Sorry for the lag in posting. Been dealing with the post-con
deadlines and post-con crud. Regular posting will resume next week.
Thanks for your patience.
Saturday, November 17, 2012
Wednesday, November 7, 2012
Why I like redemptive stories in comics...
Why do you love redemptive stories so much?
The simple answer? Because of my faith. As a Christian believer (albeit one on the outskirts and fringes of the Christian subculture), I'm a sucker for a story about someone being changed for the better.
 |
| The Squadron Supreme |
Some of my favorite redemptive stories in comics include:
- The Thunderbolts initial run
- The Sandman in the various Spider-Man books (before he was turned bad again)
- Heatwave in Superboy (yes, the Flash villain)
- Moloch in Watchmen
- Thief of Thieves
- Saga
- Squadron Supreme (the folly of forced "redemption," kind of like Fundamentalist politicos trying to enforce Christian moral stances in gray areas)
- House of Secrets (the Steve Seagle Vertigo run)
Monday, November 5, 2012
Story Time #1 -- Father and Son
Father and Son
The ground around me is wet, still coated with a light dripping of morning’s dew. The bare spots of soil, however, are dry as empty bone, and form an alarming juxtaposition with the living, green patches.
A prayer. How can I form a prayer? You must experience a prayer, not just say one.
“Father...”
Nothing still. Only memories come dancing into my psyche, in cascading spirals before my inner eye. No prayer arrives, only glimpses of past images, but I let them transport me where they will.
* * *
“Father...”
He always stopped his hammering and cutting for a short while every time I entered his shop. No matter how soon the deadline or how crucial the moment, my timid knock at the door frame was all that he needed to take a brief pause from his work.
“Come here, son,” he called out to me without looking up, “Come here and give me a hug.”
Of course I ran to him. Small and uncoordinated eight year old legs stumbled across the damp earth between us, but the reward for my effort was waiting in my father’s embrace. He had a tender, terrible hug, squeezing with all his might, but always as carefully as if I were as fragile as old pottery.
“What is it now, my favorite interruption? Has your mother sent you to fetch me in? No, wait... It’s not your mother at all, is it? You’ve come for another story, maybe?”
“No, father.”
“Well, what is it then? I’m fresh out of guesses.”
He relaxed his embrace, allowing me to pull away from his shoulders. My tears left a tiny reservoir in the fold of his robe, a pool which threatened to dribble onto a exposed patch of skin where his robe folded over, heavy with sweat.
“Crying!? You’re hurt!? What happened?”
My face was caked in blood and grime, beginning near my nose and extending across my cheek to my ear. Tears had mingled with the filthy mixture and caused it to stain not only my face, but my clothes as well.
“Tell me who did this to you.”
I wiped at my tears with a dirty sleeve. “Please... it’s not that bad. It’ll be all gone in a few days anyway.”
I watched as he pulled a stool from the work table, righted it, and motioned for me to sit. Then he cleared a place on the damp ground, and sat, waiting for me to begin.
“We were making doves out of clay, me and some other kids from town. I made one for you and mother. You should have seen it! It was so beautiful! Sarah wanted one, too.”
“Sarah, huh?” He smirked just a little when he said it.
“Yes, Sarah,” I responded, confused by the reaction, “I made another just like yours, but David, the priest’s son, tore it apart while it was still drying. He told me that the only reason I was good with clay was because you and mother couldn’t afford anything other than dirt for me to play with.”
“And you ignored him, I hope.”
“Uh huh. But it didn’t stop David. He punched me hard in the stomach, then in the nose. And the kids just watched him the ones that didn’t run off I thought they were my friends, but they left me all alone with him.”
“Don’t be too hard on them. I don’t suspect that any of them enjoyed leaving you behind when you were hurt.”
My father had a kind of rough wisdom, not polished and pretty like a gem, but rugged and real, honest, like a rock. He never hid it behind fancy thoughts or big words, but it was wisdom, nonetheless, full of proverbs to rank with those of Solomon.
“I was scared, too, but I didn’t run away.”
“But did you want to?”
Silence was my only answer.
“Well?” He pushed the question.
“I don’t know. Maybe the only reason I stayed was because I couldn’t get up from the ground.”
This man who had raised me, taught me, and guided me now lifted me onto his work table, and began to clear away the grit from my face with the skirt of his robe.
“It’s ok to be afraid... sometimes even to run away. The trick is knowing which one’s right when the time comes.”
My face was clean now, and I nodded that I understood.
