A Father's Words on Life, the Universe and God

Luminous Meanderings, a Journal of an Enlightened Mind

Mar1st
2013 Leave a Comment Written by Father

[This work is something I recently wrote for a small internet publication that didn't get picked up, so I'm posting it here.]

“I should be in charge. That self-righteous idiot who claims to know everything about ‘everything’ pulled a fast one on me, caught me unawares, and threw me out on my own.

I don’t need him. I’ll show him.

Anyway, if he had listened to me, he wouldn’t be in the pickle he’s in now. He mucked up everything. His whole plan went down the crapper – just because he was afraid to listen to his ‘inferior’ and insisted on doing it all his way.

How can he claim I am inferior? I was right in everything I said, and it’s all going as I told him it would. But he still doesn’t listen or care.

‘They’ say history is written by the victors. So far, that’s true; though I will set the record straight and take my place and fix his whole mess. Then everyone will know I was right and that his ridiculous prattling and posturing was simply inane garble. He’s such a megalomaniac. I despise him.

If I were in charge, I’d make sure everyone knew it. He sure does. He demands everyone listen to him or they get fired. No one is allowed individual initiative or creativity. It’s all ‘his’ show. If someone complains and says they’d rather do it their way, then he quickly steps in and chastises them for being dim-witted fools because he’s ‘always right.’

You know what I think of that nonsense. He has been wrong far too often.

I’d do it better. I’d give everyone an opportunity to tell me what they think, and I might even use their ideas. It’s not like I’m omniscient or anything. But I sure as hell know a lot more than anyone else, except for him.

Worst of all, he likes to pretend to sit in the background while his chosen pets simper and whine, begging him to give insight or to help with their own little projects. I see him gloating. He’s such a hypocrite. He wants them all to come and ask for help. Then he doles it out, if they agree to his conditions. Continue working for him at his discretion, doing whatever inane tasks he demands whenever he demands them for barely more than empty promises. Sure, he makes sure most of them have their minimal needs met, but how often does he let them really thrive and live the good life?

If it were me, I’d reward my minions handsomely. Money, power, sex… you name it. He can’t stand any of that stuff. It’s all about ‘do unto others’ and all that lunacy. What was he thinking? Did he actually believe anyone would want what he’s selling? Not me. Not ever.

I will take over some day, and when I do, I’ll not only slap him down but anyone who was stupid enough to believe him. Then they’ll all know how awesome I am. After all, he named me the Morning Star!”

God Stuff, Tales

Frank Dehoda: Chapter Three

Feb13th
2013 Leave a Comment Written by Father

Chapter Three

Realizing he would not win this tug of war, Frank attempted to let go. Try as he might, though, he could not free himself from the mop’s handle. He laughed at the absurdity of the situation as the wall pulled him closer and closer. Finally, he drew up against it, somehow passed through it, and incomprehensibly found himself standing in a very real archway.

He felt a bit light-headed and disoriented: all around him was a forest. Gray large stone hovered over him. Dry leaves littered the ground, surrounding their parent trees which stood dozens of feet tall with thick grey trunks. He stood in a clearing about thirty feet in diameter. A wide path headed straight out in front of him with those large twisted trees darkly overhanging the well-worn trail. Silence crept up his back. Swinging around quickly, he held his mop-headed staff out defensively, steadying himself against whatever unseen assailant might have snuck behind him. Nothing but an empty archway and the path continuing on through the forest extended that direction.

Where am I? What’s going on? he silently questioned. Hopefully, he walked back through the archway, thinking he might be able to reverse whatever had occurred. He stepped through the arch and onto the path, still in the middle of a clearing in an unknown forest. Probing every recess and line of the structure, his hands crossed every bit of the archway he could reach, looking for some sort of switch to trigger or button to activate so he might get away. Nothing happened.

Fighting panic, he assessed the situation. If he could find the sun, he knew he would be able to determine North, or at least he hoped he could. It had been a long time since he had been in Scouts. He searched the forest canopy, looking for shafts of light or something to clue him into the sun’s whereabouts.

