An American Koan

A koan scholar said to the disciple over a steaming bowl of perfect rice, 'you are going to be famous one day.' The zen master, overhearing this, pointed to the tenzo, whose name the proud student could never remember. 'Do you see him?' he said, after chewing another bite of the heaven-sent food. 'He's famous.' Hearing this, the disciple was crestfallen, and he fled in haste, certain that he was missing something.
Thirteen years later, the disciple returned boldly to the Zen master, his face soiled from his long journey into the pit. After lauding the zen master with effusive praise, he asked him for his blessing. The zen master said, "Of all the students I have had, you are the only success story'. The student again left the zen master, certain that now he would indeed be famous.

A hungry ghost added: The student doesn't know how bad his shit stinks. He needs to fail or he will surely wind up in the lowest hell.

"There's no success like failure, and failure's no suck-cess at all."

THE MOMENT: HEAVEN IN A SONG

Today I was talking to my sister who lives down in North Carolina. We both admitted that we live too much in our heads, which can get us in some trouble! As we sometimes need to say to one another in the rooms of AA, 'don't go into your head unless accompanied by an adult!" For me, making my living as a preacher and academic, I spend a lot of my time up there in la la land, and believe me, it can get kinda crazy--especially as I am studying Kierkegaard, who was known as the gloomy Dane. Kierkegaard lived in his unbelievably brilliant, once in a thousand years mind, and though this resulted in some of the most remarkably rich spiritual writings in the last 150 years, it seems fair to say that Kierkegaard did not spend nearly enough time in his body, exploring the erotic territory given to him as to each of us as a birthright. When he got viciously attacked publically in the famous Corsair affair, he found himself cut off from the public life he had previously enjoyed and retreated even further into his head. His psychological analyses, of despair, anxiety, faith, and love are remarkable, but for me, anyway, he is also a dangerous, if not intoxicating philosophical drink, and I laughed as I told my sister about spending 10 hours a day reading this guy and wondering why I get depressed! But I always come back to Soren K. as he is also one of the funniest philosophers out there--his attacks on preachers and paid religious leaders alone make him one of my heroes, and his prayers are equally moving.

So today I decided to try an experiment. While reading Kierkegaard, I put on my IPod the music of Ray Wylie Hubbard, the most earthly, down and dirty, existentially hip spiritual bluesman I know. One listen to his song Preacher from his album Growl, and you will know why I say this about the one I call Saint Ray the Redneck. On low volume, Ray's growl was in the house in which Kierkegaard was forced to play this day, and I have to say that for me anyway, reading Kierkegaard has never made me quite as happy. I'm putting up the lyrics of one of the songs that came on as I was reading, from the album Delirium Tremolos. You really have to get the album and listen to see how Ray's music can get you 'out of your rut and into a groove'; but for now, I share the lyrics of the troubadour prophet, Woody Guthrie. The theology, I must say, is simply brilliant--better than a stack of bibles and a month of Sunday sermons!.

THIS MORNING I AM BORN AGAIN
Words by Woody Guthie Music by Slaid Cleaves; performed by Ray Wylie Hubbard and friends

This morning I was born again and a light shines on my land
I no longer look for heaven in your deathly distant land
I do not want your pearly gates, don’t want your streets of gold
This morning I was born again and a light shines in my soul

This morning I was born again I was born again complete
I stood above my troubles and I stand on my two feet
My hand it feels unlimited, my body feels like the sky
I feel at home in the universe where yonder planets fly

This morning I was born again my past is dead and gone
This great eternal moment is my great eternal dawn
Each drop of blood within me, each breath of life I breath
Is united with these mountains and the mountains with the seas;

I feel the sun upon me, its rays crawl through my skin
I breath the life of Jesus and old John Henry in
I’d give myself, my heart, my soul to give some friendly hand
This morning I was born again, I’m in the promised land.

This morning I was born again, and a light shines on my land
I no longer look for heaven in your deathly distant land
I do not want your pearly gates, don’t want your streets of gold
I do not want your mansions for my heart is never cold.

A Christmas Present from Saint Ray the Redneck for...my sweet baby and me

RESURRECTION
written by Al Grierson
performed by Ray Wylie Hubbard

There was something there a’coming down like easter in the air
And he woke up Sunday morning with flowers in his hair
Looking like the face of Jesus in his final agony
That they found on that old winding sheet way off in Italy
And he was long gone, yes gone when they rolled away the stone

Yes something had come a’shining in that smoky little room
Lit up like a thousand candles in a middle eastern tomb
And an angel lay on the mattress, and spoke of history and death
With perfume on her lingerie and whisky on her breath
And he was long gone, he was gone when they rolled away the stone

And they found him in the desert picking flowers for the muse
Ah sometimes he’s the fire, sometimes he’s a fuse
He’s loaded up his saddlebags out on the edge of wonder
The one is filled with music, and the other’s filled with thunder
And he was long gone, he was gone when they rolled away the stone

Well I never thought to ask him but the thought seemed mighty slim
That he’d ever much believed in God or God believed in him
But they both believed in a woman who like truth a’set him free
And now he wanders in confusion for he’s lost his poetry
But he was long gone, was gone when they rolled away the stone

Oh they say there’s something coming, but they don’t say what it is
And the judgment might be yours or mine, then again it might be his
He might be William Bonny, Escalito or El Cid
He might be Spanish Johnny, then again he might be Captain Kid
He was long gone, he was gone when they rolled away the stone

And they found him in the desert picking flowers for the muse
Sometimes he’s the fire, sometimes he’s a fuse
He’s loading up his saddlebags out on the edge of wonder
One is filled with music, and the other’s filled with thunder
He was long gone, gone when they rolled away the stone.