“Good. Now when are you going to let me see this wonderful dove you’ve made for your mother and me?”
“I gave it to Sarah.”
“That’s my boy.” He laughed. “Here, let’s get you down from the table. Why don’t we close up the shop for today, and go see if the two of us can’t find some more clay, and maybe replace that missing bird.”
* * *
Pictures from the past are funny things. They always seem to appear when you need something to push or goad you. Why I should remember my first bloody nose, here, on this mountain, is one of those small twists of providence some call fate.
I don’t want to do what I know I must. I’m scared, frightened more than perhaps I’ve ever been. Right now I want only to run back into that faraway town, my long departed father’s shop, his arms, and let him wipe these tears away with the hem of his robe. But I can’t.
“Father...”
The words don’t come easily to form a prayer, but they do flow. Perhaps a bit forced, a bit unwilling, and certainly not from a tranquil conscience, but regardless, they are indeed there. I can hear them slide off my tongue, as if I am not saying them, only hearing.
“Not my will...”
No, not my will indeed.
“Not my will, but thine.”
There. It is done.
(c) Sean Taylor
The ground around me is wet, still coated with a light dripping of morning’s dew. The bare spots of soil, however, are dry as empty bone, and form an alarming juxtaposition with the living, green patches.
A prayer. How can I form a prayer? You must experience a prayer, not just say one.
“Father...”
Nothing still. Only memories come dancing into my psyche, in cascading spirals before my inner eye. No prayer arrives, only glimpses of past images, but I let them transport me where they will.
* * *
“Father...”
He always stopped his hammering and cutting for a short while every time I entered his shop. No matter how soon the deadline or how crucial the moment, my timid knock at the door frame was all that he needed to take a brief pause from his work.
“Come here, son,” he called out to me without looking up, “Come here and give me a hug.”
Of course I ran to him. Small and uncoordinated eight year old legs stumbled across the damp earth between us, but the reward for my effort was waiting in my father’s embrace. He had a tender, terrible hug, squeezing with all his might, but always as carefully as if I were as fragile as old pottery.
“What is it now, my favorite interruption? Has your mother sent you to fetch me in? No, wait... It’s not your mother at all, is it? You’ve come for another story, maybe?”“No, father.”
“Well, what is it then? I’m fresh out of guesses.”
He relaxed his embrace, allowing me to pull away from his shoulders. My tears left a tiny reservoir in the fold of his robe, a pool which threatened to dribble onto a exposed patch of skin where his robe folded over, heavy with sweat.
“Crying!? You’re hurt!? What happened?”
My face was caked in blood and grime, beginning near my nose and extending across my cheek to my ear. Tears had mingled with the filthy mixture and caused it to stain not only my face, but my clothes as well.
“Tell me who did this to you.”
I wiped at my tears with a dirty sleeve. “Please... it’s not that bad. It’ll be all gone in a few days anyway.”
I watched as he pulled a stool from the work table, righted it, and motioned for me to sit. Then he cleared a place on the damp ground, and sat, waiting for me to begin.
“We were making doves out of clay, me and some other kids from town. I made one for you and mother. You should have seen it! It was so beautiful! Sarah wanted one, too.”
“Sarah, huh?” He smirked just a little when he said it.
“Yes, Sarah,” I responded, confused by the reaction, “I made another just like yours, but David, the priest’s son, tore it apart while it was still drying. He told me that the only reason I was good with clay was because you and mother couldn’t afford anything other than dirt for me to play with.”
“And you ignored him, I hope.”
“Uh huh. But it didn’t stop David. He punched me hard in the stomach, then in the nose. And the kids just watched him the ones that didn’t run off I thought they were my friends, but they left me all alone with him.”
“Don’t be too hard on them. I don’t suspect that any of them enjoyed leaving you behind when you were hurt.”
My father had a kind of rough wisdom, not polished and pretty like a gem, but rugged and real, honest, like a rock. He never hid it behind fancy thoughts or big words, but it was wisdom, nonetheless, full of proverbs to rank with those of Solomon.
“I was scared, too, but I didn’t run away.”
“But did you want to?”
Silence was my only answer.
“Well?” He pushed the question.
“I don’t know. Maybe the only reason I stayed was because I couldn’t get up from the ground.”
This man who had raised me, taught me, and guided me now lifted me onto his work table, and began to clear away the grit from my face with the skirt of his robe.
“It’s ok to be afraid... sometimes even to run away. The trick is knowing which one’s right when the time comes.”