Soon, he realized the luminescence of the forest simply existed. He could not find any light sources. No light shone through the tops of the trees or streamed into the clearing. A subtle light permeated the atmosphere and provided enough clarity to see, sort of a dusky brilliance, but he could not find its source.

The dead leaves whispered with silent laughter Frank’s confusion took hold. Listening for sounds from the overbearingly silent forest, he sensed voices surrounding him, snickering. He brandished his mop hoping to scare his opponents, real or imagined, into leaving him alone.

I need to find a way out of this place. Maybe I’m dreaming. If so, wake up!

Off in the distance to the right of the arch, a large bare hill rose above the trees. He could not be sure at this distance, but it looked as though something might have moved on the hilltop. Determined to get a better understanding of his surroundings, he started down the path in front of him, hoping it might lead to the hill.

As he walked, his mind cleared, the haunting, watched feeling subsided, and he began to enjoy the movement. The pail swung in his left hand, creating its own clock-like momentum. Quickly, he lost many of his apprehensions and looked forward to continuing this insanely odd adventure. Perhaps he was trapped in a land where he would become king like in the story books. Maybe this was some sort of ancestral home, and his parents were secretly hiding a fantastic family heritage that included wizards, dragons or talking beasts.

Then again… he was probably just dreaming.

Standing on that hill in a swath of shadow, and watching the newcomer make his way down the path, that figure guessed at by Frank, sat atop a black war horse, nodded to himself and waited, wondering if this person was the one prophesied to come in his lands’ greatest needs or whether he was a sad joke. His thoughts turned more towards the latter. He checked his reins, slapped his mount’s flank and rode the path down the opposite side of the hill from where this stranger would eventually come.

Tales

Comments Fixed

Feb8th
2013 Leave a Comment Written by Father

To the few of you possibly reading my site. Some strangeness was going on for a few days but now seems to be fixed.

So, if you tried to leave comments before and got an error message, you should be able to now.

Thanks!
K+

Uncategorized

Frank Dehoda: Chapter Two

Jan29th
2013 1 Comment Written by Father

Chapter Two

After a night filled with odd dreams, Frank blinked his eyes to the Sun’s rays as they burned away the remnants of his fitful sleep. Stretching arms and legs with the bright warmth caressing his back and sides, he sat up slowly, slid out of bed, shivered slightly as his feet sought their slippered home on the chilly wooden floor. Once in the bathroom, he fully revived with a long, hot shower. Today, he decided, he was a new man. The previous day’s experience had been a random oddity due simply to an over-active imagination.

While eating breakfast, he went through his morning routine of checking the news and social websites to catch up on what he may have missed overnight. No messages, nor world-shattering information awaited. Full of the latest information, oatmeal, toast and a scrambled egg, he threw together a bagged lunch, cleaned up his mess, and locking the door, strode across the back lawn to the church. Although the weatherman assured everyone it would be sunny this Sunday, and winter was officially several weeks behind him, Frank wanted to get the furnace fixed as soon as possible.

The mechanical monstrosity greeted him in silence, maintaining its new vigilance in the middle of the basement floor with various tools left lying around it. Confident that last night’s strangeness had been some self-induced delusion, Frank decided to ignore the walls in case he might imagine something bizarre again.

He worked steadily, concentrating on fixing the heater. Around noon he discovered that the internal wiring had been severed – most likely by mice. After further inspection, he became concerned. It looked as though someone had deliberately damaged the machine. The cuts were too precise and clean for mice teeth to have caused them. He grabbed his lunch bag and went upstairs to catch Father James and let him know someone had purposely damaged the unit. He might know who would try such a thing.

As he came close to the priest’s darkened office, he remembered the pastor was attending a clerical retreat through Saturday. Frank walked to the kitchen, popped open a can of soda from the fridge and ate his lunch quickly, anxious to get done with the job. While at the table he noticed the dirty floor and remembered part of his dreams from last night.