He was long gone, he was gone when they rolled away the stone.

Thinking of you this winter's day...

Skirting Seneca's grey air
near home today something startled.
Oh, those puttering mallard ducks!
With their wings and their mocking laughter,
am I crazy for thinking they're angels?
Piercing cold self-absorbed lump,
They calmly muttered
What a grump.
Out of myself we flew.

Sympathy for the Troll: or how I became God's sock puppet

Recently, Clark West, troll in a knoll and I were banned from a 'Christian' website, Titus One Nine. The reason? We was accused of being 'trolls' or 'playing troll games.' For those of you who do not know what a troll is, here's a quick definition from wiki: a troll "is someone who intentionally posts controversial or contrary messages in an on-line community such as an on-line discussion forum or group with the singular intention of baiting users into an argumentative response."
Actually, it is worse than that. One smartypants actually was able to discover, though means unknown to us computer neophytes, that all three of us were writing from the same IP address (sort of like computer DNA maybe?) and we got 'caught'. The charge, which we will now share, deleting the name to protect the innocent, was this:

"Elves -- I'm sure you already know this but . . . Troll in a Knoll, Clark
West, and Doubtfully Thomas are the same person under three different
pseudonyms . . . a fact, I might add, that reveals something truly bizarre
about whoever the real person is, since I note that both Troll and
Doubtfully have been pretending to have conversations with one another, one
in the pretend guise as a reasserter sowing confusion, the other in another
guise. West [who knows who this is] is a reappraiser from other comments.

Simply bizarre.

But nevertheless, Troll outed himself by being just a bit too spiteful and
sly in comment #16 towards DK.

Ugh, for whoever this is."

Ouch! (Oh, in case you were wondering who doubtfully thomas 'is', he 'is' me. And who am I? God's Sock Puppet. Oh shit, this is getting confusing already!) Let's see if I can sort this out for you a bit. I used to be a troll named doubtfully thomas, who posted a couple of times on Titus One Nine, launching a few well placed theological jabs at the ridiculous literalists who are trying to keep gays out of the church (unless they stay in the closet i.e. become 'trolls' who hide their 'real' identity behind an alias and thus make all kinds of real trouble--e.g. Ted Haggard). When I realized that my being a troll was a bit hypocritical, (actually, its that I got caught and was challenged to get a name change: here it is Sarah!) I decided to 'come out of the closet' and use my real name, God's sock puppet. What's a sock puppet you ask? Again, let's go to that source of all thing holy, wikipedia:

"A sockpuppet, also commonly known as an alt, is an online identity used for purposes of deception within an Internet community. In its earliest usage, a sockpuppet was a false identity through which a member of an Internet community speaks while pretending not to, like a puppeteer manipulating a hand puppet."

Well, the word deception seems a little bit unfair (after all, my original name, doubtfullly thomas, should have been a clue that I was not who I said I was--hardly out and out deception, which is more likely when people use real sounding names like Sarah or Clark West for example). Less judgementally, we might say that a sock puppet is simply a pseudonym that one uses for all kinds of reasons. In real world, a sock puppet is quite obviously attached to a real person, and it allows you to do all kinds of things you couldn't do without it: tell a knock knock joke when you're by your lonesome or for an audience, get into a knock down drag out argument to reveal the tensions in both sides of a particular issue, or simply entertain (my kids love when my sock puppets cry and they get to comfort them). Only the most cynical of people would say that a sock puppet is 'false' or trying to practice 'deception'. In fact, the greatest sock puppeteer of all was Plato, who put words into Socrates' and many other characters' mouths in his great dialogues, the source of some of the greatest truth in the western world. Only an utterly unrepentant modernist would argue that Plato was lying. Postmodern readers have deftly shown that not only does Socrates, presumably Plato's favorite, not always win the argument (think Diotima in the Symposium, or as I have argued elsewhere, the drunken Alcibiades who gives Socrates the seducer his comeuppance at the end of that same dialogue); but further, they show that winning 'the argument' is not even the best way to think about how truth is reached in the first place. (thanks to my Kierkegaard teacher, Ed Mooney, for teaching me this). Truth, someones once said (spelling mistake intended), is dialogic , and it was Plato's genius (as it was Kierkegaard's later) to discover this and exploit it to its full. Its called fiction, and the real hoot is how angry some folks get when you suggest that truth might be better told in a fiction rather than in the ever so earnest 'sincerity' of rationalistic hate-mongers like Robert Gagnon. Have they never read Dostoevesky? Or listened to Jesus? Or spoken of God to a child, as a child?

