In one of the most imaginative works of Christian fiction that I’ve picked up in ten years, Matt Mikalatos brings his own search for the “real Jesus” to life… in a weird, out-of-body kind of way.

The story opens in a communist coffee house, somewhere in Portland… Matt narrates in first-person, occasionally speaking directly to the Imaginary Jesus that has joined him for latte and vegan chili. The tranquility is broken when a large, hairy brute (who later identifies himself as the Apostle Peter) enters the room and punches Imaginary Jesus in the face…

As Imaginary Jesus flees the confrontation and Mikalatos pursues him, we encounter an ex-prostitute, a talking donkey, an atheist Bible study group, George Barna (eating a vegan taco salad at the same communist cafe) and a host of other imaginary Jesuses…

The razor wit with which Mikalatos vivisects our tendency to create Jesus in our own image is both entertaining and poignant… Nobody’s Jesus is off-limits: Business-suit Jesus tells us that everyone creates a convenient version of Jesus to believe in, only to discard him when he becomes irrelevant. Men’s Retreat Jesus speaks in barely intelligible sentences, cries like an 8-year-old girl and is so easily manipulated that he follows the principal characters around for several chapters like a lost puppy. Social Justice Jesus has hands but no mouth… Legalist Jesus has a loud voice and no arms…

Wherever you land theologically, you’ll laugh at the Jesuses that you don’t like and fume when he slices to bits the Jesus that you do…

And when he finally encounters the real Jesus (ironically, hanging out in a prayer labyrinth) it will touch you to the core…

This book has been around a while and is actually being reissued under the title My Imaginary Jesus, which includes an interview with the author and a discussion guide…

Definitely worth a read.

You can purchase the Kindle edition here… or if you’re more old school, the paperback is here.

Part 10 – Training Day

photo credit: Tim Jones (timmyjohn1 on Flickr)

Caleb was a blur of movement.

As the weeks passed, Dillon noted that his trainer seemed to draw more and more from some source of unnatural strength and speed.  There were no longer any playful jibes.  Caleb was all business.

He would appear out of thin air in the most unexpected places: the gym, the park, the cube-shaped, carpet-covered box that Dillon used for an office… Apparently, no place was off-limits.  When Dillon complained about the increased frequency of their sparring matches, Caleb scolded him.

“Your enemy could be anywhere anytime.  Quit whining and fight.”

So, Dillon fought… anywhere, anytime… and Caleb seemed to move faster and faster.  Dillon had been scraped and impaled with the durog more times than he cared to count.  Each time, Caleb would soften after Dillon’s defeat and talk to him for a few moments about tactics, weapons and what he referred to as “the proper ways to arm oneself.”

Dillon was learning.

He had been working on a tactic that he thought might succeed in taking the durog out of play and allowing him an advantage in single-handed fencing.  Today is the day, he thought, keeping his eyes on Caleb as he ducked and dodged the attack and batted the durog away with his shield.

The motion of defense had become ingrained in his muscles.  He stopped needing to anticipate attacks as his reflexes grew quicker and his movement more nimble.  The right parry seemed to flow like the movement of a savage dancer to some unheard rhythm.

Caleb made a feint with his sword arm, but Dillon saw the durog swinging in from the periphery and dropped to one knee, allowing the weapon to pass over his head.  Caleb shifted his weight to the other foot and seamlessly reversed the direction of the swing.  Dillon stepped back to avoid the backhand.

Here it comes.

Caleb raised his sword arm and Dillon blocked the attack before it had any power behind it.

Caleb faltered slightly.

It was not the first time.  This was the only move that his mentor ever made that was predictable: His left hand dipped across his knees and then swung the durog toward Dillon’s left flank in a vicious, backhanded uppercut.  It was ungainly, but it normally had the benefit of throwing Dillon off balance enough to allow Caleb to regain his footing.

Not this time, Legatus.

Instead of dodging or back-stepping, Dillon brought his shield-arm down on the incoming durog with such ferocity that the spikes drove into the leather and wood like nails into a rotten plank.  The was a terrific crunch of wood and metal but Dillon continued the motion of the blunt block with his left hand, while bringing the sword in his right hand around in a slashing, forehand attack.

Caleb had to step back to parry or dodge the attack and Dillon took advantage of his momentum to rip the durog from Caleb’s hand.

Instead of the shock-and-awe expression that Dillon expected when he caught eye-contact with his opponent, Caleb was smirking.

Smirking?

The instant after he felt Caleb’s grip on the durog fail, Dillon released his grip on the shield and it sailed about 15 feet through the air before crashing to the ground.  He started a pivot, grasped the hilt of his sword with both hands and prepared to attack Caleb’s unarmed left flank as he came back around.

Caleb waited until Dillon was halfway through his pivot, with his back to his opponent, to reach out and grab Dillon’s hair with his free hand.

To Dillon, it felt like a desperate punch to the head until Caleb pulled him off his feet with a fierce yank.  His back slammed into Caleb, whose balance and footing made the impact feel like a brick wall.  Dillon tried to suck in a breath.

That was when he felt the cold steel of Caleb’s sword pressing against his neck.

“Don’t ever let go of your shield,” the angel said seriously.

Dillon dropped his sword with a bit too much force.  “Ok, you win,” he failed to keep the irritation out of his voice, “That didn’t work quite like I’d hoped.”

“No, I guessed not.”  Caleb sat on a nearby rock.  “It had the benefit of being creative, but the strategy simply will not work with a live opponent.”

Dillon shrugged away and turned his back on the Legatus.  He meandered through the scattered boulders to the spot where his shield and the durog had landed.  He tried unsuccessfully to push down his anger, but felt his irritation growing instead.  Whether it was the frustration of his continual loss against Caleb or just the smug satisfaction on his mentor’s face, Dillon was unsure, but with certainty he understood his desire to slam the angel’s head into one of the jagged rocks surrounding them.

He picked up his crushed shield and roughly pulled the durog from it.  Large splinters and chunks of wood popped out of place, leaving a gaping hole.

“I’ve never seen it damaged like this,” he shouted over his shoulder without looking back.

“No surprise. You sacrificed it with a stunning display of force.”

Dillon hesitated.  Did he hear sarcasm in Caleb’s voice?  He turned on his teacher with a fury.  “I can see why they’ve kept you away from training for millennia.  You suck at it!”

“Do I?” Caleb asked with only the slightest inclination of his head to acknowledge the attack.  “And you know so much about tactics and warfare that you’re ready to instruct me.  Do go on.”