Little goblin-like creatures had danced around him with spears poking at him. He had defended himself with a mop and bucket. They laughed and shouted with angry, hate-filled cries that he was going to die for trying to interfere.

Shaking himself and chuckling at his bizarre imagination, he finished his meal, tossed his trash in the bin, made a mental note to clean the floor today and headed back downstairs, determined to finish his project. To avoid forgetting about the kitchen, he went to the opposite corner of the basement and pulled out some cleaning supplies: cleaner, wipes, mop and bucket. As he walked across the floor, he stopped and visibly shivered. He noticed a drawing on the wall – the same one he had convinced himself was not there.

He marched over to the wall, mop in hand, and thrust it at the drawing, resolved to eradicate the mess. As the mop touched the drawing, it kept moving – through the picture. In fact, it started moving as though something was pulling it into the wall. Quickly, Frank grounded his feet, gripped the mop tightly and yanked. It did not slow but began to pull him forward as well. Before he could let go, his entire body started shaking with an electric rush. The wall now stood a few inches from him. The drawing had grown and changed. The little archway had expanded so much that if it were real, he would pass right through it.

And he did.

Tales

Frank Dehoda: Chapter One

Jan19th
2013 2 Comments Written by Father

Following is the first chapter of a short story/novella I’ve been working on for a while. Any similarities to anyone living or deceased is purely coincidental. Let me know what you think of the beginnings of the tale. I’ve got a few more chapters written and may post them as well, depending on feedback.

Always,
K+

Chapter One

Frank Dehoda worked hard as a janitor in the small Episcopal church located behind his little home. The church, built back in the late forties, carried a strong appeal for him. It reminded him of his own youth growing up in a small town, but this particular parish practiced a very conservative Anglicanism similar to his own beliefs.

Frank really wanted to be a professional musician. He played trumpet in a local jazz band which currently performed every Friday night at a local pub and practiced Sunday nights with the occasional Wednesday evening practice, especially when they had command performances or special gigs upcoming. But it was hard to make ends meet solely on the income of his trumpet, forcing him to find a job with hours amenable to his mostly night-time profession.

Right after moving into the little apartment house behind the church, he had made friends with the priest at St. Philip’s. Being pretty friendly and aware that others did not always share his passion for the trumpet or jazz music, he made sure to visit his neighbors and find out when would be reasonable times he could practice without interfering with their lives too much. The church had services on Wednesday nights and Sunday mornings – times when Frank wasn’t usually going to be practicing at home anyway, but he had made a point to let the pastor know, just in case.

Father James seemed glad to meet Frank, and the two hit it off well. Frank occasionally would show up at special events at the church to support Father James. When the church’s old janitor moved away, Father James, aware of Frank’s financial situation, asked if he might try out being their janitor. It was not a glorious position or very high pay, but with the flexible hours and being right behind his home, he thought it would work well. That was two years ago, and Frank had gotten accustomed to the church’s needs and become pretty good at being a janitor/handyman in that short time, so much so that people in the church would even ask him to help fix things at their own homes.

Frank’s mother had always insisted he work hard no matter what he did – to give his best. He had worked very hard at being a janitor, and whenever he came across a problem he did not know how to handle, he became obsessed with solving it.

The day the furnace stopped working Frank became obsessed with finding the answer to its problem. He looked through all the troubleshooting books he could find, checked online and even called the local dealer to ask some pointed questions. Nowhere could he find a solution to the problem. The unit stopped working and would not function. All the parts were where they were supposed to be and in working order. All the wires were in proper order. Electricity was flowing throughout the unit, but it simply would not work.

Later that night while working in the basement, he disconnected the heating unit, and moved it away from the wall. He thought a full visual check might reveal the problem.

While scooting the heater aside, he noticed a strange marking on the rear wall. It looked like a child’s drawing. A charcoal-lined knight sat on a horse overlooking an archway on one side and a gathering of little stick-like creatures with big eyes and sharp teeth on the other. The monster-like figures stood outside a tall tower and some stood brandishing weapons while some of them were hiding behind crudely drawn trees with stick-like spears and swords at the ready.

