Unless you regularly tune in to your local contemporary Christian music radio station, it's likely you've never heard of Chris Sligh.
The singer from South Carolina is surprisingly average looking, a really big guy with wild curly hair reminisicent of the comedic singer Weird Al Yankovic. But it's not Chris Sligh's looks that nail you to your chair, it's his incredible voice and the haunting and poignant Top Ten single, "Empty Me."
I've been a radio junkie my whole life and I've wittingly or unwittingly absorbed into memory a library of lyrics from pretty much all genres. Where lyrics were absent, I filed away entire guitar riffs (think Eddie Van Halen's stunning solo on "Eruption"), piano concerto measures, and all manner of background instrumental bits (bluegrass guitarist Doc Watson and his son Merle rock the room with their dueling strings on the instrumental "Sheep in the Meadow.")
The first time I heard Sligh's "Empty Me," I nearly drove off the road I was listening so hard, not wanting to miss a single word.
When I got home I googled him and learned he was a contestant on American Idol's Season 6. I've never watched that show so that factoid didn't move me. Then I learned that "Empty Me" hit the big time long before our local CC radio station played it and I discovered it for myself. That just made me feel out of touch.
So what finally convinced me Sligh and his song were worth a second look?
Chubby dude sings like an angel. The ironic combination intrigued, to be sure, but in the end it's the words. Read a snippet and see if you don't agree Sligh is on to something. Better yet, visit YouTube and hear him sing it live.
Empty me of the selfishness inside
Every vain ambition and the poison of my pride
And any foolish thing my hearts holds to,
Lord, empty me of me so I can be filled with You.
The song is a prayer of the best kind -- humble, fervent, asking God to give nothing other than the capacity to understand Him more.
The Bible says that the more we come to know of God the less the things of the world will matter. In an age where financial debauchery is taking its toll on even the most affluent, people struggle to rebuild lives swept out to sea by a hurricane, and world leaders jockey for power and prestige even as their people go without, Chris Sligh's inspired and plaintive request is the voice of one crying in the wilderness.
As I go about my everyday tasks, I find myself replaying Sligh's petition to God.
His song has become my prayer.
Wordly discourse on everything from the sad state of public education, politics and world peace to vegetarianism, breast vs. bottle, religious persecution, bad media, and all manner of life's vagaries.
September 23, 2008
September 15, 2008
Galveston O Galveston
The sentiment of Glenn Campbell's famous song is perhaps more poignant than ever tonight as people south of here struggle to dig their way out from under the wreckage left by Hurricane Ike.
A childhood spent at Galveston beaches, parties with college friends, tours with my mom to the historic Strand district with its circa 1900s architecture and, more recently, vacations to the Island with my own children -- it's all in my mind and captured on film.
Tonight, many of those places have been swept out to sea. Others lie under several feet of muddy saltwater, their recovery possible, but light years away.
I grew up about 45 miles from the coast, and a trip to Galveston always promised big adventure. As a child, my folks driving me from the mainland over the big bridge to the island never failed to make my heart skip a few beats.
Water -- as far as the eye could see -- and boats, and funny little houses built on stilts, and seagulls and pelicans, and if I rolled down my window the sharp smell of salty sea air. I was never prepared for the most breathtaking sight of all, though. As we'd come up over the rise at Broadway, or at 61st St. or any of the streets in between that led to the Seawall, my little-kid mind would ready itself to behold the most massive and moving thing I knew.
The Gulf of Mexico. The ocean. The sea. The body of water pulled this way and that by the earth's rotation and its perpetual love affair with the moon.
My dad had been a Navy diver in his younger days as well as a meteorologist. I got many private tutorials in my early years about tides, currents, dangerous sea creatures, the relationship of the earth to the moon, and much more.
Dad was pretty fearless back then and thought nothing of scooping up his little daughter -- who could not yet swim -- and taking me out past the shallows and the sandbars into much deeper water where even he struggled to touch bottom. The waves would come at us, I would scream, and Dad would simply buoy me up as they rolled through us.
I never saw a shark, though I often imagined the little mullet fish nipping at my legs and feet were somehow kin.
I never saw a Portugese Man 'O War jellyfish, but I heard my dad tell stories about them. And I saw their cousins, the much bulkier and less attractive "cabbage head" jellies washed up on the shore from time to time.