The cool response made Dillon see red.  He began to rant as he walked toward Caleb.  “You never teach me anything until I’ve already made a mistake… and it usually involves me getting skewered on this.”  He shook the durog to illustrate and drew his own sword.

Caleb cocked his head and smiled.  “Thinking about showing me a taste of my own medicine, are you?”

“I think you’ve got it coming,” Dillon sneered, leading into an attack with his sword arm.

Caleb was on his feet, sword in hand, and easily deflected the blow.

“Show me how it’s done, Legatus.”  Dillon swung the durog at Caleb’s head.  “Show me how a real master handles this attack.”

Caleb ducked and laughed.  “I thought you had it all figured out, Dillon.  Show me what you’ve got.”  With that, he counter-attacked with such speed and agility that he threw Dillon off-balance.  Sitting roughly on a large stone, Dillon ducked under the next blow and used his lowered center of gravity as an advantage.  He pushed off the rock with his legs, wrapped his arms around Caleb’s waist and tackled his opponent.

Caleb twisted aside as they connected with the ground.  He narrowly missed landing on the durog that Dillon still held firmly, but succeeded in pinning Dillon’s sword arm against the ground.

Caleb punched Dillon in the mouth with his free hand.

Dillon struggled, enraged, but could not get enough traction to pull away from Caleb’s weight on his arm.

Caleb punched him again.

The pain and humiliation of being held hostage only made Dillon’s anger more intense.  Nearly blind with this rage, he squirmed until he saw the only advantage he had left and savagely slammed his forehead into his opponent’s nose.

He heard a wet crack, but before he could take any satisfaction in it, Caleb spoke.  “The only way to break out of this impasse is to let go of the durog.”

“NO!” Dillon heard himself shouting right in his mentor’s face, “Not until it’s sticking out of your chest!  You deserve this!  You’re a failure!  You can’t teach me anything!  You just beat me up every chance you get.”  He drew on the last bit of adrenaline to wriggle free of Caleb’s grasp without success and then went limp.

Caleb pulled Dillon against his chest in a strong hug and whispered, “Think about this and you’ll have your answer.”

Then he vanished, leaving Dillon lying on the rocky hillside in his hiking shorts, exhausted, broken and thinking.

.

Untitled by Moyra Blayney

I’ve been chatting with Moyra Blayney, our Featured Artist, about her work and her recent reboot.  She had been inactive with her art for 15 years before opening a small show earlier this year at a coffeehouse in Belfast. Since I have also had a reboot in my writing and theatre in the last year, I thought that it might be encouraging to share a few thoughts…

It’s easy to get stuck in the routine of your “real life” but I think that artists (and this is probably especially true of Christian artists) abandon real living when they trade a day job for their artistic passion. For me, it was selling sprockets (not joking) that totally consumed my productive hours and kept me wishing I could do something artistic rather than doing it.

Dreaming takes a lot less effort than actually putting paint on a canvas or words on a page. Guitar Hero is easier to master than guitar. Watching TV is easier than appearing in a play… you get the idea.

I hadn’t given a lot of thought to my own reboot until I started talking to Moyra… but her story and mine share some of the same elements… Elements that might actually form some foundational principles for rebooting… I wanted to share them.

1. FEED YOUR INNER-ARTIST… It struck me that Moyra stayed interested in reading about art and art technique even when she was inactive. For me, attending plays and reading classic literature kept my imagination active even when I was too busy to write.

Passion is something that needs fuel. This is true in art, in relationships, in faith. If you’ve stopped fueling your imagination, pick up a book…

2. FIND A MUSE… For Moyra, it’s the Irish countryside… For me, it’s the Colorado foothills… But everyone has a place, an activity or a person who ignites our imagination…

For the Christian artist, there is a wealth of inspiration to be had in our relationship with God. I’ve found that the more I seek Him, the more inspired my writing becomes. Every good gift comes from God, after all, and our artistic talents are no exception… Ask Him to bring inspiration and He will.

3. TALK ABOUT YOUR DESIRE… Nothing fuels desire like speaking it out loud… And I can’t think of many things that are harder to talk about. It’s kinda scary to talk about a reboot. Our fear of failure kicks in and we freeze up.

Find a trustworthy friend and start talking about your reboot… For me, I started saying things like, “I’m writing that novella I’ve been thinking about.” My friends were very supportive… Moyra’s friend actually set up her first show… If your friends aren’t supportive, get some new ones.

4. SET UP A PLACE AND TIME TO WORK… Moyra had a deadline for her first show and not a single, completed canvas… She set up a studio in her home and set aside time to work… There’s nothing like a deadline to motivate you to work.

I did something similar with my novella, publishing the drafts of each chapter every Monday in my blog… Pointing my desk out the window and at the mountains gave me even more of a reason to sit down and write…

If you have a “day job” it is especially necessary to set aside a certain time (maybe the hour right after dinner) to work, otherwise, you will get derailed by business.

5. JUST DO IT… Talking and planning are great motivators, but eventually you have to pick up the brush, dust off the piano or fill the balloons with paint… You don’t have to write the Great American Novel or create a masterpiece with your first effort, but if you’re ever going to do something noteworthy, you must start somewhere…

Remember that the journey of 1000 miles begins with the first step…

Want to add something or tell us about your own reboot? Comments are always welcome!

Read more about Moyra’s art here.

Read Tim’s novella, The Warrior, or check out his new live nativity script, bethlehemEXPERIENCE.

Part 9 – A Game of Eight Ball

Dillon walked quickly back to his apartment. He was never quite certain about the passage of time when he encountered Caleb. Their conversations seemed to take place outside of the normal flow of history. What seemed like hours of discourse could be accomplished in a few minutes; sometimes it felt as if the opposite was also true.

Once he was inside, he checked his answering machine and cell phone for messages: nothing. He checked the time and was surprised that he had only spent a half-hour with Caleb. He still had enough time to shower before meeting Mark at the tea room.

Stepping into the shower, Dillon tried to cultivate a peace about his defeat against the Legatus. He felt certain that Caleb had been toying with him a little as they fought, being capable of ending the exchange at any time. Caleb was a prince among angels, a general; something not unlike the Joint Chiefs. Fencing against Dillon had required very little of him and yet, Dillon recalled, there was some Enemy out there that had very recently held Caleb at bay for almost a month.

Dillon reached for a towel and began to dry himself. He considered the question of his intellectual faith. Caleb had implied that it was virtually synonymous with having little faith at all.

“Jesus,” he said aloud, “help my little faith.”

