Breathing Holes

Remember when you were a kid and you found a turtle or baby bird and put it in a box?  "Make sure it has breathing holes," somebody would say. "You don't want it to suffocate."

Harbor Lights Radio

I started reading, I mean really reading interesting books when I was around fifteen years old. And it was because my dad, an Assemblies of God missionary turned pastor turned radio evangelist turned Christian college recruiter turned traveling evangelist and back to radio host, had in all his travels accumulated so much religion enhanced self reproach that he ultimately turned himself into a piously glazed vessel of bubbling guilt and shame.

By all accounts, the God who Reverend Les chose to follow had either repeatedly and purposefully misled him, possibly for sport, or the connection he so desperately sought was nothing more than a black hole of cascading nothingness. The former, though cruel, at least holds an element of playfulness. Alas, only the omniscient knows for sure. (contact me)

Reverend Les died quietly of a stroke at age 93 while living in Maranatha Manor, an A/G property located near the fairgrounds in north Springfield next to the now defunct Central Bible Institute. After living his entire adult life ministering in one form or another, he left behind three grown children, a few photo albums and two briefcases full of cassette recordings of his self-produced radio show, Harbor Lights, which was broadcast every Sunday night at 10:00 p.m. on KGBX AM and later on KWFC (Keep Watching For Christ). 

For a span of ten years following a final round of cross country evangelizing, Reverend Les would spend his Sunday mornings, and sometimes into the night up to a final frantic hour before broadcast, recording Harbor Lights on big 3M reels of shiny brown audio tape. He would mutter to himself while searching for songs through stacks of albums. He would write and edit devotionals, rehearse said devotionals, splice like a madman, fading distant surf and buoy bells in & out. The finished product was usually pretty good technically and could pass as syndicated by AM standards of the time.

Through the closed studio door, one could hear the melodious tones of Anita Bryant, George Beverly Shea, The Blackwood Brothers and others wafting down the hallway. He loved Negro Spirituals like "Steal Away" and "Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child", songs we never sang at Central Assembly (A/G's flagship assemblage, pre megachurch era).  The music segued into calming sermonettes and homilies droned out in an overly kind and understanding radio voice that he only used for self-parody in regular life. For its many listeners residing in nursing homes, Harbor Lights was a soothing Christian ASMR. In this regard, Reverend Les was ahead of his time. He would have loved YouTube.

The Blackout Collection

As cool as the studio was, the library full of books on the surrounding walls is the real subject of this little foray into how a 14-15 boy accidentally, or perhaps by divine Guidance, discovered some amazing literature.

The bookshelves made up two full walls in Harbor Lights studio, containing works of all shapes and sizes, hardbound and paperback. Most were religious in nature, Pentecostal and evangelical theorizing on forgiveness, faith, salvation and the like. My attempts to understand the elaborate riddles contained in Christian thought didn't get far. But scattered throughout the collection, in no apparent order, were a dozen or so books with the covers painted black. Now, this was interesting.

The first "black book" I read, and what a doozy first attempt, was Brave New World by Aldous Huxley, which I found incredibly scary but also fascinating. No Christian theorizing here. All citizens of the World State taking varying levels of Soma to complete their days working for the State. Small doses made people feel good. Large doses created hallucinations and timelessness. My first thoughts about drugs started here, not to mention autocracy, now a timely topic.

One could assume that deliberately painting book covers black would imply some kind of pornographic content*. Sadly, this was not the case.  These were works from Steinbeck, Huxley, Salinger, Bellow, Fitzgerald, Hemingway, some of the western world's greatest writers. I struggled to understand a lot of it but tore into them anyway. The writing, the language was like an open door to somewhere else, where one could breathe freely and talk openly about anything. I mean anything, real things. Forbidden things.

(*The closest thing to porn was a thin book entitle Ancient Greek Eroticism, which contained a few graphic line drawings. Had it not been painted black, I would have missed this truly formative experience.)

Picture, if you will, the good reverend out in his garage spray painting book covers up against broken down cardboard.  This took some time and effort but was a rather clumsy form of censorship, since it had the opposite effect. 