As a teenager, I went with my mother to the island's annual Dickens Festival and Christmas on the Strand, a celebration of life as it might have looked in Charles Dickens' time. We donned our old-fashioned costumes, sipped wassail, ate roasted chestnuts and for an evening lived in another time. Once we even met a descendant of Charles Dickens at a special tea party to which Mom had bought tickets in advance. That was my first taste of Earl Grey tea and I did not like it.
This was several years after the 1983 Hurricane Alicia, a storm that wreaked enough havoc to make me believe in the truth of "mandatory" -- as in evacuation. We lived through that storm without power or water for nearly a week. My most vivid memories? The spooky incessant wailing of the wind the night Alicia plowed through, walking out in our backyard as the eye passed over and seeing blue sky and shining sun, my father calling me back in as he could see the clouds of the opposing eyewall heading towards us and, later, piles of tree debris as tall as every house on my street.
It wasn't long after that I bought a little book titled "Weekend in September" about the famous 1900 hurricane that wiped out the island and killed nearly 8,000 people. I read it in one sitting, so compelling was its collection of first person accounts and photographs of the aftermath. By this time I was old enough to appreciate devastation, having finally been subjected to school assignments on slavery in America, the Holocaust of WW II, and several other unfathomable human tragedies.
My pre-marriage, pre-motherhood memories of Galveston adventures are too numerous to recount in one 'blog entry but suffice it to say the island is part and parcel of the psyche of so many of us who have spent much of our lives in close proximity to it.
More recently, I'd just begun introducing my own children to the wonders of The Island. In 2006 they made their first journey over that big bridge to see for themselves the ocean. It was in November and in spite of the cold wind and water my oldest daughter was loathe to leave the beach. We fed seagulls, shopped for kitschy souvenirs at Murdoch's Beach House and Pier and toured the aquarium at Moody Gardens. We watched them toss pizza dough at Marios, and time and again in those three days went back down to the ocean for "just one more" look.
Last year, we took the girls and their brother back for another round. This time I was very pregnant with Baby No. 4 and while some activities weren't appealing to me, we made sure to visit the old haunts -- Murdoch's, Mario's, et al. My daughters greeted the different places like old friends, chattering excitedly as they changed from sandybeach swim clothes to souvenir-shopping and eating clothes. "When are we coming back?" they asked as we drove home. "Will it be soon? Will it be after the baby is born? Will we bring him to Galveston, too?"
We were planning another trip this very November so that my then-unborn son could see what he'd missed by being in utero at the time.
I finally saw a photo of Murdoch's today or, more accurately , the space where it used to be. I wondered what had happened to it as a result of this weekend in September.
It's all gone. Not a shell, not a keychain, not a tee-shirt remains. All I have is a photo of my two little girls -- how little they were -- sitting on the steps of the shop next to Murdoch's trademark giant clam shells and smiling.
It was a beautiful, breezy day that day. Just right for goin' to Galveston.
The memories aren't enough to keep me from mourning.
A childhood spent at Galveston beaches, parties with college friends, tours with my mom to the historic Strand district with its circa 1900s architecture and, more recently, vacations to the Island with my own children -- it's all in my mind and captured on film.
Tonight, many of those places have been swept out to sea. Others lie under several feet of muddy saltwater, their recovery possible, but light years away.
I grew up about 45 miles from the coast, and a trip to Galveston always promised big adventure. As a child, my folks driving me from the mainland over the big bridge to the island never failed to make my heart skip a few beats.
Water -- as far as the eye could see -- and boats, and funny little houses built on stilts, and seagulls and pelicans, and if I rolled down my window the sharp smell of salty sea air. I was never prepared for the most breathtaking sight of all, though. As we'd come up over the rise at Broadway, or at 61st St. or any of the streets in between that led to the Seawall, my little-kid mind would ready itself to behold the most massive and moving thing I knew.
The Gulf of Mexico. The ocean. The sea. The body of water pulled this way and that by the earth's rotation and its perpetual love affair with the moon.
My dad had been a Navy diver in his younger days as well as a meteorologist. I got many private tutorials in my early years about tides, currents, dangerous sea creatures, the relationship of the earth to the moon, and much more.
Dad was pretty fearless back then and thought nothing of scooping up his little daughter -- who could not yet swim -- and taking me out past the shallows and the sandbars into much deeper water where even he struggled to touch bottom. The waves would come at us, I would scream, and Dad would simply buoy me up as they rolled through us.