Almost immediately, the phone rang. Dillon wrapped the towel around his waist and headed for the living room. By the time he arrived, the answering machine had already picked up the call. He heard Mark’s voice, “Hey, I drove by the tea room and it’s packed. Can we just play pool at your apartment club tonight?”

Dillon picked up the phone and interrupted, “Hey, man.”

“Screening your calls?”

“No, you caught me getting out of the shower and the machine picked up before I could get to the phone. Are you on your way here now?” he asked.

“I could be,” Mark answered. “Do you need time to get decent?”

“No,” Dillon replied, “If we’re not going out, I’m just going to throw on some sweats and meet you downstairs.”

“Sounds good. I’ll see you in a few.”

Dillon hung up the phone and got dressed. He put his running shoes back on and tousled his still-damp hair into something that resembled a short brown mop. Leaving his apartment, he was careful to look for unseen guests or signs of another crossover before he turned to lock the door. He slipped quietly down the stairs and out into a small courtyard with a walkway that connected his building with the community club center which housed a fitness center, billiard room and swimming pool.

The billiard room was unoccupied, as was often the case on Friday night. The chic co-inhabitants of his suburban oasis had better things to do than play pool at home. Dillon was happy to avoid the weekend crowd at Mark’s favorite tea room. A quiet game of eight ball, followed by meaningful conversation seemed a great way to start his weekend.

He grabbed a cue and tried some practice shots. Unlike his dismal training exercise with Caleb, shooting pool with Mark was an even match. If he was on top of his game tonight, he might actually win. That, he decided, would feel really good.

He made a fairly difficult bank-shot and was reveling in it when he heard a familiar voice from the doorway.

“Playing alone again?”

He stood up and looked his Flesh in the eye. “Company’s coming,” he said. “And didn’t I tell you to get lost?”

“You did,” his double conceded, “but I couldn’t help but notice that you need me again.”

“Need you?” Dillon laughed. “Why on earth would I need you tonight?”

Flesh propped his hip on the corner of the table and made a show of chalking the cue stick he was holding. “To help you beat Mark, of course. You need a little victory in your life. You’ve been feeling like a loser and I’ve got what you need to turn that around.”

“I’m not going to make some Faustian deal with you and trade my soul to beat Mark at pool,” Dillon said contemptuously.

“Your soul, my soul, we’re the same person, Dillon,” Flesh approached him casually, still carrying the cue. “We’ve only got one soul between us and you’re monopolizing it.” He sat on the table beside Dillon and dusted Dillon’s shoulder with his free hand. “You’re still smarting from that display in the park. I’ve got the confidence to win tonight. You don’t and you know it.”

“I can win,” Dillon protested.

“Prove it.” Flesh grabbed the rack and began gathering the balls into it. “I’ll play you right now. Winner takes on Mark, if he ever gets here.”

Dillon’s reason was screaming that playing pool against his own Flesh for control was absolute madness. However, an unbidden thought floated to the top of his churning conscious: You have what it takes to beat him.

Reaching into his pocket, Dillon produced a single quarter. “You’re on.” He flipped the coin into the air, caught it and slapped it against the back of his hand.”

“Heads.” Flesh said without looking up from the rack.

Dillon uncovered the coin. “Heads it is. You break.”

“With pleasure.” Flesh lined up and shot with such power that the balls seemed to explode in all directions. When the dust cleared, he had sunk three balls. His next shot pocketed the six, a bright green blur into the corner pocket. He beamed, “I’ll shoot solids then.”

Dillon nodded and watched his Flesh pocket three more balls with the same power, but on the third shot, the cue ball rolled casually into the side pocket right in front of Dillon.

He picked the cue ball from the pocket. “I guess it’s my turn then.” He took his time lining up his shots and began closing the gap. He continued until he only had one object standing between him and a shot at the eight ball. He paced around the table trying to line up a good shot but there just wasn’t one. He lined up the most likely bank and heard his own voice whisper in his ear, “Don’t choke.” Holding his breath, he took the shot. For a moment, everything seemed to be happening in slow motion until the ball dropped neatly into the corner pocket.

After that, it was elementary. “Side pocket,” he called, pointing. Easy shot and game over. His Flesh looked stricken.

Dillon took the cue stick from his double. “Maybe pool isn’t your game. Now, get out of here.”

Flesh, his face reddening, looked Dillon in the eye and spoke in a derisive and menacing tone. “This isn’t over, Dillon. The time is coming when we’ll play on my terms in my realm. You don’t stand a chance.”

“Don’t be so sure.”

Flesh vanished.

From behind him, Dillon heard the door open. “Did you start without me?”

“Just some practice shots,” Dillon said, turning to face Mark. “I’ve got plenty of game left to beat you.”

“So, you think you’ve got what it takes tonight?” Mark scoffed.

“Oh, I know I do.”

.

Part 8 – The Messenger Revealed

photo credit: Michael (godserv on Flickr)

To his own astonishment, Dillon was not dead. Though still in darkness, he was keenly aware of his own painful, yet quite normal breathing. A warm breeze swept over him but did nothing to lighten the cold, stricken feeling in his soul. He tried desperately to make sense of what had just happened. All of his best guesses ended in the same thought, “I’m weak.”

After a few minutes, the thought occurred to him that his eyes were closed; that this darkness was self-imposed. He wondered what he would see when he opened them, but the sound of children playing and the smell of wet grass hinted at the truth. He was sitting on the hillside in the park, looking for the entire world like a fellow sitting alone, meditating. That realization brought him no comfort so he kept his eyes closed.

More time passed and he became aware of a familiar presence sitting next to him on the grass.

“Go away, Caleb,” he whispered into the blackness.

“Sorry, chap, but I can’t do that yet.” Caleb’s voice had the sandpapery sound of someone trying to deliver the eulogy of a dear friend.

Opening his eyes, Dillon turned his head and looked at Caleb. The angel’s grey eyes were ringed with tears.

“I thought we were only sparring,” Dillon tried, unsuccessfully to limit the accusation in his voice.

“We were,” Caleb replied, “The stakes are very high in this fight, Dillon. You must understand the weapons of your Enemy. He will destroy you if He can. When we train, I cannot allow you any slack.”

“And when training is over?”

“Please don’t think me unmerciful,” Caleb reached out to Dillon and placed his hand on Dillon’s invisible chest wound. The gesture was so gentle that Dillon could not bring himself to recoil from it.

Warmth radiated from Caleb’s hand that seemed to engulf Dillon; not only healing the cold wound in his chest but relieving the guilt and hopelessness that had been threatening to consume him.

“The Enemy’s poison is quick to take hold and quick to spread,” Caleb’s voice sounded wounded. “It will effectively kill your heart in that realm and leave you a broken shell in this one.”