My face was clean now, and I nodded that I understood.
“Good. Now when are you going to let me see this wonderful dove you’ve made for your mother and me?”
“I gave it to Sarah.”
“That’s my boy.” He laughed. “Here, let’s get you down from the table. Why don’t we close up the shop for today, and go see if the two of us can’t find some more clay, and maybe replace that missing bird.”
* * *
Pictures from the past are funny things. They always seem to appear when you need something to push or goad you. Why I should remember my first bloody nose, here, on this mountain, is one of those small twists of providence some call fate.
I don’t want to do what I know I must. I’m scared, frightened more than perhaps I’ve ever been. Right now I want only to run back into that faraway town, my long departed father’s shop, his arms, and let him wipe these tears away with the hem of his robe. But I can’t.
“Father...”
The words don’t come easily to form a prayer, but they do flow. Perhaps a bit forced, a bit unwilling, and certainly not from a tranquil conscience, but regardless, they are indeed there. I can hear them slide off my tongue, as if I am not saying them, only hearing.
“Not my will...”
No, not my will indeed.
“Not my will, but thine.”
There. It is done.
(c) Sean Taylor
Sunday, November 4, 2012
Creative Corner #7 -- Ki Wone
Brazen Truth
Stepping through Clio's book
Seized the hearts of some,
Their minds and hands
And, forcing the pen along the page,
Began to write.
Inspiration.
They named it so
Though the service was immutable,
Fixed before the first struggling cries
When Truth drew breath into
Time's infant lungs.
While others
Danced their secret initiates
Under night's unclosed gaze,
Dreading against all hope
To touch the emptiness, failed,
And named the emptiness gods,
Truth laughed
At the creatures of dust,
Fashioned himself in their image,
And let them touch
The very thought
Of who he was.
©1995
My poetry and early short stories are available in Gomer and Other Early Works.
Saturday, November 3, 2012
Maybe As Cool As Some of the Thunderbolts Though... Maybe
Continuing my three-day personal apologetic, I have moved from Batman to Aquaman and now am ready to become more like Marvel's Thunderbolts. Well, some of them anyway.
Two days ago I mentioned what a louse I am if I am painfully honest about it.
Yesterday I mentioned that I was lucky that it's not own goodness that has to count in my favor and how because of that, I still don't have the right to walk around as if I really had it together after all.
But what's next? How does knowing I'm a worm made into a prince by the work of another affect my person, my character, my actions? Or does it?
That's where the Thunderbolts come in. You see, for the non-comics fans, the Thunderbolts were a team that pretended to be heroes in order to do evil. But over time, some of them became changed by the actuality of being heroes. They were still villains, but they found themselves wanting to be real heroes and not just pretend heroes, and they lived that way. Eventually, the ones who truly changed got just that opportunity (one of whom was actually invited to join the Avengers).
But enough geek talk. What does that mean for this discussion?
Even if the old me is still a worm, the new me is being made into something, well, new and better. In my heart I may still be a villain, but in my soul, I'm being made into a hero.
Or to defer to the Apostle Paul: "For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6, NASB).
So I do my best to try to live a life worthy of being a hero, the kind of life that may one day get me invited to be an Avenger. But I don't do it to impress people. I don't do it to demonstrate how pure and holy I am (because I'm not, remember Day 1). Nor do I do it to build a barrier between myself and the unwashed masses (because I know that I'm not just one of them, I'm the president of the unwashed masses and have the biggest stick in my eye alone).
I do it because (and just because) I'm being made into a new person, because my character is being changed, because I want to honor the One whose goodness (i.e., righteousness, holiness) is working on my behalf.
I do it because of who I am becoming, not who I am. I do it because I know the person I am and am becoming, and not because I'm trying to prove anything to anyone. The only One who needs proof already knows.
And what am I becoming? Well, if you run in many church circles, you'll hear a long list of dos and don'ts about various cultural moral things like not smoking, not drinking, not cursing, etc.
I prefer to think that Christ is doing something different within me than just making me a good boy for my grandmother. I prefer to think that he's doing something to me that I can't do on my own. And I believe scripture backs this up.
Again, going to Paul: "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law." (Galatians 5: 22-23, NASB).
I think that even more than doing the right "things" (daily devotional reading, praying every day, tithing, etc.) being the right person is the core of what it means to be "being perfected." I can do all the good things and still fake it, having no joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control toward other people. But I will find it very difficult to fake a live of joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. People see that that quickly. And if I get these things right, you can't hold a "law" of drinking, smoking, or cursing against me.