I never saw a shark, though I often imagined the little mullet fish nipping at my legs and feet were somehow kin.
I never saw a Portugese Man 'O War jellyfish, but I heard my dad tell stories about them. And I saw their cousins, the much bulkier and less attractive "cabbage head" jellies washed up on the shore from time to time.
As a teenager, I went with my mother to the island's annual Dickens Festival and Christmas on the Strand, a celebration of life as it might have looked in Charles Dickens' time. We donned our old-fashioned costumes, sipped wassail, ate roasted chestnuts and for an evening lived in another time. Once we even met a descendant of Charles Dickens at a special tea party to which Mom had bought tickets in advance. That was my first taste of Earl Grey tea and I did not like it.
This was several years after the 1983 Hurricane Alicia, a storm that wreaked enough havoc to make me believe in the truth of "mandatory" -- as in evacuation. We lived through that storm without power or water for nearly a week. My most vivid memories? The spooky incessant wailing of the wind the night Alicia plowed through, walking out in our backyard as the eye passed over and seeing blue sky and shining sun, my father calling me back in as he could see the clouds of the opposing eyewall heading towards us and, later, piles of tree debris as tall as every house on my street.
It wasn't long after that I bought a little book titled "Weekend in September" about the famous 1900 hurricane that wiped out the island and killed nearly 8,000 people. I read it in one sitting, so compelling was its collection of first person accounts and photographs of the aftermath. By this time I was old enough to appreciate devastation, having finally been subjected to school assignments on slavery in America, the Holocaust of WW II, and several other unfathomable human tragedies.
My pre-marriage, pre-motherhood memories of Galveston adventures are too numerous to recount in one 'blog entry but suffice it to say the island is part and parcel of the psyche of so many of us who have spent much of our lives in close proximity to it.
More recently, I'd just begun introducing my own children to the wonders of The Island. In 2006 they made their first journey over that big bridge to see for themselves the ocean. It was in November and in spite of the cold wind and water my oldest daughter was loathe to leave the beach. We fed seagulls, shopped for kitschy souvenirs at Murdoch's Beach House and Pier and toured the aquarium at Moody Gardens. We watched them toss pizza dough at Marios, and time and again in those three days went back down to the ocean for "just one more" look.
Last year, we took the girls and their brother back for another round. This time I was very pregnant with Baby No. 4 and while some activities weren't appealing to me, we made sure to visit the old haunts -- Murdoch's, Mario's, et al. My daughters greeted the different places like old friends, chattering excitedly as they changed from sandybeach swim clothes to souvenir-shopping and eating clothes. "When are we coming back?" they asked as we drove home. "Will it be soon? Will it be after the baby is born? Will we bring him to Galveston, too?"
We were planning another trip this very November so that my then-unborn son could see what he'd missed by being in utero at the time.
I finally saw a photo of Murdoch's today or, more accurately , the space where it used to be. I wondered what had happened to it as a result of this weekend in September.
It's all gone. Not a shell, not a keychain, not a tee-shirt remains. All I have is a photo of my two little girls -- how little they were -- sitting on the steps of the shop next to Murdoch's trademark giant clam shells and smiling.
It was a beautiful, breezy day that day. Just right for goin' to Galveston.
The memories aren't enough to keep me from mourning.
September 8, 2008
If Sarah Palin is a Pentecostal it must mean she. . .
isn't fit to govern the country, at least according to a snide piece by CNN that purports to highlight little known facts about Palin but in fact makes a point to single out the one unusual feature of the church in which she grew up. The Assemblies of God churches practice speaking in tongues. It's not clear, CNN opines, whether Palin herself ever adopted this practice.
No, religious freedom, er, choice in America is only for those who either choose what's popular (whatever that might be) or who choose nothing at all a la humanism/athiesm.
Anyone with a faith outside the mainstream of Protestantism is suspect, unless they are Muslim in which case we must fall all over ourselves to not offend.
Who knows but that Palin might suddenly start speaking in gibberish while in the midst of, say, a state dinner to honor the Queen of England, right?
No, a Pentecostal is just too risky.
And yet, we've taken risks before and done pretty well. We've had John Kennedy, the first Roman Catholic president whose decision to run for the Top Dog spot caused all manner of backroom twitter and outright condemnation. A Catholic in the White House? Surely he would take his marching orders from the Pope!