“How do I defend against it?”

“Two things:” Caleb’s melancholy seemed to pass as he shifted into his teaching mode. “First, you need to trade your rapier for a shield. Then you need a better breastplate.”

“But I thought I was doing so well,” Dillon felt suddenly deflated; his weeklong attempt at goodness did not seem to have accomplished much in the way of strengthening his armor.

“You cannot build your armor with good deeds,” Caleb replied. “Your best efforts to be a good guy fall flat. You must learn to own the Master’s righteousness.”

The blank look on Dillon’s face was enough to encourage Caleb to continue. “What He did for you was more than enough to redeem you, but you behave as if He stopped there. His sacrifice extends into your life with Him for all time. Stop trying to live righteously and let Him live righteously through you.”

“Oh, is that all,” Dillon said, sarcastically.

“The sooner you give up all hope of ever being able to stand on your feet before Him, the sooner He can empower you to stand on your feet before Him.”
“So, the trying is the problem?”

“Precisely,” Caleb seemed energized that Dillon was beginning to understand. “As long as you are trying to be righteous, believing that you can attain it, your pride keeps you from succeeding. The minute you give up and rely on Him – “

“He makes me the righteousness of Christ?”

“No weapon of the Enemy has ever been able to pierce that, Dillon.”

Dillon picked at the grass in front of him for a moment, digesting this new revelation. “Ok,” he said finally, “what about a shield?”

“The rapier that you carry is analogous to an intellectual faith,” Caleb began. “I think your friend, Mark, has lectured on the shortcomings of a reasonable approach to spirituality.”

“Several times,” Dillon chuckled dryly.

“An intellectual faith is very useful in this age,” Caleb continued, “or in a confrontation with a civilized opponent.”

“Apologetics?”

“Such an odd term,” Caleb mused, “but, yes, that’s the sort of confrontation that I’m talking about. Your Enemy is neither civilized nor intellectual. He will be ruthless and evil. You need your faith strengthened by experience.”

“I guess I’ve always had some existential doubt mixed in with my faith,” Dillon confessed. “How does experience strengthen my faith?”

“It becomes personal,” Caleb explained. “Stories about people being healed or touched in some miraculous way in another country are not enough. You need your own story.”

Dillon gingerly poked at the center of his chest. “Touched by an angel?” He grinned, but then asked seriously, “How much more miraculous do things have to be for me to have enough personal experience points to get a shield?”

“My familiarity with Mortals suggests that there are usually areas of doubt that need to be specifically addressed.”

“How?”

“I would suggest that you do what the Twelve did when the Master addressed their little faith.”

“What was that?” Dillon asked, after a minute.

“Ask Him to grow it for you,” Caleb answered without pause. “He knows what your doubts are. He can address the specific deficiencies quite aptly.” He stood up as if he intended to leave but Dillon rose quickly and grabbed him by the arm.

“You said our timeline had been accelerated,” Dillon said urgently. “What does that mean?”

Caleb cocked his head, playfully. “Expect the first spirit when the bell tolls one.” Dillon felt his countenance slide, but Caleb laughed. “Joking.”

“Don’t joke.”

Caleb cleared his throat. “Sorry, chap. You know, they don’t appreciate my humor much back home either. Normally, a Mortal takes years to become proficient. Deficiencies are dealt with on this side first by an apostle or an exhorter. We almost never use a poisoned durog in practice sessions. Your case is special,” he trailed off. Dillon sensed that he was leaving something unsaid.

“What are you holding back?” Dillon asked pointedly.

“Nothing that I know for certain,” Caleb answered, “and I hate to speak out of turn.” He took a deep breath and continued, “Your training is of particular importance. Otherwise, any Guardian could train you.”

“You’re not a Guardian?” Dillon had assumed from the start that Caleb was his guardian angel.

“I am Legatus of the Guard, Dillon,” Caleb answered.

“You’re a leader?” It made sense to Dillon that Caleb was a leader and a teacher among his people.

“Not a leader, Dillon, the leader. I am High Seraph, answering to the Archangel, himself. I have the duty to approach The Throne and report directly to The Most High.” Caleb did not exude any pride at the disclosure. He said the lofty titles in the same manner as an accountant delivering a financial report. “I haven’t been called upon to train anyone since the host was reorganized after The Schism.”

Dillon was stunned. He realized numbly that he was still holding Caleb by the arm. He stood for a moment, frozen by the revelation that Caleb was one of the most potent created beings in existence. The idea that he had been chatting idly with a creature that literally appeared before the throne of God on a regular basis was overwhelming to Dillon. “What?” he asked dryly. “What does this suggest about me?”

”There are those among my people who believe that the Master will select and call out a Mortal to be Legatus of His cohorts in the Last War.”

“Your equal?” Dillon could not stop the disbelief from dripping off his tongue.

“Serving the Son as I serve the Father.”

“You think I’m the one?”
“The Master has selected men who seemed far more unsuited to His purpose,” Caleb shrugged. “He rather makes a show of picking the ugly puppy.”

“Can’t say I love the metaphor,” Dillon quipped.

“Nonetheless,” Caleb turned and walked toward the bicycle path, continuing as he went, “and it’s only conjecture. I don’t have the gift of seeing the diamond in the rough and information from the Throne is distributed on a need-to-know basis.”

“For now, I’ll focus on the chinks in my armor and leave destiny to those better able to shape it,” Dillon said.

“That’s a good man,” Caleb turned and clapped Dillon on both shoulders. “And incidentally, the way you led into that attack before was audacious. No one has made so bold an assault on me in millennia. I rather enjoyed it.”

“I’m just full of surprises,” Dillon said blandly.

Caleb laughed aloud and the joy of it filled Dillon with hope. He toyed with the idea of bear hugging the angel but thought better of it. Audacity was one thing, presumption was another.

“I’ll see you again soon,” Caleb said. “If I’m not mistaken, you have an appointment.” With that, Caleb vanished.

< Continue to Part 9>

Part 6 – The Truth About Soldiers

photo by Sheree Zielke (Hadasah28 on Flickr)

The diagram on the table in front of him seemed more than a little corny to Dillon, in light of his recent experiences. Normally, he would have been the first to start looking for some study guide, but that seemed suddenly dry and lifeless. He kept this observation to himself, for the moment, since Mark seemed utterly transfixed on it and was feverishly taking notes.

“OK,” Mark was referring to his Bible and then the drawing systematically. He had already labeled most of the items on the diagram. “The sword of the Spirit is the Word of God.” He began writing, “So, the Bible is an offensive weapon, like a sword.” He went back to his Bible and commented, “That’s it, but I still have blanks on my diagram.”

