It’s official. Today I decided to quit the Evang-e-dropping eradication operation due to lack of time.
As mentioned earlier, my actual human relationships are suffering due to my increased work schedule. So, in the place of tract collecting I will be hanging out with Obi-Wan or whoever drops into my life on Sunday mornings.
I don’t really have anything poetic to wax about this one year plus of tract collecting and trash clean up that hasn’t already been written in previous reports. I think the CEO of the universe has shown me much during this season. And now it’s over. So it goes.
I do wish someone would continue it. And I believe that someone should be a member of the actual crew that passes these tracts out in the first place. Every Saturday night this crew preys on patrons at the door of a local nightclub. Maybe they could come back in the daylight and collect them from the parking lots.
For over a year, I have saved the tracts I’ve collected. Two bags full. I am thinking the time is now to meet my opponents in the faith face-to-face.
Opponents in the faith. That sounds terrible. Anyway, I’m not one to chicken out and mail a load of tracts to their office with some cute note or something. I should meet them face to face and tell them what I was doing: picking up their trash.
I’ll be pleasant about it. And I won’t go into my feelings of tracts in general. I suck at debates. I’ll just say hey, I think it would be a good testimony to not leave behind any trash. Could you please pick up where I’m leaving off?
But then I’d have to find time during the week to actually try to meet up with them. We’ll see.
The operation: it was fun while it lasted. Maybe the kids and I will go out again once in a while.
There is nothing new in the fair mother city. The same 'ole same 'ole.
What has been will be again.
Reports of the largest megachurch in town doubling the size of their facility with a $9 million bank loan isn't surprising. So it goes.
If George Barna's predictions of 70% of all believers living a faith outside the sunday morning social club by 2025 is true, I wonder what buildings like these will be used for by mid century?
This is a new series of possible reports that come to you from The Zen.
The Zen is a place I fall into when I am doing some repetitive task, usually involving loud tools or power equipment while wearing goggles and ear muffs. And it’s like I forget where I’m at because being behind goggles and having loud noise near you yet muffled launches you to another planet. Or The Zen. The CEO sometimes communicates to me in The Zen.
But most of the time I just think up weird stuff.
Recently while working for the jedi master cutting tile, thus under the influence of the wet saw and angle grinder, I thought about the possibility of a future assignment change.
Yes. Me. The guy who has spent half his life in the fair mother city ponders a potential assignment change from headquarters. I’m leaving it that vague. This move may never happen. Or if it does, I’m guessing it will be a few years or so.
A few years back, when we peacefully parted ways with the izzy group ministry, Agent Wife and I pondered why we were still in the fair mother city. We had no jobs or family here. Despite a myriad of friendships, our reason for being here seem to revolve around two vital relationships: Princess and Obi-Wan.
Princess was Agent Wife’s little sister with the big sisters program. They have been friends since 1999. But that relationship recently closed one way or another.
So we strongly feel that we are still here for our friendship with Obi-Wan.
I find it odd that I’d even consider leaving the fair mother city since I admire missionaries who stay within their outreach culture for the long haul. ie: forever.
But recently I’ve been looking at our time in the FMC as a possible training period as opposed to a life-time call. Maybe I’m right about this. Maybe not.
Either way, my plea to the CEO is that I don’t want to die here. God, help me.
Being wrapped up in my current life of a house-flipping jedi padawan has blurred my past. Or at least I’ve begun to forget how the deep trenches of the poverty culture is where I had once camped daily.
I’ve recently been reminded twice of my past with the izzy group ministry* some five to eight years ago.
1) Recently in the obituaries I learned of Jim Diddy’s passing. Jim was one of the hanger-ons in the Willy & Patches crowd. He was a notorious drunk and engager of escapism and the mole lifestyle like his buddies. I last saw Jim at either Willy’s or Patches’ funeral. I can’t remember which.
Amazingly enough, the obit mentioned his years of alcohol abuse. It also mentioned that in recent years Jim gave his life to Christ and battled his demons one by one until they were no more. He went on mission trips to mexico with his church as recently as last summer.
Thank you CEO for Jim’s change in life. And thanks for showing me the rest of the story.