Yes, we all know how that turned out --strong enforcement of civil rights laws, creation of the Peace Corps, the space race, the adept handling of the Cuban missile crisis. If Kennedy in fact took instruction on national government from the then-Pope then I can only say that Pope did a bang-up job. Kennedy was one of the most popular presidents of our time.
Next?
Ah, yes. My used-to-be favorite presidential contender who I will always maintain got booted from the running because of his Mormon religion. Never mind that he'd governed a state, run a major corporation, and been married to the same woman for a really long time.
Noooo. His ancestors were polygamists, critics said. If Romney was elected he'd probably take his instructions from the LDS Church. We'd have Mormons running the country!
And we wouldn't want a people known in the modern day for their charity, staunch love of country, support of politically incorrect organizations like the Boy Scouts of America, and their embrace of children and families in general having any real say over the affairs of the rest of us. No sirree.
No Pentecostals. No Mormons. Even Joe Lieberman as independent as he is was questioned about how he'd handle Jewish holy days back when he ran as Al Gore's VP. (Tell us, Mr. Lieberman, would you refuse to handle a national crisis if it happened in, say, the middle of Passover?)
Guess that pretty much rules out practicing Jews, right?
Okay, so no Pentecostals, no Mormons, no Jews, no Evangelical Christians (let's not forget Mike Huckabee was heavily scrutinized for his religious beliefs, too).
The list just keeps growing.
But where is the mainstream media's investigation of Barack Obama, a man who apparently can't decide with which religion he wants to be associated? Raised a Muslim? Maybe, maybe not. Raised a Christian? Maybe, maybe not. Spent 20 years in a Christian church that preached vitriol against America from its pulpit? A documented fact. A little schizophrenic when it comes to his faith? Uh huh. Hey, Barack, just pick something and stick with it.
Look, the Left in America is always touting diversity, as if this concept alone is the magic bullet for all that ails us. But why, when it comes to religion, is the silence from that end of the spectrum so deafening?
If skin color -- in this case, Obama's -- is the measure of a diverse nation that we should all be adopting then we are in more trouble than a lot of folks realize.
A person's skin says pretty much nothing about how they think or what affects the working of their moral compass. On the other hand their adherence to a body of religious doctrine -- of whatever variety -- speaks volumes. I personally like the idea of a presidency and cabinet in which people from a smorgasbord of religious perspectives unite on common issues. We have an ecumenical Congress, why can't we have an ecumenical White House, too?
Sarah Palin's Pentecostal upbringing doesn't give me a moment's pause, nor did Romney's Mormonism, Huckabee's fundamentalist Christianity, or Lieberman's Judaism.
If the candidate is moral, law-abiding, keeping respectable company, not harming children or causing them to be harmed, and in general trying to live by the Golden Rule, then this voter is satisfied. Those are the qualities I want my children to manifest and I expect no less from my elected leaders.
If Palin can prove she's got all that then I don't care where she hangs her Bible and neither should anyone else.
No, religious freedom, er, choice in America is only for those who either choose what's popular (whatever that might be) or who choose nothing at all a la humanism/athiesm.
Anyone with a faith outside the mainstream of Protestantism is suspect, unless they are Muslim in which case we must fall all over ourselves to not offend.
Who knows but that Palin might suddenly start speaking in gibberish while in the midst of, say, a state dinner to honor the Queen of England, right?
No, a Pentecostal is just too risky.
And yet, we've taken risks before and done pretty well. We've had John Kennedy, the first Roman Catholic president whose decision to run for the Top Dog spot caused all manner of backroom twitter and outright condemnation. A Catholic in the White House? Surely he would take his marching orders from the Pope!
Yes, we all know how that turned out --strong enforcement of civil rights laws, creation of the Peace Corps, the space race, the adept handling of the Cuban missile crisis. If Kennedy in fact took instruction on national government from the then-Pope then I can only say that Pope did a bang-up job. Kennedy was one of the most popular presidents of our time.
Next?
Ah, yes. My used-to-be favorite presidential contender who I will always maintain got booted from the running because of his Mormon religion. Never mind that he'd governed a state, run a major corporation, and been married to the same woman for a really long time.