Curious, he got on his knees and leaned forward. He thought it weird that such a simple drawing could evoke such an appearance of movement and life, but he could vividly imagine hearing their taunting jeers and hatred from far away. He reached out, brushing his hand against the knight’s black helmet, and felt a strange electric coldness rush up his arm, briefly numbing it up to the shoulder.

Startled, he jerked and stared at the drawing. Nothing had changed, but his entire body felt odd. He looked down and around the room to make sure no voltage was connected to the wall. Seeing it was clear he shrugged, thinking this artwork must somehow be connected to the problem with the heater.

Leaning closer to the drawing, he purposely, yet timidly, tapped the knight again with his forefinger. Again the strange feeling burst through his arm and body. He jumped backwards, nearly falling. The picture had changed, or at least he thought it had. Now, the creatures were looking away from the knight, and, though it seemed impossible, they seemed to be staring at Frank, spears raised, cackling laughter littered the recesses of his mind either from a cruel imagination or their strange little mouths.

Thinking he must just be too tired, he decided to touch a different part of the drawing. He stretched out and prodded the archway with his other hand. This time the numbing was much more intense. It felt to him as though he was being pulled bodily toward the drawing, and the room began to grow dark. His breathing became labored. He knew he would pass out if he didn’t do something quickly. He threw himself away from the wall, landing ungracefully against the heating unit, and slightly denting its side.

“Okay,” he said to himself, “I’m sure I didn’t have a beer before I came down here.”

Remembering it was late, he found it to be an excellent excuse to leave and not pursue the heating problem since he had a couple of days until Sunday anyway, and he really wanted to avoid this sudden weirdness. Rubbing his shoulder which still felt somewhat numb, he left his tools where they were, locked up and crossed through the garden behind the church and went home.

Tales

More About the Mouse

Jun2nd
2012 Leave a Comment Written by Father

I didn’t write more soon.

But I am writing more.

I finished the book The Mouse and His Child by Russell Hoban. I loved it.

Having been separated from that book for thirty years and having grown into a fairly well-educated adult and father, I can see so many areas the book must have touched my life through planting seeds and dreams. I did not feel as though the book was beneath me, though its meta-narrative and under-pinning worldview seemed to be much more apparent than I could remember them being when I was a child.

While not very subtle with its philosophical intentions, the book draws the reader into the story. I’m not sure if the author intended this or not, but the very approachability of the story seems to follow the evolution of the Mouse who struggles with becoming something other (or perhaps greater) than as whom he begins the story. At first the Mouse is very set in his ways and somewhat aloof. The writing in the early chapters tends not to demand the reader’s attention as much as it does later in the book as the Mouse grabs on more fiercely to his own independence and life. By the end of the book, the Mouse and the story become very difficult to leave, as a piece of art and as a story.

My heart fell when I found what I thought was that incredible moment with the dog food can reduced to a little over a couple of paragraphs in the second chapter. Fortunately, I found much later that all I had remembered was fulfilled in a later chapter while it included much more than I recalled — much to my delight.

It begins with the main characters recognizing their lot in life and feeling impotent to change it, even though the desire simmers to investigate and question. Not long into the story circumstances change so that the main characters, the Mouse and his Child, are able to seek their dreams. It continues through their struggle to make their dreams reality, by fighting circumstance, doubt and very real foes.

The book provides inspiration to those who feel the pull to seek after something greater than themselves – to pursue a dream and a longed-for future. While not overtly Christian, the book does include elements of life, death and rebirth, sin, repentance and forgiveness and would fit pretty well into a familial study. It does get rather violent and even scary at times, but I think the themes are more than tame enough for pre-teens. It’s a good starting place for many philosophical and moral discussions.

If you have a chance to read this little gem, please take the time. You won’t regret this little jaunt into Mr. Hoban’s inspired imagination.