After a child's lifetime filled with eavesdropping on adult dialogue awash in Christian theory and complaint, it was not hard at all to figure out why my true believer father would paint books black. The same intellect that had driven him to enjoy endless theories and interpretations on faith, love and forgiveness also piqued his interest in "worldly" literature. He had a pulse. His curiosity wasn't dead yet. But from his teenage son's point of view, the blackout collection might have just as well been painted day-glow orange.

Are You Washed In The Blood?

Any effort put into analyzing the specific behaviors of highly devout Christian men is  strictly a fool's game, though sometimes their relentless naked ambition gives them away. Take Josh Hawley, for instance. Please.

While the irrationality of religious beliefs can be absolutely endearing in the proper context (i.e. when a self-admitted lost soul finds salvation by allowing an imaginary person into their heart, and this simple ritual actually changes their life for the better for a little while), more often these strongly held religious beliefs create a short-cut to self-delusion, guilt and shame. Religion can become the gateway drug to guilt and self-loathing from there. 

Reverend Les painted those marvelous books black because he was ashamed that he enjoyed reading them.

Aberrant Behavior

Aberrant behavior among those who suffer from delusional levels of piety is not a rare thing across the great expanse of the American Bible Belt, of which Springfield is often described as the buckle.

(If Springfield isn't the buckle of the Bible Belt, is it not the buckle's frame or perhaps the prong? Further, if Springfield is, in fact, the buckle of the Bible Belt, whose pants are being held up? Next topic for Non-Believer Bible Study!)

Jerry Falwell, founder of Richard Nixon's Moral Majority was the original sinner regarding blending church and state back in the 1970s. Falwell studied at Baptist Bible College on Kearney Street. 

Shyster snake lubricant purveyor, Jim Bakker, creator of PTL Club, was an Assemblies of God preacher who was excommunicated by A/G presbyters to much national coverage right here on Boonville Avenue.

John Ashcroft, Hillcrest High School's most famous graduate, whose father was president of Evangel University, ordered breasts to be draped on statues at the Department of Justice when he became U.S. Attorney General.

Oh, and then there's the pathetically heartbreaking tale of former SMSU university president, Arthur Mallory, an all-around decent fellow who did much to promote public education in Missouri and eventually became the state's Commissioner of Education. While serving as commissioner in 1987, Mallory was caught taking wine bottles from store shelves and taking a swig or two before placing them back on the shelf. He resigned in self-disgrace immediately and sought treatment for a "drinking problem". But was it the drinking? Jesus turned water into wine, which strongly implies He sanctions its consumption. No, it wasn't the drinking.

And, of course, there's the amazing story of Tim Carpenter - Family Living Assistant Pastor from James River Assemblies of God, now known as James River Church. Tim staged his own violent self-abduction in 1998 that made front page of the News-Leader. Pastor Lindell, who still presides over the megachurch in Ozark, Missouri, led a community-wide search and rescue mission, complete with helicopters, highway signs, prayer groups and press conferences. In the end, it was nothing more than your garden variety evangelical husband covering up a covert affair and not having the guts to ask for a divorce.

Local police never bought Pastor Lindell's public relations campaign and eventually tracked Carpenter down in Memphis, Tennessee, where he had taken a job at a building supply store and had rented an apartment. You can read the whole story here: https://ozarksangel.blogspot.com/2005/07/self-abduction-of-tim-carpenter.html

Breathing Holes

One must recognize that there are, at any given time but especially now, an abundance of tortured souls struggling to find a secure place in a spectacularly over-stimulated world of joy and cruelty, heartbreak and exultation, death and destruction. For those that can afford it, employing a life coach or counselor is an option. For others, a well timed Xanax (Soma) does the trick. For many, religion is worth a shot, though history shows that religion causes as much widespread suffering as it alleviates.

Reverend Les certainly repressed the usual things Christian men tend to stifle, and we can only imagine how this struggle played out for his long-suffering wife. He did at least allow himself his personal blackout collection of "worldly" literature. Yes, it's kind of pathetic, but maybe those amazing books served as his breathing holes. They certainly were for his son.

Emergencies, Evangelicals & Saluting the Troops

(This piece was written in 2019 prior to pandemic.)

A child was kidnapped in St. Charles, Missouri last week. St. Charles is 200 miles away, but my phone went off like a damn fire alarm. So did yours. It happens a lot, but this time it made me jump. Authorities are alerting concerned citizens to be on the lookout for a silver SUV.

