David

David: (n) a king of Israel.

Faith might occasionally be interesting if it weren’t so damn religious.

Rather than being a state of spirit, where we seek to know ourselves better and understand God by loving other people, it is turned into a mortuary, where we sit and perform all sorts of religious exercises that make yoga appear to be not such a stretch.

One of the more interesting characters in the Bible is David.

He’s not interesting because he prays, and he’s not fascinating because he wanted to build God’s temple.

He’s intriguing because any time, day or night, when he removes his human will from religious pursuit, he goes to town—just a’sinnin’ away.

David knew how to repent. That’s how he pleased God.

I understand David. When he saw a naked woman bathing, he immediately conjured a plan to get inside her.

You see—that’s human.

I am not impressed with people who only sin and am completely terrified of those who claim to refrain from it.

David has a good story even without the Bible.

Why? Because David was human and didn’t try to pretend he wasn’t.

He was a rotten father yet never touted his children as being anything but the renegades they were.

He had a huge ego, which created problems with the King of Israel before him.

Early on, he had a really good day when he accurately tossed a stone and killed a really bad giant.

It doesn’t happen again.

But I guess if you do it once, it can last for a lifetime.

He is called “the apple of God’s eye.”

It isn’t because he was very religious.

It isn’t because he never sinned.

It isn’t because he went throughout Israel, trying to get everybody to be judgmental and mean.

David found a gear.

He knew exactly how far to go before he drove himself off the cliff.

Short of that disaster, he stopped and got himself right.

It’s a great talent.

Because he understood sin, he didn’t judge the sinner.

And because he understood grace, he did not advertise the sin.

Davenport

Davenport: (n) a large sofa, often one convertible into a bed.

Language is made out of razor blades.

It took me a while to learn this.

If you’re not careful, you’re going to cut people.

And if not agile, you may end up slicing yourself.

Whenever you contend that a certain word is necessary in order to communicate sophistication or perhaps being a well-rounded human, you’ve grabbed the razor blade and slashed out at the world around you.

Over the past fifteen years, I have made a concerted effort to make my language out of marshmallows. Even if they occasionally bounce off someone, it produces a giggle-fest instead of a bruise.

To do this, I had to get rid of the assertion that I became a “better person” by using “better talk.”

Example:

The best way to describe a large seating place in a living room is to call it a couch.

Once you abandon the word “couch,” everything else you say is an attempt to separate yourself from the milling masses and the ignorant idiots.

Even calling it a “sofa” is filled with such pretension that people immediately know you’re trying to communicate your verbal—or even perhaps natural—superiority.

I won’t even discuss the word “divan,” because truthfully, friends, it is not divine.

Yet when I was growing up, there were those who referred to a couch as a davenport. Generally speaking, they were old, white, and held their noses a little higher than others. It was obvious they were in a constant search for obscure terms to describe common things.

Many of them said tomato and potato with a soft sound on the “a.”

“To-mah-to.”

“Po-tah-to.”

Occasionally, when using a word from foreign extract, they actually fell into an accent which they mustered for the moment.

The pastor’s wife from my church had a davenport. That’s what she called it. Now, she never corrected anybody for calling it a sofa or a couch, but she refused to join them in such lollygagging of the tongue.

So let me tell you:

If you want to find out what your profile is on Earth, see how many attempts you make to establish patterns of speech that you have decided are more “high-minded” than others.

If you have many, many of them, you are officially an Earthly asshole.

If you have a few, you’re pretentious.

The recommended number of fussy words that you dare keep around in your lingo is zero. 

Dave

Dave: (n) a male given name.

 Realization: it is the goal of life.

To come to some sort of conclusion that fits both the circumstances and the purity of truth.

Sometimes a realization is a couple of steps away; sometimes so it sits on top of you.

But there are times that a realization seems so uncertain that it may take many years for the brain, the soul and the heart to have a decent meeting and come to common ground.

I knew a fellow named Dave.

Dave was four years older than me.

Dave loved music.

Dave loved gospel music.

He was one of those classically attractive men of bygone days—with long, dark, straight hair, which he wore in bangs coming down to his eyebrows, making him appear much younger than he actually was.

Even though Dave had graduated from high school, was married and had a baby, he wanted to sing so much that he lobbied to join our group of high school friends.