Book Reviews

Thirty Years of Infinity: Part One

Mar14th
2012 Leave a Comment Written by Father

Nearly thirty years ago – I’m not sure exactly when (either third or fourth grade, I think) – I found a book in my elementary school’s cafeteria/library during “library hour” and began to read it. I had never heard of it, but it looked somewhat promising. It was called, The Mouse and His Child. I’m pretty sure I devoured it during that hour; although I may have checked it out and taken it home to finish. Regardless, I remember a particular incident with that book.

Up until that time, I had simply read books for pleasure without realizing the enormity of their inherent power. Sure, I had read textbooks which taught me things that would change my life, but “pleasure reading” was simply that – fluff for fluff’s sake. This time, though, things changed.

I discovered something truly mind-blowing.

As I sat reading, I imaged the story in my mind. At one point, I became fully entrenched in the story. What I remember now is one simple scene that introduced me to the greater reality of stories – they can teach you about Truth while still retaining their fictions. The scene as I think about it now really could not have been as profound as my nine or ten year old brain made it out to be, but it has stuck with me through the years.

A little mouse had sunk to the bottom of a creek or pond and stood before an empty can of dog food. On the can was a picture of a dog holding a can of dog food upon which was a picture of a dog holding a can of dog food, and it continued for as far as the little mouse could see, always a smaller dog and can.

I kept trying to figure out when the progression would stop until I finally came to the realization that it might not ever stop.

Wham! Welcome to the concept of infinity!

Sure I had heard of the concept before in church or on PBS, but I hadn’t ever really considered what it meant.
This revelation of the immeasurability of infinity blew my mind – in a good way.

I finished the book, and thoroughly enjoyed it, but I soon forgot the title and could not find the book again. I didn’t really think of the book again until I had children of my own; although, I did often remember that scene.

Finally, a few years ago, I determined to find the book and spent much time searching the internet for more information. After a while, I figured out the title.

Recently, my wife, knowing my high regard for the book, bought it for me and the kids. They haven’t read it yet. I want to read it first.

My plan is to write about my new adventures with this book after thirty years. How have I changed? How are my perceptions of it this time around? What can I learn from it now?

I did read the first chapter last night, but I’ll talk about that later. In fact, I think I’ll take it chapter by chapter – so I’ll write more soon.

Later.
K+

Book Reviews, Life

When Amy Grant Broke My Heart

Nov12th
2011 5 Comments Written by Father

I remember hearing my first Amy Grant song, “Father’s Eyes”, when I was around nine years old. I loved her voice, but when I saw my first picture of her. Well, I fell in love, or whatever emotion a boy has for a girl (True, she was a few years older than I at the time, but that’s irrelevant.) Anyway, I was hooked, but as I was still so young and girls were supposed to be “yucky”, I pretended not to be interested.

I didn’t become a stalker or anything bizarre like that – in fact, I didn’t think much about her unless I heard her voice on the radio or unless my mom played her cassette of Ms. Grant’s. I idealized this young lady who was beautiful, talented and a dedicated Christian. She was what I wanted for my future. I loved to sing and loved my God. Perhaps someday I could marry someone as special as her – maybe even her!

As I got older, those thoughts still percolated in my mind – not that I actually would ever have a chance to even meet Miss Grant, but that I might win the love of a similarly spectacular goddess.

And then our youth group planned to go to a special concert – Amy Grant was coming to town, and I would have the opportunity to see her in person! I was so excited; though I played it off pretty well at the time – at least I thought I did. To this day I think my mom knew I had a secret crush on Amy, but she never once made fun of me or mentioned it.

So, I went to the outdoor concert expectant and hoping that maybe somehow God would arrange to allow me the chance to meet the lovely Christian woman I so hoped to know. I must have been about fourteen or fifteen at the time. My hormones were going crazy I’m sure, and my emotions were all over the place. Life was a roller-coaster ride from day to day. I could not wait at least to see her on stage.

She never showed.

It turned out she got sick and couldn’t perform, so her friends – a guy named Michael Smith and another named Russ Taff – showed up and performed instead. I was absolutely crushed. Do not worry fair reader, this incident is not where my heart was broken.