Noooo. His ancestors were polygamists, critics said. If Romney was elected he'd probably take his instructions from the LDS Church. We'd have Mormons running the country!
And we wouldn't want a people known in the modern day for their charity, staunch love of country, support of politically incorrect organizations like the Boy Scouts of America, and their embrace of children and families in general having any real say over the affairs of the rest of us. No sirree.
No Pentecostals. No Mormons. Even Joe Lieberman as independent as he is was questioned about how he'd handle Jewish holy days back when he ran as Al Gore's VP. (Tell us, Mr. Lieberman, would you refuse to handle a national crisis if it happened in, say, the middle of Passover?)
Guess that pretty much rules out practicing Jews, right?
Okay, so no Pentecostals, no Mormons, no Jews, no Evangelical Christians (let's not forget Mike Huckabee was heavily scrutinized for his religious beliefs, too).
The list just keeps growing.
But where is the mainstream media's investigation of Barack Obama, a man who apparently can't decide with which religion he wants to be associated? Raised a Muslim? Maybe, maybe not. Raised a Christian? Maybe, maybe not. Spent 20 years in a Christian church that preached vitriol against America from its pulpit? A documented fact. A little schizophrenic when it comes to his faith? Uh huh. Hey, Barack, just pick something and stick with it.
Look, the Left in America is always touting diversity, as if this concept alone is the magic bullet for all that ails us. But why, when it comes to religion, is the silence from that end of the spectrum so deafening?
If skin color -- in this case, Obama's -- is the measure of a diverse nation that we should all be adopting then we are in more trouble than a lot of folks realize.
A person's skin says pretty much nothing about how they think or what affects the working of their moral compass. On the other hand their adherence to a body of religious doctrine -- of whatever variety -- speaks volumes. I personally like the idea of a presidency and cabinet in which people from a smorgasbord of religious perspectives unite on common issues. We have an ecumenical Congress, why can't we have an ecumenical White House, too?
Sarah Palin's Pentecostal upbringing doesn't give me a moment's pause, nor did Romney's Mormonism, Huckabee's fundamentalist Christianity, or Lieberman's Judaism.
If the candidate is moral, law-abiding, keeping respectable company, not harming children or causing them to be harmed, and in general trying to live by the Golden Rule, then this voter is satisfied. Those are the qualities I want my children to manifest and I expect no less from my elected leaders.
If Palin can prove she's got all that then I don't care where she hangs her Bible and neither should anyone else.
September 3, 2008
Sarah Palin
I like Sarah Palin.
Okay, I don't like the fact that she's a hunter -- because I happen to think hunting is largely barbaric and pointless unless you live where it makes sense to shoot your meal -- but I do like the fact that she seems plainspoken and determined to practice what she preaches.
And I like the fact that she's only a wee bit older than I am. This means one of two things: Either I am much older than I am wont to admit because, after all, aren't grownups the only ones old enough to govern states and run countries, or else I'm proud to see someone of my generation take such a big step to such critical acclaim.
I like Sarah because she's a mother just like me, of more than one or two children just like me. I like her for loving her children unconditionally regardless of their mistakes (pregnant 17 year-old unmarried daughter) or their challenges (infant son with Down Syndrome.)
I like her because she seems like a real and likeable person, the sort of woman I might enjoy having as a neighbor or member of my church.
That's what's missing in government, you know. Real people with real stories.
I may not be a big fan of John McCain, but his VP choice will likely get my vote.
Okay, I don't like the fact that she's a hunter -- because I happen to think hunting is largely barbaric and pointless unless you live where it makes sense to shoot your meal -- but I do like the fact that she seems plainspoken and determined to practice what she preaches.
And I like the fact that she's only a wee bit older than I am. This means one of two things: Either I am much older than I am wont to admit because, after all, aren't grownups the only ones old enough to govern states and run countries, or else I'm proud to see someone of my generation take such a big step to such critical acclaim.
I like Sarah because she's a mother just like me, of more than one or two children just like me. I like her for loving her children unconditionally regardless of their mistakes (pregnant 17 year-old unmarried daughter) or their challenges (infant son with Down Syndrome.)
I like her because she seems like a real and likeable person, the sort of woman I might enjoy having as a neighbor or member of my church.
That's what's missing in government, you know. Real people with real stories.
I may not be a big fan of John McCain, but his VP choice will likely get my vote.
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