It's heartwarming to know Americans care so much about the safety of children. We revere the unborn fetus, of course. After that, well, it's every toddler for himself. All those cuts for education, nutrition, healthcare and the accompanying increase in child poverty are a form of tough love, right? But if one of them gets kidnapped, our phones blow up.

SUV, by the way, stands for Sports Utility Vehicle, a marketing concept thought up by an ad agency representing the auto industry. Everybody knows what an SUV is. 
Be on the lookout. We're all in this together. Looking for a silver SUV.

Wait, a Silver SUV just drove by. I'll be right back. Could never forgive myself if . . . 

No worries, just neighbors returning from the grocery store. They wonder why I'm checking them out. I wave.
"Sorry, Amber Alert," I say. "Silver SUV. Just checking."
"This is a Crossover," they say. A Crossover?
"A smaller version of an SUV. We love it."

"Great! Thanks!"

Egregious General Anxiety Disorder

I used to tease an office colleague that they suffered from Egregious General Anxiety Disorder (EGAD), which caused them to experience some form of stress and agitation during almost every waking moment. Even their dreams were fraught with harrowing images. 
Luckily, EGAD can be treated with drug therapy. Ask your doctor about Egadizol.
*May increase chances of stroke. Side effects may include depression and thoughts of suicide.

So, why does it feel like we're in a constant state of emergency, even here in the American Midwest, arguably one of the safest places on Earth? You may disagree that emergencies are ever present, but just wait. There have been two mass shootings and a tornado since I started writing this a couple of days ago. Or, here's a simple test: Have you ever seen a flag at half mast but couldn't remember which tragedy was being commemorated? Or, how about this.


"Daddy, why is the flag way up high today?" 
"Oh, honey. That's how they're suppose to be." That's how we're suppose to live. Full mast.

All across America, people are randomly gunned down for having the audacity to attend schools or visit restaurants, concerts, movie theaters, stores and churches. Most often, the assailant is an angry white man armed with a lethal military assault rifle. Mainstream media hesitates to call them domestic terrorists, which sounds almost chummy, as though they wiped down counter tops and straightened the living room before heading out for a bloodletting. Let's just call them terrorists. Most of the killers seem like regular Americans. The guy down the street could be kidnapping children and shooting up synagogues next week. He does drive a van adorned with political stickers, which serves as an advertisement. "I'm a crazy motherfucker? Beware!" It's part of a new bad ass culture. Big trucks, big flags, big idiots. And then it happens.


"I can't believe it happened here," someone will say. 
"He was quiet. Kept to himself."
"No, he didn't. He had crazy right-wing stickers plastered all over his van!"
"Oh, you're right. I was thinking of that other guy."

"Yeah. The guy before last."

Emergencies bring us together, if you're a glass half full type, which may partially explain our perverse dependence on calamity as part of our national identity. Shared suffering and fear are effective agents of unity even in a politically divided country. For a little while. Of course, long term angst is generated by disaster media like Fox News, which has discovered how to parlay fear and loathing into untold billions in profits. If calamity actually did bring us closer, wouldn't we be pretty damn unified by now? Unity via disaster and/or mass murder seems to have an abbreviated shelf life.

Common responses.

"Yes, a lot of people died and it is a terrible tragedy, but the community really came together after the tornado/flood/hurricane/mass killing."
"The first responders were amazing, cordoning off the building and caring for the wounded."
"Our deepest thoughts and prayers go out to families of victims."
The implication here is that shallow thoughts and prayers would be offered for lesser traumas.
"Lord, thank you for sparing us from the tornado that killed our neighbors," could be considered a shallow prayer.

If calamitous events revive our sense of community, am I wrong to think the world could really benefit from a fucking asteroid about now? A small one? One that allows most of us to survive and perhaps get our priorities straightened out?

In case you've been too distracted by everything, you should be aware that tornadoes, fires, hurricanes and floods have become more severe than in any living person's memory. No, it's not god punishing us for the existence of Pat Robertson. It's global warming, stupid!
An invasive species has pushed earth's environment to the tipping point for life in general, except for maybe viruses & such. 
We would do more, but the invasive specie is us. Smart as we think we are, it's becoming clear that we're fatally flawed.