Several years later after I had mostly gotten over my Amy-philia, she released an album called House of Love which I bought and thoroughly enjoyed. It was full of love songs, and it made me so happy. It seemed to tell the story of how love should be and how it could be in a Christian life with determination and love being wed together in a life of a couple committed to live together in the Lord. Her duet with Vince Gill, “House of Love”, ignited my imagination and made me long for a wife while the other songs on the album all complemented and dealt with the issues of loving relationships.

This album cemented the idol I had made of Amy. Though she had married another singer, Gary Chapman, (which I still hadn’t quite gotten over) and had children with him, I accepted their relationship as a beautiful testimony and example for all men and women. I wanted her – well, someone like her – to be mine too! She was like Mary, Jesus’ mother, a holy, unblemished woman that stood for Christian wholeness and beauty. She was the nadir of Christian living. Two thousand years of the Christian world had brought us to the point where we had this enthralling woman of virtue whom the whole world could respect for her morality and talents as the preeminent voice of Christian entertainment. (Now, of course I’m being somewhat hyperbolic, but I’m speaking for what I now see I had done in my mind to Ms. Grant.)

I had made of her an idol of amazing proportions.

Then “it” happened.

You probably know the story.

My Christian queen filed for divorce from her husband and married her duet partner from the “House of Love”.

Again, I was crushed, but in so many more ways than when I was a teenager. This woman whom I had come not only to respect, but to adore quietly and ardently had just ridiculed my own convictions on the sanctity of marriage, while at the same time completely destroying my pubescent paradigm of her presumed righteousness. My “Christian” Aphrodite had become mortal, and worse, she had become (in my myopic vision) an adulteress – the opposite of the woman I had created her to be in my tiny little mind.

I got rid of all my Amy Grant tapes. I couldn’t listen to her without feeling conflicted and even rejected. Her divorce destroyed my image of female perfection in my mind. I had to quickly shove her music and appearance out of my life so I could make room for a new ideal of female virtue. Every time I heard her or saw her (on TV, etc.), I became angry and heavyhearted. In fact, I didn’t understand the Truth of what was happening. I thought I was mad at her because of her unfaithfulness and selfishness.

I am ashamed to say that it was not until very recently (several years later) that I finally had my epiphany regarding what Amy really did to me. In fact, I am still figuring it out as I write this note. I think I’ll probably still be learning what all it means for a long time yet to come.

Here it is, though. (And if I’m anywhere near a decent writer, I hope you’ve figured out where I’m going.)

About a year ago I read an article from a Christian writer who used to report for a popular Christian music magazine who publicly asked Ms. Grant to forgive him for some things that were written about her at the time of her divorce. The article got me thinking about how I had never “forgiven” her, and I realized I needed to work on it. So, I forgave her and moved on.

I went to the library yesterday and ran across a couple of her albums, House of Love and Heart in Motion. I really loved both albums at one point, and I’ve wanted to share her song, “Baby, Baby” with my own children, because I use it often when referring to them (my babies).

As I listen to her music today, I find some of that old pain coming back – that “betrayal” and sorrow. As I’ve been wondering why, I’ve come to understand some shocking things about myself.

Amy Grant never really broke my heart.

I broke my own heart. It was not Amy that made herself into a goddess. She never asked me to place her on a pedestal of Christian virtue. She never claimed to be the example for any Christian to follow. She sung of her failures and difficulties while extolling the wonders of our Almighty God. She was real and human. I was the one who did not understand. I caused the trouble in my own soul because I made her into something she was not and was never would have wanted to be.

The anger and bitterness towards Ms. Grant had little to do with her or her divorce. It has everything to do with my misplaced values. I defined concepts of Christianity through a fanciful imagination of what one person seemed to be – not the reality of the Triune God.

When we look to humans to be our gods, we find only trouble for ourselves. I never intended, and up until now, I never would have thought that I had put her in such an exalted position in my life, but I had, and I did.

Amy is still the same person she has always been – or at least I assume she hasn’t changed much, not many people do. I’ve never met her, and I doubt I ever will. She’s on the same journey as I. Just like me, she’s a flawed and frail person with mistakes and sorrows of her own.