What helped us make the decision was that Dave had a van and went out and bought a bunch of sound equipment, causing his entrance into our organization to be much more likely.

I didn’t like Dave.

Dave didn’t like me.

I was a precocious young man, who my enemies would have called “arrogant.”

It was my group. It sure wasn’t Dave’s.

As I look back on it now, I realize that Dave was unpopular with people his own age. Dave felt trapped in a marriage and was completely uncertain of fatherhood.

Dave wanted to be a professional gospel singer, traveling around the country wearing fancy suits and new patent-leather shoes.

Well, that didn’t fit in with our group—but he was so desperate to stay in the cattle call that he just decided to be one of our steers.

I probably didn’t like him because he was good-looking.

But Dave was one of those guys who had enough insecurity that attractive women were a bit put off by his tentative nature.

So even though he didn’t want to hang around a bunch of high school punks, he needed us to have a band. We needed him to have a van and a sound system.

It was all very nasty.

But recently, as I’ve thought back on this arrangement, I’ve realized that Dave was the greater loser from interacting with us. Well, especially with me.

I had lots of friends, I talked a good game and I was fortunate enough to have plenty of musical talent.

I undercut Dave, I made him angry and was so unsure of myself that I nearly gave him a nervous breakdown.

And even after I graduated from high school and he still wanted to work with me, I treated him like my neighbor’s dog’s poop.

Eventually, at the end of a singing engagement one night, he went his way and I went mine.

I never saw Dave again.

I’ve tried to locate him but had little success.

Or maybe I know that if Dave wanted to get in contact with me, he probably would have done so by now.

Here’s the thing about realizations:

Be prepared.

Because they’re pretty damn real.

Daunting

Daunting: (adj) description of a task which is disheartening

 I do not begrudge someone ascending Mount Everest.

More power to you.

I’m certainly glad if you hit home runs.

And feel free to win the Heisman Trophy as long as you don’t kill your wife and her guest.

But physical achievements are not daunting efforts.

As long as you train well, prepare your body and understand the task set before you, you have a fighting chance to achieve your goal and win.

The true daunting tasks are to bring about the peacefulness of the Garden of Eden in a world which is gradually deciding that generosity and kindness are unusable virtues for battling greed and hate.

With the rest of my journey on Earth, I have decided to take on three daunting tasks:

  1. To fight gender inequality by continuing to tout how similar men and women are instead of insisting that we are radically constructed to be at odds.
  2. Destroy racism by pointing out the bigotry introduced to me, which I am dismantling, encourage those who will join me and joke around with those who won’t.
  3. Live and promote a faith which is grounded on Earth and survives through the fruit it bears instead of the mere promises of eternal life.

Everything I sing, everything I write, everything I produce, and every conversation will be laced with these three adventures.

It is my belief that “daunting” is achieved by beginning the denting of the walls that separate us.

 

Daughters of the American Revolution

Daughters of the American Revolution:  a patriotic society of women descended from Americans of the Revolutionary period, organized in 1890

I will receive no applause, acclamation, nor much readership by sharing this. Nonetheless, I will do it to promote the sanity of our species and grant peace on Earth a chance to give goodwill to men.

No one is special.

When we started believing some people were special, it opened the Pandora’s box brought about by the belief in equality. For if all men are created equal, and we have found some men to be special, therefore, aren’t all men (and women) special?

From that position, we developed the doctrine of uniqueness—“there’s no one exactly like me.”

“I am a daughter of the American Revolution…”

…which actually  means that many generations back, your great-great-great-great grandmother had sexual intercourse with a revolutionary man who was about to be hung by the British Empire.

Because that particular revolution panned out pretty well, I am allowed to feel proud of my old Grandma, and even to assert that I have maintained a drop or two of “special blood” through the process.

Let us not even consider the reality of mutations.

Because a study of DNA immediately informs us that talents, character and attributes are not transferable in entirely through the double-helix.

But as long as we can convince ourselves that we’re special, we might just feel a little better about how mediocre our lives have seemingly turned out to be.

Of course, I’m not nearly as special if you’re special, too.

A debate on who or what might be more special seems childish. So to be special, I must insist that you are ordinary, or even cursed by birth.

So it may appear noble to be a Daughter of the American Revolution, but since you weren’t there, didn’t sew any new flags, or put bandages on amputated limbs, you must understand that it just doesn’t mean shit.