I'm becoming like Christ in His time in His way. You're becoming like Christ in His time in His way for you. And we may be on different timetables.
Do I still have to fight the temptation to live like a pretender? Yes. Do I still have to fight the urges to ignore being patient, joyful, etc.?
But the more I live like an Avenger, the more I become less like a Thunderbolt and more like an Avenger.
Two days ago I mentioned what a louse I am if I am painfully honest about it.
Yesterday I mentioned that I was lucky that it's not own goodness that has to count in my favor and how because of that, I still don't have the right to walk around as if I really had it together after all. But what's next? How does knowing I'm a worm made into a prince by the work of another affect my person, my character, my actions? Or does it?
That's where the Thunderbolts come in. You see, for the non-comics fans, the Thunderbolts were a team that pretended to be heroes in order to do evil. But over time, some of them became changed by the actuality of being heroes. They were still villains, but they found themselves wanting to be real heroes and not just pretend heroes, and they lived that way. Eventually, the ones who truly changed got just that opportunity (one of whom was actually invited to join the Avengers).
But enough geek talk. What does that mean for this discussion?
Even if the old me is still a worm, the new me is being made into something, well, new and better. In my heart I may still be a villain, but in my soul, I'm being made into a hero.
Or to defer to the Apostle Paul: "For I am confident of this very thing, that He who began a good work in you will perfect it until the day of Christ Jesus" (Philippians 1:6, NASB).
So I do my best to try to live a life worthy of being a hero, the kind of life that may one day get me invited to be an Avenger. But I don't do it to impress people. I don't do it to demonstrate how pure and holy I am (because I'm not, remember Day 1). Nor do I do it to build a barrier between myself and the unwashed masses (because I know that I'm not just one of them, I'm the president of the unwashed masses and have the biggest stick in my eye alone).
I do it because (and just because) I'm being made into a new person, because my character is being changed, because I want to honor the One whose goodness (i.e., righteousness, holiness) is working on my behalf.
I do it because of who I am becoming, not who I am. I do it because I know the person I am and am becoming, and not because I'm trying to prove anything to anyone. The only One who needs proof already knows.
And what am I becoming? Well, if you run in many church circles, you'll hear a long list of dos and don'ts about various cultural moral things like not smoking, not drinking, not cursing, etc. I prefer to think that Christ is doing something different within me than just making me a good boy for my grandmother. I prefer to think that he's doing something to me that I can't do on my own. And I believe scripture backs this up.
Again, going to Paul: "But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law." (Galatians 5: 22-23, NASB).
I think that even more than doing the right "things" (daily devotional reading, praying every day, tithing, etc.) being the right person is the core of what it means to be "being perfected." I can do all the good things and still fake it, having no joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control toward other people. But I will find it very difficult to fake a live of joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. People see that that quickly. And if I get these things right, you can't hold a "law" of drinking, smoking, or cursing against me.
I'm becoming like Christ in His time in His way. You're becoming like Christ in His time in His way for you. And we may be on different timetables.
Do I still have to fight the temptation to live like a pretender? Yes. Do I still have to fight the urges to ignore being patient, joyful, etc.?
But the more I live like an Avenger, the more I become less like a Thunderbolt and more like an Avenger.
Friday, November 2, 2012
Like St. Francis, But Not That Cool Either
Continuing from yesterday's reflection about what a worm I am ("for such a worm as I," thank you original words of "At the Cross"), today I want to look at the flip side of it. Well, maybe not the exact opposite side, but at least coming at it from a different angle. Clear your minds of anything important, because this is going to blow them wide open and I don't want you to lose anything important.Ready?
Here we go then...
I believe it's only in realizing how utterly unworthy (i.e., worthless) we are as Christians or even people that we can even begin to start becoming "actual" Christians or even genuine people.
I think it all ties in with that whole "the truth will set you free" business. And not just the Truth with a capital T, but the truth about ourselves too. I think that as long as we all walk around operating in masks and costumes, pretending to be good, solid, moral citizens of the world that we only make ourselves avoid the truth that could be so very freeing.
That's where the title of this site comes from, our righteousness being like filthy rags (even after become believers in the faith, OUR righteousness still doesn't get any cleaner, luckily we don't rely on ours) and the most "holy" religious folks of Jesus day being called dirty cups, clean and sparkly on the outside where people can see and praise and look up to but filthy and stained on the inside where it really counts.