Sometimes we put people in places they have no right to be. Only the True God can be the paragon of virtue and righteousness. Only God shines for us as that perfect example of love and morality. We must keep our eyes firmly fixed on our heavenly Father and seek Him at all times, or we will get lost in self-indulgence, selfishness and foolish thinking.

Amy, I will always love you for sharing your wonderful talents with the world, and ultimately with me through the gift of your recorded music. Though you’ll never know me, I hope forgiveness will find its way from you to me for being so critical and stupid. You never deserved my condemnation or judgment. You simply needed my prayers. I’m sorry. May God bless you and your family, and may His healing and grace abound in your lives.

Uncategorized

Skyline Review: Invasion of the Plot Snatchers

Nov20th
2010 Leave a Comment Written by Father

Wow. I haven’t been affected by so many special effects as far as I can remember. Which after the light show from the movie I just saw is not surprising due to the flash-induced memory-loss.

Let’s see how many movies, novels, etc. can easily be linked to the movie called Skyline.

Let’s see…

Independence Day, The Matrix movies, Cloverfield, A Wrinkle in Time and A Wind in the Door by Madeline L’Engle, Predator and the most recent Predators, Starship Troopers, various stories by H. P. Lovecraft, Sphere, some Star Wars. I’m sure there are plenty of other ties and inspirations for this thrill-trip of a movie with which I am unaware – probably some
Invasion of Body Snatchers and the like, but I’m not familiar enough of the others to be sure.

I don’t know if an original idea exists in Skyline; although they do take derivations to new heights. As I mentioned before, the special effects are quite intense and fairly remarkable. The movies to which the creators of this film seem to be hugely indebted are Cloverfield, Independence Day and The Matrix saga.

Aside from its extremely derived nature, I won’t spoil the plot, but I will touch on a few things that really annoyed me with the film.

One – it primarily takes place in an apartment. While the directors/producers/whomever seemed to provide a reasonable excuse for cutting costs by staying in one location for the majority of the film, I found it at times to be untenable.

Two – The token black male bites it fairly early. This Hollywood trope has become ridiculous and needs to end. The black male lead truly seems to have potential in this film despite his obvious shortcomings (adulterous letch). The producers though won’t let this turn into a true take-off of Independence Day though, the black man must die in this one. Boo. Please, talk about a retread plot line that has become disgusting in its pandering. Just because the black male in the film is highly successful in a legitimate venture does not mean Hollywood is spreading the ideal of “equality” of races. I’ll stop now, because it’s just making me angrier thinking about the disingenuous treatment of race relations by mindless writing.

Three – The INCREDIBLE luck afforded the main character and his girlfriend as they miraculously avoid being turned into burning goo by falling debris stretches the believability factor so far that I almost laughed. Don’t get me wrong. I did laugh, but that was near the end of the movie.

Four – The end of the movie. I still cannot believe they ended the movie the way they did. I would like to say it was a big let-down, but I can’t quite say that as the ending was telegraphed pretty early. Unfortunately, it ended before it ended. Yes, that’s right folks, we get an inconclusive ending that leaves us with the unenviable plight of waiting for a sequel to see a real resolution to this cinematic booger.

Okay. Enough ranting. Some serious issues came through the film that may or may not have been intended by the makers (I’m pretty sure they were not trying to be very deep, but I came away with some deep questions and observations which I will now – perhaps to your chagrin – share.)

Skyline is about the end of the world as we know it. Bright lights appear in Los Angeles and draw people to look at them. As they look they are changed and sucked away, eventually, we find out to feed aliens. The fight becomes difficult and nearly impossible for Man to win. The aliens are taking over. It is simply a matter of time.