Dillon looked again at the coloring-book drawing of a Roman soldier armed for battle. Mark had downloaded it from the internet and brought a copy for both of them to study. The longer Dillon looked at it, the more childish it seemed. He noticed the extra blanks, all pointing to the little soldier’s head, when they had begun this exercise. Obviously, the writer of this particular curriculum had something in mind, but it eluded Dillon too.

“I don’t think the blanks are all that important,” Dillon commented. “And I don’t think that a slavish approach to the uses of the weapons is going to work either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, the ideas that the belt holds up your skirt to keep you from tripping and the helmet protects your mind are nice metaphors, but I don’t see that being the only purpose of Truth and Salvation in actual warfare.” Dillon was beginning to hate theology.

Mark, on the other hand, seemed strangely energized by the armor metaphors and symbols. “Are you suddenly getting all loosey-goosey with you bible study techniques?”

“We’re looking at this little man and trying to imagine what the actual uses of each piece of the armor represent. I’m more interested in why Truth is essential, how I acquire some Righteousness and what to do when my Enemy attacks my Faith.” Dillon paused for a moment and considered the rather bland expression on the face of the soldier-drawing. “Colorful writing is nice, but I’m looking for some instruction on how to be certain that I have all of the pieces.”

“I guess the use of the armor will come as naturally to you as picking up Caleb’s sword did,” Mark began.

Dillon rebutted, “Not necessarily. The sword is the Bible and my grasp of the black and white basics is a lot more solid than some of the other elements, Faith and Righteousness, for instance. Those two might be areas of weakness, so there’s no way to know how I might trip up there.”

“We’re only guessing that this stuff will turn into literal armor when you make the crossover,” Mark got a rather wistful look on his face for a minute.

“Assuming that there’s a crossover at all,” Dillon corrected. “So far, everything has happened right here in this reality. And I got the distinct impression that Caleb is shielding me from most of the really intense battles anyway.”

“Have you tried to crossover?”

“I wouldn’t have the foggiest idea of how to do that,” Dillon replied instantly. After a brief silence, he continued, “But I suppose it would just be an exercise of being willing to go. Most of the events so far have just happened. But I think we’re getting ahead of ourselves. Caleb said to focus on arming myself against the ‘present enemy,’ meaning my own Flesh.”

“Who seems to be a great liar.”

“Right. And that’s where he really nailed me: by twisting the truth around and trying to make me believe a lot of rot about God and myself and my friends.” Dillon felt a stirring in his heart that gave him the distinct impression that they were on the right track.

“So, you need to really drown your mind in the truth,” Mark began. “Start with that stuff Caleb said about your heart being good and noble and strong.”

“That was a real revelation to me at the time. You don’t hear stuff like that in church,” Dillon replied. “I looked up some passages in the Bible that really support those ideas. I wonder why we’ve abandoned that truth.”

“Hard to explain why we act like such jerks if our hearts are good,” Marks said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“I suppose,” Dillon felt deeply that this was an oversimplification. He began to think out loud, “What if there’s more to it than that?”

“What do you mean?”

Dillon continued, “What if the Enemy is as real as God?” Mark nodded his assent and Dillon went on. “Think about it: the Bible says that Jesus’ goal was to free the captive hearts. Can you see where the Enemy would get a real kick out of making us think that our freed hearts were still bad?”

“Unregenerate?” Mark asked, with just a hint of sarcasm.

“Nice.” Dillon seemed unperturbed by Mark’s dig. “If our regeneration really is a process, then the Enemy could trick us into misinterpreting our slow growth as a sign that our hearts are unchanged.”

“Still captive.” Mark offered.

“Still bad,” Dillon said.

“So the Truth about Dillon,” Mark began, “is that God started a process of changing you. He started in your heart…”

“The center of my identity,” Dillon interjected.

“Right. He put Himself in there, and where He is, you’re good and noble and strong.”

“And He moves outward in a process of changing me, changing my behavior, my attitudes,” Dillon paused. The conclusion seemed to be right on the tip of his tongue.

“Until you’re the kind of person who can help set other people’s hearts free,” Mark saw it first, “Someone just like Jesus.”

The two friends sat in silence for a moment, letting the ramifications of what they had said percolate. In that time, Dillon realized that King Jesus had given him a knighthood. He felt, rather than heard, his King saying, Carry my banner and fight to rescue captive hearts. Build my Kingdom.

Mark broke the silence. “Can I say something a lot less profound?”

“Always.”

“I just want to go on-record saying that I haven’t lost patience with you and I’m with you wherever this goes,” he seemed a little defensive, but Dillon understood in light of the seeds of doubt his Flesh had tried to sow with regards to Mark. “I don’t want you to think I’d dump you.”

“I was wrong to believe that you might,” Dillon confessed. “Forgive me?”

The confession seemed to catch Mark off guard, as if he assumed that he owned the deficit. Dillon realized that Mark’s statement was intended to precede, rather than invite, an apology. “You are the truest friend I’ve ever had, Mark.” Dillon said, honestly.

A crooked smile crept across Mark’s face and Dillon knew that the serious buddy-moment had passed. “You’re shaping up nicely too. All is forgiven.”

Dillon smiled warmly back at his friend and nodded, then returning to the cartoon on the table began to doodle a beard and sunglasses on its face. “I think I found enough Truth today to hold up my pants,” he said idly.

“Well, then,” Mark countered, sipping his tea, “Tomorrow we’ll see if we can find you enough Righteousness to protect you vital organs.” Both smiled and, making eye contact across the table, said together, “That’ll take a bit longer.”

Dillon rolled his soldier into a little ball and bounced him off of Mark’s head.

<Continue to Part 7>

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Part 4 – The Uninvited Guest

Dillon was discouraged.

In the weeks following his encounter with Caleb at the church, he became very vigilant.  He dutifully prayed daily, attended church, journaled and read the Bible.  When nothing happened for two weeks he took a day off to fast and pray on his rock in the hills.  He half expected Caleb to appear again and tell him what was going on or instruct him in some spiritual discipline that he was neglecting.

That day was very disappointing.  After being drenched in an afternoon thunderstorm, he got truly lost trying to find his way back to the trail and ended up dragging himself back to his car after dark again; and this time, he had to make the walk alone.

He had returned to the church downtown, this time during the day, and secured permission from the parish priest before spending several hours in the baptistery praying for clarity or some sign.

Three weeks passed with nothing of any significance to report.