 

Daughter

Daughter: (n) a female child or person in relation to her parents.

 I think I spent more time studying daughters, even though I only had sons, than I might have if my children had been girls.

There is a tremendous responsibility for a man to understand a woman.

That’s why it is so sinister for the sarcastic theater and the socially stunted church to make relationships between men and women seem so unlikely and unfulfilling.

Six sons came through my house.

Three of them were my natural children and three were my godsons.

I immediately realized they were not getting adequate training on their relationships with the female gender by hanging out with friends, watching television or attending school.

For some reason, we are completely satisfied to make male and female conflict a part of our culture, holding gender equality at bay.

I don’t know what I would tell my daughters about boys. But I do know what I told my young gentlemen about women.

I explained that it’s set up perfectly.

I mean, the way a woman is constructed is ideal for interaction.

It is polite to start at the head and go to the toe.

In her head is a brain.

Get to know it. Study it. Have sympathy for the struggles. Help her ease out of her culture, where her upbringing was short-sighted, and allow her to do the same for you.

Next are the eyes.

How do they see? Is it a small world? A big world? Or a dangerous world?

The lips.

What does she speak? Do you easily discern her messages? Or are they too garbled and unclear due to her training? Help her find her voice.

How about those ears?

Women, like men, have not been instructed to listen. They envision a verbal conflict with the opposite sex, so they are prone to close off their hearing. Learn to hear each other.

A chin.

It’s easy nowadays to see that chin sink over the simplest of offenses. For some reason, depression has become synonymous with “deep thinking.” Foolishness. If a man loves a woman and a woman loves a man, they help each other keep that chin up, and eyes on the goals.

The heart.

Fortunately, it’s near the breast. I always told my boys to consider that the appreciation they have for the female breast is also expressed through a respect for her heart—her feelings.

As you can see, as you ease down from the top, love has a chance to grow. So by the time you get to the flesh and the sexuality, there’s a purpose for it.

On the other hand, if you start there, you will wade into emotions you don’t understand.

As for the legs and feet, they take her where she decides to go. She should have her own determination, based upon the joys of sex, which were enhanced by having an understanding of emotions in learning how to “face” one another.

I never had a daughter, but I probably would tell her much the same.

We are not as different from each other as advertised.

What keeps men and women apart is a calloused indifference—because we think we know everything.

Daub

Daub: (v) to spread plaster, mud, etc. on or over something

Shortcuts lead to long-suffering.

That’s been my finding.

Some time ago, I had my speakers set up in an auditorium and the brutality of road travel had left them a bit chipped, needing to be painted.

I had the bright idea of buying a can of black spray paint and touching them up so their age would not show unless you were standing right in front of them, staring.

It seemed like a great idea.

I will not lie to you—since the speakers were up on stands, I did actually consider that it would be better to take them down to the ground to spray them. But I quickly rejected that—because I lease a room to laziness in my brain, and since he pays most of the rent, I decided to stand on a chair, as close as I could get, and spray the worn places.

Let me tell you:

There is a reason they call it a spray can.

It sprays.

The mist floats through the air and on this particular occasion, it landed on a perfectly white wall directly behind the speaker.

To be honest, the speakers were not ugly enough to be noticed.

But the spray on the white wall was a definite attention-getter.

I had a problem.

Do I tell someone, who owns the auditorium, that I blackened his wall? Or do I try to fix it?

I chose the latter.

I bought a can of paint that was as close to the wall color as possible. But no matter how I tried to blend the whites, you could still tell two things:

There was some blackened shadow underneath, and where I stopped painting was an obvious line of demarcation.

I didn’t know what to do.

A young lady who was traveling with me suggested that it would be better, instead of using a paint brush or a roller, to daub on the white paint with a sponge, letting it dry, until every single portion of the black was covered.

I wanted to reject the idea.

I wanted her to be wrong so we could be wrong together.

But my greater desire was to get this horrible mistake into my past.

So I daubed.

With the artistic style of a Van Gogh or Reubens, I carefully covered up the black splat.

I stepped back three feet, five feet, and stood on a chair—peering right at it.

I could not see it.

I was overjoyed that my daubing had eliminated my sobbing.

That evening when the owner of the building showed up, he walked up to me and said, “What’s wrong with the wall?”

I looked up, aghast.