For me, this is the clencher...
(Like Francis, but probably not that cool, since we don't have legends about us communicating with animals, which, now that I think about it, makes him kind of like the Aquaman of the Saint set. Not bad.)
Once we realize that though, we start on that slippery slope again of becoming the kind of worm who starts to think himself or herself as more than just a worm -- which we are in Christ, we are beautiful brothers and sisters, but NEVER, NO NOT EVER IN ANY WAY, SHAPE OR FORM on our own merits.
Maybe one day I should write a short story called "The Worm That Learned He Didn't Have to Remain Just a Worm, But Became Less Than Even a Worm the More He Went Around Trying to Look Like He Wasn't Just A Worm." Yeah, you're probably right, it'll never sell. The titles too on the nose. *grins*
Thursday, November 1, 2012
Like Batman, But Not That Cool
Hi. My name is Sean, and I'm a fake, a phony, a hypocrite.
Before you try to disagree with, let me just say that all you can see is the outside stuff I want you to see. I'm a nice guy, polite like my mom and Meme raised me, and I try to live up to that good ol' Golden Rule (when it's convenient, of course, but you don't see that). I try to be a good father and husband and employee and friend. But that's all the mask.
Yes, like Batman.
Only, not that cool.
You see, beneath my mask, I'm not all that likeable, not really it seems like the guy I try to be.
And I won't go into the specifics here, because to be honest I still want you to like me. But let me tell you, if you could see the sick, selfish, icky stuff in my head, you'd keep your distance. Just being honest. I tell myself they're not things I'd ever act on, but they're there regardless, keeping vigil in my brain, tempting me just the same. There for the grace of God, as the saying goes.
I feel a little like Paul in that respect (then think, who am I to compare myself to that saint, even though Paul himself counts himself out of that list) when he writes in Romans 7:
It also makes me feel a bit like the Eagles sang when I stab it with my steely knives but I just can't kill the beast.
Inside I know I deserve to be strung up, hung out to dry, and left to rot, but outside I keep putting on that mask. (After all, they will know we are Christians by our gloves, right? So our hands don't actually get dirty.)
Luckily for a scab of a man like me, it's not my good and bad that is going against or for me. It's someone else's.
It's that grace thing again. That seems to pop up a lot here.
Before you try to disagree with, let me just say that all you can see is the outside stuff I want you to see. I'm a nice guy, polite like my mom and Meme raised me, and I try to live up to that good ol' Golden Rule (when it's convenient, of course, but you don't see that). I try to be a good father and husband and employee and friend. But that's all the mask.
 |
| Far less cool that this. |
Only, not that cool.
You see, beneath my mask, I'm not all that likeable, not really it seems like the guy I try to be.
And I won't go into the specifics here, because to be honest I still want you to like me. But let me tell you, if you could see the sick, selfish, icky stuff in my head, you'd keep your distance. Just being honest. I tell myself they're not things I'd ever act on, but they're there regardless, keeping vigil in my brain, tempting me just the same. There for the grace of God, as the saying goes.
I feel a little like Paul in that respect (then think, who am I to compare myself to that saint, even though Paul himself counts himself out of that list) when he writes in Romans 7:
I can anticipate the response that is coming: “I know that all God’s commands are spiritual, but I’m not. Isn’t this also your experience?” Yes. I’m full of myself—after all, I’ve spent a long time in sin’s prison. What I don’t understand about myself is that I decide one way, but then I act another, doing things I absolutely despise. So if I can’t be trusted to figure out what is best for myself and then do it, it becomes obvious that God’s command is necessary. But I need something more! For if I know the law but still can’t keep it, and if the power of sin within me keeps sabotaging my best intentions, I obviously need help! I realize that I don’t have what it takes. I can will it, but I can’t do it. I decide to do good, but I don’t really do it; I decide not to do bad, but then I do it anyway. My decisions, such as they are, don’t result in actions. Something has gone wrong deep within me and gets the better of me every time. (14-20, The Message)
It also makes me feel a bit like the Eagles sang when I stab it with my steely knives but I just can't kill the beast.
Inside I know I deserve to be strung up, hung out to dry, and left to rot, but outside I keep putting on that mask. (After all, they will know we are Christians by our gloves, right? So our hands don't actually get dirty.)
Luckily for a scab of a man like me, it's not my good and bad that is going against or for me. It's someone else's.
It's that grace thing again. That seems to pop up a lot here.
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