He concluded finally that somehow he had blown it.  Whether by some omission or lustful thought or moment of personal weakness, he had lost his grip on the work that God was doing and it was over.  He tried desperately to identify his sin and managed to confess to a myriad of imagined transgressions, hoping to appeal to God’s mercy to forgive and continue his journey.

Four weeks.

Encouraging words from Mark had begun to sound hollow, as if even Mark had stopped believing them.  Ever the supportive friend, he continued to call every evening to offer his ear or shoulder or both.

When the phone rang, Dillon ignored it.  He was slouched on the sofa watching TV for the first time since the night he met Caleb downtown a month ago.  In his pursuit of another sign from God, he had cut himself off from every type of unnecessary media.  “Tonight,” he thought, “I’m going to make up for that month.”  He had thick crust pizza lying on the coffee table and a six-pack of imported beer chilling in the refrigerator.  The phone rang again.

Dillon looked at his watch: 9 o’clock.  That would be Mark calling.  “I don’t feel like talking about it anymore, Mark,” he shouted in the general direction of the phone.  He heard a click and a beep and then the sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

“Or not,” he said, casually throwing back the last of his beer.  “One down, five remaining.”  He got up and walked around the counter-height bar into the kitchen.

Another beep.  “Hey, buddy.”  Mark always called him “buddy” when things were going badly.  “Hope you had a better day.  Call me if you want.  I’ll be up late.  I love you, man.”

Another click and then another beep and Mark was gone.

Dillon poked his head up from behind the refrigerator door and yelled casually at the phone, “Love you too, man.”  He opened the second bottle.  He could not remember the last time he had consumed more than one beer.  “You’re a lightweight, Dill.  Don’t spoil your evening of debauchery by passing out after two beers.”

“Hey, throw me one of those while you’re in the kitchen.”  Dillon was startled.  He looked at the beer in his hand as if it had spoken the words and then peeked around the corner to see himself seated on the couch, jockeying the remote control.  “Seriously,” his doppelganger continued, “I need a drink.”

“No more than I do,” Dillon muttered, returning to the refrigerator and extracting beer number three.  He lobbed it over the bar and joined his new companion on the couch.  By the time he got there, the newcomer had opened the beer in a foaming mess and drained the bottle.  Dillon sat down beside himself and gave his attention to the television, occasionally stealing a glance at the mirror image seated alongside him.

To say that the new arrival was identical to him was inaccurate, as Dillon realized upon further inspection.  His double was in better shape, had sloppier hair and seemed a lot more comfortable with a beer in his hand.  “Hello, Pamela,” he said wolfishly, cocking his head and affecting a smitten grin.  “She’s a hottie.  I don’t understand why you don’t watch this more often.”

“It’s all reruns and I’m normally in bed by now,” Dillon answered. 

“But not tonight?”

“No, I guess you could say that I feel like blowing off some steam tonight,” Dillon figured that there was no reason to lie to himself and no reason to be inhospitable.  “Pizza?” he offered.

“Sure,” his double said, reaching for the flat box on the table.  He helped himself and continued talking to Dillon with his mouth full.  “So, beer and Baywatch and porn.  Must be bad.”

“What must be bad?  And who said anything about porn?” 

“No one ‘said’ anything about porn.  But you and I both know it was on your mind.”  This time, his wolfish grin was directed at Dillon.  The lookalike tossed the remnants of his pizza crust on the table and, in a blur of motion, threw one leg over Dillon’s feet and sat in his lap, facing him.  “I know everything that’s on your mind.  It’s on my mind too.”

“Then you are probably aware of how uncomfortable I am with you sitting on me like this,” Dillon said, pressing back against the sofa in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and this alter ego as possible.

“Relax, Dill,” he said, patting Dillon on the head and flashing a cheeky smile.  “It’s not like that at all.”

“Ok,” Dillon was getting more confused by the minute, “So, what is it like?”

“I’m you,” Dillon looked at him dubiously, “Well, not ‘you’ exactly.  I’m a better you.”

“Better me?”

“Yeah, don’t play dumb, buddy.”  He stood up and looked down at Dillon.  “You’re the boy; I’m the man.  You’re the awkward side of us and I’m here to help you break loose, grow up.  I’m you after one drink ‘too many.’  I’m the part of you that tells jokes, laughs out loud and has the nerve to talk to the ladies.”

Dillon was stunned.  He realized that “awkward” was exactly how he felt, almost all the time but certainly in social situations.  He could use a little loosening up, maybe that was the answer he had been looking for.  But, as soon as that thought occurred to him, he felt something inside saying that it was a lie.

“I’m awkward, huh?”  He said nonchalantly.  “I guess that’s true enough.  But exactly how do you propose to help me get over that.  It’s probably not a good idea for me to go to the office after one too many drinks.”

“You’d be surprised how much more interesting the inside of that cubical would be after a few beers.  I’d love to tutor you in the finer points of mojo,” the twin quipped, flopping down on the sofa and sidling up to Dillon.  Placing his arm across Dillon’s shoulder he spoke softly into his ear, “It’s all very simple.  Just let me run the show.”

“Show?”

“Yeah, the show…your show…our show,” he twisted himself around so that he and Dillon were squared-off again.  “You let me guide you through these…um… awkward situations.  We’ll both be better off for it.”

There was a smooth urgency in his alter ego as he spoke.  Dillon looked at him; there was a familiarity between them that went beyond their appearance.  The personal chemistry was undeniable.  This was no stand-in or imposter; this was a part of him.  This person was Dillon too.  A whisper sounded in his other ear, a familiar accented voice spoke a single word.  Flesh.

Dillon practically jumped off the couch.  “I’m not convinced that your guidance is the key that I’m looking for.”

“I suppose you think you’ll get better advice from your imaginary god, or that chappie of his that appears on his whim.  Forget about them and go with your feelings for once,” the eyes of his double seemed to flare with a dim fire.  “It will be a lot more fun than fasting and praying and waiting.”

Something in Dillon remembered that Jesus quoted scripture when he was tempted, so Dillon began, “They that wait on the Lord –“

His Flesh cut him off with an accusation, “Get depressed and drown their sorrows in cheap beer and Baywatch reruns, Dillon.”  It was obvious that he was prepared for the conversation to take this turn.  He became more menacing, “You don’t have what it takes to follow Jesus.”  Dillon recoiled, the Flesh continued, “The standard is too high and you can see where all of your best efforts got you: pouting on your couch with no one but me for company.”  He grabbed the front of Dillon’s shirt, “It’s you and me and no one else, Dillon.  Think about the last time you saw your comrade, Mark.”  With that, he pressed his index finger against Dillon’s temple and spoke almost sub audibly, “Remember.”