“I didn’t notice,” I lied.

He flicked his hand in the air, and as he walked away he said, “I’ll just have ’em paint it.”

 

Dated

Dated: (adj) out-of-date; old-fashioned

Oily tongues and greasy lips.

This would be my description of the verbiage that comes off the mouths of those settlers who presently have found their place on the prairie of Earthscape.

Everyone thinks they are so smart.

Everyone believes they’ve invented the wheel—but they don’t want to call it the wheel. That’s too dated.

So instead they call it the “circlebon.”

And they smirk, as if cleverness has found a permanent home in their hearts.

I just hate it when a song is played and it’s beautiful, powerful, emotional—and people sit around and discuss how the production is so “dated” that it’s difficult to listen to.

Or they’ll watch a movie and call it dated. Yes—it is dated. It was produced on a particular date.  Traveling into the future to produce it later was impossible.

They took what they had, what they knew, what they felt, what they believed, and they put it on a screen. So without you commenting on the camera work or the lighting, or whether the credits were done in your favorite font, could you simply just bring your soul and let it ease down into the warm waters of the experience?

No?

I understand.

Just please take your oily tongue and your greasy lips elsewhere.

I don’t care if something is dated.

I want to know if it can touch me, if I can feel something real and if it inspires me to find the better parts of my humanity—instead of becoming a gorilla with a weekend pass to the suburbs.

Date

Date: (n) a particular month, day, and year

I can tell a lot about myself by what pops into my mind when I hear the word.

Date.

What is the first thing that wiggles its way to the forefront of my brain when I hear this word?

Because certainly, any time before the age of twelve, the word “date” would have been serious—referring to an upcoming test, a visit with an unwanted aunt and uncle, or a journey to the dentist.

Then it changed.

The word “date” became the possibility of interaction with a woman.

Am I going on a date?

Do you want to go on a date?

Suddenly the word evolved—from a grim hassle to a joyous possibility.

Then I move to a point that the word does not stand by itself, but because I am about to be a father, it is preceded by the word “due.”

What is your wife’s due date?

When will the baby be here?

On what date will you be rushing her to the hospital?

Maybe different from you, I had a season when the word “date” meant money. Being a writer and musician, the word “date” referred to an opportunity to perform my songs, sell my products, interact with an audience and maybe make some dough.

It could leave me all tingling.

Then there was a huge space of time when the word “date” represented upcoming events which would take my children through graduation and marriage.

What is the date of that ceremony?

What date will he be starting his new job?

And now that I’m a bit older, all the retired people beckon me to join them in measuring time by having a calendar for one purpose and one purpose only.

To register the dates of doctor’s appointments.

They frown at my reluctance.

They scowl at my rebellion.

Matter of fact, the offices of these medical technicians often call me, wondering when I plan on coming in for my date.

I always set a date with them.

And then I never show up.

 

Data

Data: (n) individual facts, statistics, or items of information

There are certainly occasions when the pursuit of truth is greatly hindered by facts.

Likewise, the beauty of possibility is just stomped to death by information.

I am temporarily many things.

  • I am temporarily lazy.
  • I am temporarily ignorant.
  • I am temporarily a liar, confused, opinionated and misguided.

Well, I could go on and on.

For you see, if you just give facts to provide the information of my status, you can present me any way you wish.

Then it would fall my lot to justify myself.

You don’t need to go dig up dirt on me.

I’ll tell you myself:

  • I have been unfaithful.
  • I have sexually harassed a woman.
  • I have cheated.
  • I have stolen, lied and misrepresented myself.
  • I have gotten angry without having a real reason.
  • Jealous.

I have been all of these things—for single moments.

Then I have repented.

  • Regretted.
  • Changed my mind.
  • Assisted.
  • Given.
  • Healed.
  • Been a peacemaker.
  • Become merciful.

Yet to claim that these virtues are continually my personality would also be false data and deceptive information.

To the average Jew in Jerusalem, Jesus was a troublemaker who didn’t follow the faith and was making himself noticeable, which was going to create problems with the Romans and unearth a dangerous environment.

The data said he was a huge problem.

The information concluded that he must die.

The truth was waiting to set us free.

You can collect your data and your information, but let it mingle with other realities, other examples and other testimonies before you become certain that you’ve gained enough input to make an honest conclusion.