Maybe we should do Mother Earth a big favor and go run off a cliff en masse like a colony of lemmings. Maybe that's what we're doing in slow motion and haven't realized it yet.

A Confession About the Troops

This is as good a time as any for me to make a confession. I'm pretty sure that I'm not thankful enough for the troops, not by community standards anyway. I mostly feel sorry for them. We go overboard saluting the troops because we feel guilty for not really caring more about what they do. We have no idea what they do most of the time. Neither do they.
In keeping with a healthy conscience, I will heretofore resist standing at Hammons Field to salute the kid who enlisted as his last best option after being fired from his job at the Dollar General in Ava, Missouri. The honored veteran, wearing a ball cap and an oddly menacing heavy metal t-shirt with camo cargo shorts, reluctantly waves to the crowd and sits down in the Hero's Chair (Courtesy of Factory Outlet). No, when everyone rises during the singing of "God Bless America", I will seek out a corn dog.
I mean, since when is the National Anthem not enough?

Now, much to my dismay, I look around and realize it's Christian Night. Dear God, help me. Of course it is. If it were Muslim Night, the crowd would be sparse with only a few international students from the university. I'm also imagining a Buddhist Night where no score is kept. But in Springfield, Missouri, it's Christian Night at the old ballpark, and the faithful are all about saluting young Travis from Ava, Jesus, and Furniture Outlet, of course.

Many in the crowd are wearing red promotional t-shirts.  Instead of "Cardinals" in cursive across the front, it says "Christian". It does, I swear. Here's a picture. I have chosen to carefully crop out their faces to protect them and myself from persecution.

In Springfield, being surrounded by evangelicals is part of life, and I learned long ago to just let it go. My parents brought me into the world as an evangelical. I was saved at age eight at Calvary Temple Assembly of God church on East Grand, which was torn down a few years ago and replaced with a Wal-Mart Neighborhood Market. We know what the real religion is here, don't we?

Evangelical Christians in Southwest Missouri are among the most judgmental and politically conservative in the country. Evangelical Christians are also the most ardent Trump supporters on the planet. They would send their kids to his university in a heartbeat. They'd buy his steaks. They eagerly swallow all the lies and fear-mongering spewing forth from the Orange Foolius because they believe, somehow, that he is God's chosen leader. To them, Trump is kind of like a secular and profane American Ayatollah, who could only rise to power in the dim sunset of 21st century America.

Tonight, the Christians at the ballpark are not fearful at all, which is strangely heartwarming. This is how it should be. Of course, for them, there's really no reason to fear anything, especially while surrounded by people who look just like you. There isn't a Muslim or MS13 member in sight, though there are several silver SUVs in the parking lot (some may be crossovers). Still, if the Rapture were to occur at this moment, a few of the true believers would experience a twinge of sadness to miss the post game fireworks. But for the most part, they're having a great time, secure in their delusions, rooting for the home team.

As one, they rise to salute Travis from Ava in the Hero's Chair, and I quickly break for my corn dog. Behind me, a church soprano backed by a ukele choir performs God Bless America.

Oh, how I've come to loath the proliferation of patriotism checks at every community gathering. I long for the days when troops and police officers stoically performed their duties without forced public recognition. Can we not just have a general understanding that we support them? No, we can't, not even at the annual chili cook-off.

"Let's all recognize that we wouldn't be able to celebrate this occasion if it weren't for the brave men and women who so, uh, bravely protect our freedom," says the master of ceremonies.
Really? I think we could. I think we could hold a fucking chili cook-off!

President Trump, who is himself a frequent declarer of emergencies real and imagined, now wants to send direct text messages to the entire US population when disasters strike. AT&T and Verizon are fine with this, by the way, and I read somewhere that the system was set up like Amber Alerts, so we won't be able to block him.

A test of the Presidential Text system was suppose to have happened a few months ago but was somehow sidelined, probably by somebody who has since been fired. If it ever starts, you know our phones will be buzzing at least once a month about some goddam thing: Fake News, Saturday Night Live, Hillary, god knows what. 

So, if you've had this strange sense of foreboding that something really awful is about to happen, there's good reason. It's pervasive. It's happening. American life, as we know it, is in emergency mode. Level Orange. Be vigilant.

Also, a kid was kidnapped in St. Charles and may be in a silver SUV. 
Never heard what happened with that kid, can only imagine.