2) After work today I drove by a slum house where I often have seen Georgia Rusty sitting in the yard with a 40 ouncer. Rusty was there along with Double O. I did a u-turn and pulled over to sit with these old friends and their watered-down brews.
Man. I was in another world. I almost forgot what life was like on the extreme fringes. While I was catching up with Rusty & Double O and Maria (Rusty’s longtime girlfriend and legendary local schizo), some legless guy in a wheelchair kept yelling to Rusty to buy some of his weed. The wheelchair guy had a leg missing below the knee. And I swear I saw a partial bone sticking out, like maybe the doctors didn’t fold the skin over all the way.
And some other elderly lady walked by then sat down in the grass with a beer and stared off away from the street. I assume she had mental problems (or demons, take your pick).
I watched a cop drive by slowly and gaze at us, like maybe this was a house that was always patrolled.
Double O, a notorious drunk himself, filled me in on the details of his grandkids who have been born since we last hung out. Rusty openly shared of his addictions. Just alcohol and pot. But he quit all that “other stuff”. Needle doing and so forth. Both guys kept fantasizing about some government check that might pop into their lives soon.
I just told them about my children they have never met and how I’m remodeling houses now.
The culture didn’t shock me and I adjusted pretty quick. But I’m very rusty within the far fringes. And it was weird that I was looked upon as the "church guy" with their apologetic behavior and so forth. I've always hated getting the church guy treatment.
I may need to go hang out there more. They invited me to.
*izzy group – nickname for the ministry I was once director and associate pastor of. It was a hands-on ministry to the local poverty culture with various apparatuses.
As stated recently, my master plan is advancing forward at light speed.
Currently, I am an official full-time employee of the jedi master. And that is a very good thing because I am learning much and enjoying the work tremendously.
I am getting less awkward with tools and at least looking like I know what I’m doing more and more daily.
Just a year ago, I pondered my existence through the desert wastelands of the bible-belt. Now, I drive a truck and wear a tool belt. I am a bad-ass. And that is my existence.
And my big announcement:
As of today I am now under contract with a realtor to buy our next house flip. Yes – I, the young padawan in home remodeling and trades work is now an equal partner on the next project as financier...or something.
And the CEO of the universe employs his ironic humor as this property is located in White Utopia.
Yes. White Utopia: the fair mother city’s eastward bedroom community that I love to loathe and make fun of - a mere microcosm of the fair mother city with heavy magnification on wealth, religion, Caucasian seclusion, and haves vs. have-nots. Or maybe I’m too critical.
Good one CEO. I’m still shocked that my first would be there.
Due to my busy and quasi-excrutiating work weeks of late, the evang-e-dropping eradication operation has been put on the backburner. I have not planned to quit collecting christian tracts from nightclub parking lots just yet.
But since I have so little time and energy to maintain actual human relationships during the week, I have shifted my Sunday morning time to being with either my family, Obi-Wan, or whoever else shows up.
This morning it was time with Obi-Wan. And I forgot how he can preach, albeit unintentional. I believe accidental preaching is the best kind of preaching.
The sermon topic this morning was almost straight from the Uncle George handbook: the CEO provides.
My friend, elderly neighbor, and Redd Fox stunt double Obi-Wan went on for almost an hour about how in recent years he asks the CEO for everything. And one way or another it shows up, be it some piddly little odd job needing attention performed by me or Mr. Mackey, or not having the energy to cook and suddenly someone is bringing a plate of food through his door, or whatever.
It’s easy and overly tempting to rely on ourselves when we’re young and able-bodied. But my elderly mentor Obi-Wan has taught me a faith level I have only imagined.
My local cohort Jack recently posted an excellent point of view on the “making poverty history” trend (found here).
His basic gist: Jesus never commissioned us to rid the world of poverty. Instead, he encouraged us to join poverty.
I assume this is because not having readily available resources can be an excellent witness to those who do not know jesus. Not relying on our own means will demonstrate faith as well as loyalties.
My question is: what does joining poverty look like to those of us: in wealthy Western societies? With families with children? In the social club/church culture?
Are we to quit our jobs, sell our houses, and raise our babies in the dirt on the street corner?
This has been a long time coming in the life of agent b: the finale of my employment with Son & Dad Tree Service, Inc. It’s like the end of a TV sitcom. Except not as hyped but equally as shallow.