Now, as one of our friends here on this site, Between the devil and the deep blues sea once wrote about Clark, 'you're no kierkegaard'; and I know that if Clark ain't, there's not much of a chance for little old me to claim this. Actually, my claim is much bolder. For I am not just any sock puppet, I am God's sock puppet, which means that I am not the hand behind the sock with all the brains, brawn and inspiration, but I am the mere veil allowing my God to do what my God will do. In other words, I am just a preacher. Don't blame me, I like to say, I'm just saying what God says! (though it hurts me to admit the irony, this is also one of the favorite excuses for the gay-hating arguments on the above mentioned 'Christian' website, that they are only quoting the verses that God 'wrote'. Alas, I would simply say that they have let the devil get the upper hand into their sock.) And if you are suspicious, and you you want to know what the theology of my God is, I'm going to have to pass the buck. Ask Clark. His theology is simply irrefutably good. Infallible even. So he says. What do I know? I'm just a sock!

I must say, it's not easy being a sock puppet. Sometimes you get 'caught', which means that people get mad at you for being a sock, i suppose, without any views of your own. Some preachers, I mean sock puppets, have even lost their jobs for preaching sermons about unpleasant truths the church and its leaders would rather not hear, and though they have defended themselves by saying that they are only trying to be obedient sock puppets, preaching what God puts in their mouths to preach, this kind of theology usually don't go very far. I speak from experience here. The church tends to hate sock puppets, which they sometimes slip and call prophets, false and true. I call myself a pain in the royal episcopal ass. Just for fun.

Now, my friends troll in a knoll and Clark West can speak for themselves (or one of them can, I believe). But I for one am glad we got banned by our 'Christian' fundamentalist/modernist friends. Not everybody believes that God can speak through a troll or through a humble vehicle such as a sock (I usually have holes of all kinds and go unwashed because my God expects his wife to do all the laundry), and they get mad and say things like the meanypants did up above. They say mean things, that we are 'the same person' which I personally take as an insult (Troll is moronic if you ask me, even if he is pretty fair at irony); worse, they imply that we are probably insane and schizophrenic. (trolls usually get called insane tout suite--it is rather crazy, come to think about it, to expect a bunch of screaming meemies like the fundy's to actually take a point of view other than their own seriously. Troll, you got a therapist?? I think Westy knows a good one). Postmodernism, which rejects the idea that we have an essential identity which grounds our going out and our coming in, is not everyone's cup of tea. I even feel a little guilty for having partaken in our little game beyond the point at which it was clear that we were no longer welcome (in truth, the moment we questioned the anti-gay vitriol on display we were not welcome). If I was not banned, I might even go over there again to make a stab at repentance-though I have learned that we trolls and sock puppets have a reputation for crocodile tears and false repentance, so it probably wouldn't work. (Clark, I have heard, used his clergy status [oh, priests are sooooo pious and honest, aren't they?] and sweet talking 'sincerity' to keep the door to Titus One Nine ever so slightly ajar; if this little missive ruins that, Clark, tough cookie crumbs--you got me into this in the first place, so talk to the hand!)

Why do I do what I do? As our patron saint Saint Ray the Redneck might say, "I don't know." At least, being a sock puppet, I have my excuse. I just do what I'm told, say what I'm said to say. (wish there was a typpo there--I could use the dough!).
Being banned, though its a bummer, is not the worst thing in the world. The heaven of our 'Christian' friends seems like a rather lonely unpleasant place, if you ask me: no gay, troll, trouble maker or sock puppet need apply--what in the world would a kid like me do there anyway? I'll take the narrow road with my favorite buddy Jesus, the finest sock puppet ever to walk God's green earth. Don't believe me on this last one? Think I'm a heretic? Not a problem on this end, but I'll simply conclude by playing one of the fundy's favorite games, Let's Find a Bible Verse to Prop Up our Limp Little Socks. Here's mine: "I and my father are one." There's a sock puppet motto if ever I heard one. Clarkie my boy, toad o joy (my nickname for our neighborhood troll), I have laid down the gauntlet. Let's see what you got!

With whet sloppy kisses of love,
the wilderness singer formerly known as Doubtfully Thomas

Poetic Scratchings from Saint Ray the Redneck

Today this song from Ray Wylie Hubbard reminds me of my beloved church...

Without Love

You are like a flower growin' in the wildwood
bringing pleasure to the eyes
I am like a river after a rainstorm
ragin' away too fast to die
you are a flower, I am a river
without love we're both just a wastin' time

You are like a rainbow spread against a blue sky
sunrise is your next of kin
I am like a whirlwind roaring across the desert
the kind some hope to never see again
you are a rainbow, I am a whirlwind
without love we're both just a wastin' time

You are like a diamond shining in the sunlight
sparklin' and precious to see
I am like a drifter always going some place
I never get to where I'm supposed to be
you are a diamond, I am a drifter
without love we're both just a wastin' time

You are like a prayer rising up to heaven
pleasing the one upon who you call
I am like a scarecrow alone in the distance
close by, there are those who would see me fall
you are a prayer, I am a scarecrow
without love we're both just a wastin' time
without love we're both just a wastin' time