Dillon wanted to object, but he found his memory suddenly and forcibly fixed on an image of Mark’s face during their last conversation.  He wore and expression of mild concern and something else that Dillon could not quite put his finger on.

“Impatience, Dillon.”  Again he was forced to look at the mirror image of his face.  Again the dim fire glowed in its eyes.  “Mark is already sick of your incontinence, your weakness.  He will forsake you.  Just like your angel-friend and your absent god.  Your best attempt at holiness isn’t enough to buy their approval.  You let them down so they lose interest.  But I won’t.  I’ll always be with you.”

Dillon’s memory of Mark seemed to come under duress and he wondered just how much control he had lost to this thing with his face.  He tried to frame an argument, recall some encouraging words from the Bible, from Mark, from anyone.  He was left with nothing, again. 

“Stop trying to deny me,” his Flesh said, his voice tinged with anger.

“I don’t believe what you’re saying,” Dillon replied, trying to wrench himself from the grip of his visitor.

The grip tightened and his Flesh spoke more menacingly than before.  “These are your own thoughts, Dillon.  I’m not making any of this up.  That’s why you can’t frame an argument, because deep inside you’ve already thought about everything I’m saying to you.  Deep-down, that’s what you really think.”

Dillon was desperate to find an escape, but his resolve was slipping.  He felt like all that he believed was true was being swept from under him.  Half-heartedly, he objected, “That’s a lie.”

“I never lie.”  The double pulled him closer so that their noses almost touched, “In this case, the truth is a lot more fun.”

Discouragement turned to despair in that moment and Dillon slumped to the floor.  He sat exhausted and began to weep. 

The voice of the Flesh came softly again as he patted Dillon’s hair, “I didn’t want to be so hard on you, but you have to see that you need me.  All you have to do is say ‘you’re right’ and I’ll take it from there.”

Dillon could not find any reason to deny the truth of what his twin was telling him but he could not stop crying long enough to say so.  For some reason that he did not understand, it seemed very important that he withhold the affirmation. 

The telephone rang.  There was a click and a beep and then the mockingly pleasant sound of his own voice, “Hi! This is Dillon.  Sorry I missed you.  Leave a message and I’ll call you back.”

Another beep and then he heard Mark, “Dude, the weirdest thing:  Jill and I were praying for you just now and we both felt like we needed to call you and say, ‘Blessed are those who mourn for they will be comforted’…Does that make any sense to you?”

A sudden warmth started to glow in Dillon’s chest, radiating a healing to his heart.  The words that the double had spoken to him seemed far away and irrelevant.  He felt nothing but comfort and peace in that moment.  He stood up, looked his tormentor in the eye and said, “You’re wrong.  You should go now.”

Dillon was aware of Mark’s voice, still rambling from the answering machine as the image of his flesh vanished.  “…and I told her that you were frustrated and kinda bummed but ‘mourning’ was sort of over the top…”  Dillon picked up the phone and spoke softly, “Hi, Mark.”

“Hey, you ok?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.  Can I call you tomorrow?  I’m a little beat.”

“Sure, buddy.  Whenever.”

“Thanks for calling, Mark.  You saved my butt again.”

Mark sounded confused.  “Ok.  I mean…you’re welcome?”

“I love you, man.  Goodnight.”  Dillon hung up the phone and turned off the TV.  He turned to go to bed and stopped short.

Caleb, dressed head-to-toe in white armor, leaned casually in the bedroom doorway.  “Sorry I’m late.”   He had the distinct look of someone who had been working hard.  For lack of a better term, he looked “winded.”  It crossed Dillon’s mind to ask about this but he thought better of it.  “I was detained.”

< Continue to Part 5 >

Part 3 – The Lord Of Hosts

It was the seedy part of town, but Dillon had to go there.

He has been watching television in his apartment when the undeniable calling came to him. It was more of a compulsion than anything. He got off the couch, grabbed a jacket and was out the door before he had given any thought to where he was going. The train station was less than a quarter of a mile away, so he headed that way, hoping that some clarity of purpose would strike before he got there.

Climbing the stairs to the elevated tramway, he passed through a turnstile and boarded the train heading downtown. With the exception of Dillon and a middle-aged, Hispanic woman wearing hospital scrubs, the train was empty. No one took the train downtown in the middle of the night and Dillon had a few ideas about the rationale behind that trend.

The rhythmic rattle of the train on its track, combined with a gentle, lateral rocking motion, made him feel drowsy. Starbursts appeared around the streetlights as they flew past and Dillon realized that, at this hour, he might have boarded the last train of the evening. He was going to arrive downtown with nothing but a light jacket and no way to get home. He entertained the notion that he might have made a grave tactical error and went over a short list of people he could call to come pick him up. It would be Mark, of course, “And serves him right for laughing at me yesterday,” Dillon muttered.

The train came to a stop and the woman at the back of the train stepped off. Dillon reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his phone. Mark’s number was on his speed-dial. In a moment he heard Mark’s bleary voice, “Dude, this had better be good.”

“Sorry to wake you up, man, but I’m on a train heading downtown and there’s no way for me to get back home.” There was a moment of silence.

“No, it’s Dillon, I gotta go bail him outta jail,” Mark was speaking aside, that would be to Jill, his wife. Dillon wondered how long it would take him to convince Jill that Mark had made that up but then decided it made a better story than the truth.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Just passed Washington.”

“Get off the train at the next stop. That’ll be Jefferson. Walk east two blocks to First Street. Wait for me at the park on the corner. It’ll take me a half hour to get there.” Mark was as solid a friend as Dillon could ask for.

“Thanks, Mark.”

“And Dillon, try to not look lost and helpless. They’ll kill and eat you.”

Dillon tried to come up with a clever retort, but all he could manage was, “I’ll do my best.” Then he ended the call.

The station at Jefferson was radically different from the one near his apartment. Here the stations were on the level of the street and looked for all the world like the set of a very scary movie. The mosaic tile was cracked and missing in some places and there was graffiti scrawled on about eighty percent of the available surfaces. He paused for a minute and tried unsuccessfully to decipher the meaning of the words he was looking at. To someone who recognized the symbolism, he realized, this would serve as a welcome or a warning, depending on the individual’s loyalties. To Dillon, it was just a vague, but strong indicator that he did not belong there.