Basically, it ended like this – last month during a routine tree spray season (ie: pruning boy: orkin man edition) I saw how the future of my jedi padawan gig was growing rapidly with an indefinite amount of work in sight. Since The Son has a knack for having me waste an entire 4 hour morning doing only 2 and a half hours of work, and since at that moment I was being held captive aboard the tree spray rig for 8 straight hours and missing all kinds of experience with the jedi master...I told him to begin finding my replacement.
Normally I am a huge advocate of giving an official “two weeks notice”. But working for Son & Dad wasn’t a normal job. And The Son found a replacement for me who I’m sure he’ll love – a Baptist ministry major college student. I mean hey, this kid knows the secret handshakes and so forth. They’ll get along great.
I was slowly weeded out of the “worker” position, which is exactly what I wanted. And I’m glad The Son found a suitable replacement for me as I didn’t want to leave him high and dry. The new blood and I did some mowing jobs a few days ago together for The Son who was out of town. That was my official last day, in my eyes.
Welcome to the migrant worker seat, new blood.
So, I tip my bottle of Samuel Smith Oatmeal Stout to The Son, a halfway decent employer...who never offered a raise after a year and a half. And changed the subject when I mentioned a raise on my year anniversary with him.
And to The Dad, the 90 year old company founder who inspired me to write the book “Mowing With Dementia” after job upon job of following you with a mower to fix all of your landscaping mishaps...and watching you mow the same strip of grass five times with no end in sight.
And to the CEO of the universe: who, via a dream, showed me to take this job. It humbled me beyond belief, which I'm sure I needed during this vast desert period of my life. My adventures with Son & Dad were both priceless life-lessons and a wealth of comedy rolled into one.
Goodbye brown uniform shirt. Goodbye Three-Stooges antics. I’ll never forget you.
I made a brief cameo within traditional pastoral duties recently during a hospital visit.
My next door neighbor Frieda Sanford’s sister & brother-in-law were in a bad wreck a few nights ago. They live out in the country. Upon returning from Friday night bingo, some drunk driver gal rammed into the back of a trailer and swerved into their lane. They hit her head-on at 65 mph.
The drunk driver died instantly. Frieda’s sister Susie walked away with a bunch of bruises. Her husband Uncle Jerry is in the hospital with 4 or 5 broken ribs.
They both humbly give thanks to the CEO for their lives and figure there’s some reason they are still on this earth. I pray that the CEO will show them what that is.
There is still a lot of pain for both of them: much physical pain for Uncle Jerry and much emotional pain for Susie because of that woman’s death.
Your communications on their behalf are appreciated.
Every four years here in the US it’s the same ole nonsense: the political game. Everybody rallies up behind their team and hopes for a win.
The religion of politics rears its head and reminds those of us in undercover operations that faith in jesus usually takes a back seat to faith in a candidate, political ideal, or nation.
Unfortunately, from my christian friends I often receive these poorly written FWD emails on how one of the two major candidates is the anti-christ or something.
And their email digresses into this pathetic plea to vote a certain way. Like maybe if we believers don’t all go out as a mob and vote one way or another, then god will punish us by letting our country (thus, the entire universe) go to hell.
In a handbasket.
Come on. Give god some kind of credit. I’m sure he’s not that stupid or powerless. Like he’d give a bunch of voters the responsibility to alter the fate of mankind.
This is not an endorsement of any candidate nor is it a pro or anti vote message. If you feel called to vote one way or so, then do it. But with the mission jesus had on this earth, I am convinced he would not have spent much (if any) time on politics.
Maybe we should do likewise.
So quit circulating the FWD’d christian magazine editor endorsements and rumor-like “did you hear” emails while you enjoy your wealth and freedom to buy your slave labored goods from the mega marts.
As an undercover operative for the CEO of the universe, I am strategically embedded within the poverty culture of Abilene, TX (the fair mother city). This blog contains my reports, discoveries, observations, and confessions. My identity must remain concealed due to passages in The Book under Matt. 6:1-4. The names on this blog have been changed to protect the guilty.
It’s official. Today I decided to quit the Evang-e-dropping eradication operation due to lack of time.
