health, provision, and unity, she then pondered Christ’s love for all of us, and pled forgiveness for when she had let Him down with her selfishness. With the utmost respect and humility she asked God again, “If it be Your will, we would very much like to serve You with our singing, and we patiently wait for You to lead us.” We were all in awe of the gentle spirit of love that had descended upon this household and was demonstrated in and through these little women.

While everyone had their heads bowed in fellowship with her heartfelt yearnings, I quietly stepped back from the circle and tucked $50 under the well-worn Bible that was on the rickety dresser.

May those amazing ladies continue to find good rest in Him.  Sleep well, you Bogotá beauties.

Mother Teresa on Clarity and Trust

When the brilliant ethicist John Kavanaugh went to work for three months at “the house of the dying” in Calcutta, he was seeking a clear answer as to how best to spend the rest of his life.  On the first morning there he met Mother Teresa.  She asked, “And what can I do for you?”  Kavanaugh asked her to pray for him.

“What do you want me to pray for?” she asked.  He voiced the request that he had borne thousands of miles form the United States: “Pray that I have clarity.”

She said firmly, “No, I will not do that.” 

When he asked her why, she said,  “Clarity is the last thing you are clinging to and must let go of.” 

When Kavanaugh commented that she always seemed to have the clarity he longed for, she laughed and said, “I have never had clarity; what I have always had is trust.  So I will pray that you trust God.”

(from Ruthless Trust, by Brennan Manning, 2000)

Despite Technology, life takes its own sweet time

Nashville Tennessean columnist Ray Waddle sums it up well...

Shortly before his death in 2007, novelist Norman Mailer ventured into theology, speculating that the modern world has become a bloody battle between two unpredictable forces — God and Satan. And a third rival is rising fast to match those two — human free will.

The world-bending effects of our tech revolutions tempt us now to think we can stand on our own, claiming more power than the devil and no need of God. For Mailer it was frightening to think of a future of synthetic humans, robotics and other giddy products of human ingenuity.

“If I have been ready to question God’s judgment on many a matter, I am wholly reluctant to put faith in our judgment,” he said in On God: An Uncommon Conversation. “We are far from equipped to deal with the cosmos.”

Mailer would be consoled to learn that our hurtle into the techno-utopian future has already hit a bump: We’re having trouble managing today’s information glut even at this early stage in the futuristic blueprint.

In his new book, Present Shock: When Everything Happens Now, author Douglas Rushkoff talks about the way we experience data and media these days — as a steady-stream dictatorship of continuous email, tweets, Facebook updates and news aggregators so relentless that we never catch a breath, pull back to get perspective, or respect the linear nature of human life.

“We have a completely new relationship to time,” he says at rushkoff.com. “We live in an always-on ‘now,’ where the priorities of this moment seem to be everything.

“Wall Street traders no longer invest in a future; they expect profits off their algorithmic trades themselves, in the ultra-fast moment. Voters want immediate results from their politicians, having lost all sense of the historic timescale on which government functions. Kids text during parties to find out if there’s something better happening in the moment, somewhere else.”

Flowing from this screaming whirlwind of what he calls “presentism” are various unintended consequences. One is a renewed itch for conspiracy theories. When there’s no time to organize data overload into a larger narrative or ongoing storyline, then the only way to make sense of it is to find real-time connections and patterns so everything connects to everything else right now, no matter how implausible.

A second consequence, Rushkoff notes, is a yearning for apocalypse, a final silencing of the incessant data torrent. The urge might be post-Christian or secular, but the impulse harkens to ancient religious instincts about the end of time.

All this will be an embarrassing (or momentary) setback to can-do utopians. But to those of us who never believed human nature would change even though the technology does, it’s no big surprise. It’s a quaint piece of hubris to think we could ever collapse time, master the “now,” pull the essence from it, elude the prison house of interpretation or defy the very physics of the 24-hour day, the need for sleep and food and other people.

What comes to mind is an endearingly analog insight that still offers sanity in a culture chasing the new algorithmic deities. Writer I.B. Singer once said: “God is a writer, and we are both the heroes and the readers.” The idea implies a cosmic plot line, an “Author’s” story unfolding through the sinews of linear time, a tale requiring our patience and courage. For whatever reason, the bones of the universe include the stubborn persistence of minutes, hours and eons as well as beginnings, middles and ends (more or less in that order). “The universe is made of stories, not of atoms,” poet Muriel Rukeyser once said.

Books take time (as the author of Present Shock wryly acknowledges). So do friendships, marriages, civilizations, religions, children, memories, the confirmation of facts, the triumph of wisdom — a step at a time, moment to moment, bordered by blessed intervals of silence.

The enemies of these things always lurk around: arrogant impatience and fantasies of purity and human perfectibility. Technological visions of a frictionless future scrubbed clean of raggedy human limitation lead to totalitarianism, cruelty and madness. The story of the world has always said so.

Thoughts?