He exited the station and did as Mark had instructed. Arriving at the park, he did his best to look comfortable examining a piece of trash on the sidewalk, while suppressing the urge to look at his watch. He spotted a bench near a bus stop and sat down, for the moment, alone. There was a bit of breeze blowing and he wrapped his jacket a little tighter. He slouched on the bench and fancied that in the darkness he might appear, to a casual observer, as a non-descript homeless man.

“You’re playing the part well,” a familiar voice spoke from the bench next to him, “Except for the hundred dollar shoes.”

“Caleb.” Dillon replied, turning his head to inspect his new companion, “You look awful.”

“Got to blend into the crowd, you know.” He adjusted the brim of his weathered hat so that Dillon could see his eyes and winked. If he had been a middle-class joe out for a hike on Saturday, tonight he was a homeless, alcoholic getting ready to bed-down on this bench. He offered Dillon a bottle wrapped in a brown paper bag. “This will warm you right to your toes.”

“Thanks,” Dillon smiled, “but I’ll pass.”

“Suit yourself,” and he capped the bottle and tucked it into the pocket on his threadbare coat. “Let’s go somewhere that we can talk.” He stood and walked toward a large church next to the park. Dillon got up and followed. He thought it was strange that the church would not be locked at this hour but Caleb walked right in as if it were Sunday morning and led him into a small chamber just to the left of the entrance. A baptismal font stood in the center of the room and light from outside filtered through the antique glass made a watery pattern on the stone floor.

“This building must be a hundred years old,” Dillon commented absently.

“The cornerstone was laid in 1857,” Caleb said, “So one hundred fifty years is more accurate. And it was brought here, stone-by-stone, from Scotland where it had been in use for two hundred years before that.”

Dillon, who had been looking around while listening to the history lesson, finally noticed that Caleb’s attention was focused on a large mural on the north wall. The image depicted a strong king, scepter in one hand, sword in the other, leading a vast army. They were engaged in close combat with their enemy and from the look of things, were on the verge of a decisive victory. They had strong, noble faces and gleaming swords. The overall impact of the mural was heroic, epic. Dillon felt a chill run from his heels to the top of his head. It was only after staring at the image for several minutes that he noticed a striking detail.

“They have wings,” he thought aloud. “The army, they’re all angels?”

“It’s called ‘Lord of Hosts,’ you wouldn’t know the artist.” Caleb paused, but his eyes were fixed on the King. “You’ve no idea how we long for that Day.”

“In the meantime?”

“In the meantime,” he turned to Dillon, smiling, “We help get you Mortals ready for it.”

“Is that why you called me here?”

Caleb laughed. “I can see why you might think that,” he nodded toward the King, “but He’s the One doing the calling. Once you begin listening, sometimes it takes you places that you didn’t expect to go.”

Dillon stepped closer to the mural, looking intently into the King’s face. “But why would He call me, I’m no one special. I’m not even especially spiritual. I wasn’t praying when I felt the urge to come here. I was just watching TV and eating Chinese take-out like a bachelor-slob.”

“You don’t really understand what He’s done for you, yet,” Caleb replied. It was Dillon’s turn to stare into the eyes of the King. “What if I told you that your heart is good?”

Dillon could not frame a response. He felt a lump growing in his throat. How he longed to know that was true! The question sounded hypothetical, so he remained silent.

“What if I told you that your heart is noble?”

The face of the King was fierce and kind all at once. Dillon marveled at it. Could that nobility be in him as well? His felt Hope trying to rise up inside of him. His vision blurred as tears began to form in his eyes. The face of the great Lord of Hosts lost its focus.

“What if I told you that you are strong?”

A single tear rolled down Dillon’s cheek, splashing on the stone by his feet. “If I could believe that, Caleb, it would change my entire life.”

Caleb stepped up beside him and gripped his shoulder. Dillon felt the warmth of his touch. Caleb was real. Together they looked upon the Lord of Hosts. It was Caleb who finally broke the silence. “He will help your unbelief. I’ll see you again, I think.” He took a step backward and then Caleb was gone again.

“Can I help you, my son?”

Dillon whirled around to face the source of the question and saw the parish priest standing there in his pajamas.

“No, I’m sorry, Father,” Dillon felt like a caught schoolboy. He began to babble. “I just ended up stranded downtown and my friend told me to meet him in the park and I saw the church was unlocked and I wanted to see the mural.”

“Mural?” the priest seemed truly puzzled.

“Yes,” Dillon glanced over his shoulder at the blank stone wall where He had just been looking at the King. He contained is surprise. This sort of thing was becoming normative for him. “It’s called the Lord of Hosts. I heard that it was in your baptistery.”

“Oh, that!” the priest exclaimed. “Better check your history. The mural hung in the baptistery before the building was moved here from Scotland. It was destroyed in the fire that gutted the church. That’s the reason they moved it. My goodness, that must have been 200 years ago.”

Dillon felt suddenly cold. “I’m terribly sorry to have disturbed you, Father,” and he began to walk toward the door. When he reached for the handle, the door was locked.

As the priest came over with the key, Dillon caught sight of a donation box attached to the wall. The sign on it read, “Remember the Poor.” He pulled a fifty dollar bill from his wallet and poked it into the slot at the top of the box.

Seeing him, the priest laid a hand on his shoulder and said, “Bless you, my son.” Dillon nodded to him and replied, “Good night, Father.”

The priest let Dillon back out into the night, where it had begun to rain. In a few minutes, he saw Mark pull up in his truck. He climbed in dripping and stared out at the rain.

“Sorry, man,” Mark began. “I got here as fast as I could.”

“No worries, dude,” Dillon said, smiling. “You’ll never believe what just happened to me.”

<Continue to Part 4>

This sculpture stands on the lawn of St John Armenian Orthodox Church in Southfield, MI.

For the 20 years that I’ve been involved in leading worship, I’ve seen some things change… Styles change, songs emerge, paradigms evolve.  But one thing hasn’t changed much at all:

Music is still the dominant force in Christian worship.

But I’ve met people along the way that aren’t musicians… I married one of these people.  And I can’t help but wonder how they can use their unique talents in worship…

… the sculptors?

… the painters?

… the filmmakers?

… the writers, photographers, sidewalk chalk artists, industrial artists?

Seriously, I could go on for pages and pages…

The Apostle Paul urges us to offer our bodies as living sacrifices and calls that our spiritual act of worship (Romans 12:1).  I believe this includes using our physical, artistic talents… That’s what the worship team in your church does, after all, they offer their physical talents for singing, drumming or playing guitar as living sacrifices in worship.

So, what about a new perspective on worship:

You can offer your graphic art, your still-life photography or your poetry… your physical talents… as living sacrifices…

That’s the kind of lifestyle that I call worship… on purpose.