It seems to me that this idea of the “inevitability” of defeat is a product of the struggles in our political and social life. Socialism and its sister worldviews call for a global struggle against oppressors that seem all-powerful, to the numbing of individuality and the pursuit of group (i.e. species) survival. Arguments will be made against this view, as the protagonist’s individuality becomes the focal point of the climax, but his individualism is swallowed by the tone of the movie that proclaims the inevitability of defeat. Some hope exists at the end of the movie, but it is nearly indecipherable from the hell and horror that surrounds it.

The movie also proclaims a rabid agnosticism. Man is simply a sum of his parts without soul. His brain may house his intellect, but it only offers hope for a possibly select few who might be able to tap into something extra through the unintended aid of his oppressors. In the movie, though, no true justice exists. No external force for good and righteousness. Stuff happens, and you gotta cover your own derriere. Man has no “spirit” of himself except that which is found in the rare person who overcomes through the triumph of his will. It seems to be very nietzschean, calling for the uber-mensch to rise up and destroy the alien overlords.

Our culture is fascinated with destroying the concept of “God” and replacing it with the self-made man who overcomes all obstacles to his prominence. For them, and for this film, man should rise above all others, not because he is made in the image of the Creator of the universe, but because he wills dominance through his own desire.

If I were to rate the film, I would give it a four out of ten, with ten being best. I really did enjoy the movie, for the most part while enduring it in the theater. It was an overwhelming experience from which I am still recovering. My problems with the film come from its overly-derivative nature, simplistic plot, poor philosophical backbone and – as far as I’m concerned – terribly lame ending. I would not encourage anyone to waste time or money on this film, unless they simply want to go on a little mindless adventure that does not require deep thought. In fact, it is a better film if you don’t overthink it. If I learned anything positive from the film, it would be that the books, stories and films that inspired this mish-mash were so far beyond it, that I can hardly wait to experience them again for the thought-provoking, and enjoyment they provoked in me in years gone by.

Life, Movie Reviews, Rant

The Long-Forgotten Ideal

Jun17th
2010 1 Comment Written by Father

I love my country. I love knowing for what She has stood over the last 234 years. She has been a bastion of liberty and hope for mankind in the political sphere. Her beacon of freedom has shone throughout the world as a reminder of the promise of Man.

With all of her beauty, She still has a few blemishes and retains some scars from her past. Perhaps predominant among Her foibles is the nature of Her origin.

My Nation came to be through the commitment of men to the ideas of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness, but in order to be birthed, Her leaders had to rebel against their own leaders.

The Land of Liberty was born through rebellion. While I agree with the need to create this country and to stand up against tyranny and “taxation without representation”, the fact of the matter is that defiance to authority was the midwife in this nation’s first moments.

I grieve for my Nation because I do not believe she has left behind the nature of Her birth. Rebellion, defiance and lack of respect for authority pervade our nation, perhaps now more than ever.

Truly, rebellion is part of Man’s nature. One of the first words most children learn is “no”. That first time my own children openly defy me is one of the hardest ones in my life. Obedience is not easy. It is not what most people want to do.

This Nation has difficulty accepting the concept of obedience. It pervades our society. For the past forty to fifty years, our leaders in the culture have celebrated new ways to defy any authority. From burnt bras to crosses dipped in urine, cultural heads have proclaimed all things as fair game for defiance and rebellion.

The idea of freedom of speech has superseded any commitment to righteous living. Things considered sacred are intentionally targeted for ridicule and hate – because these purveyors of “personal liberty” prefer to proliferate a passion for pluralism, rather than perfection and purity. The most insane thing to me is that those who would demand their freedom to say whatever they wish at the same time mandate that anyone who believes that Truth is not multifaceted or multi-headed must be silenced, shunned and stilled until they come to the righteous conclusions of a correct understanding of cultural diversity.

Even though our forefathers had this inherent weakness in this nation’s founding – rebellion – they understood the need for obedience to something greater. They created the Constitution to guide us and form a bond with the people of this nation to promote equality among its citizens who would not be governed through fear or tyranny, but through reasoned discourse by God-fearing leaders – which brings me to the whole point of this article.

We are a nation of people who have lost hold of the importance of the practice of obedience. Nowhere in society, except for those professions which involve armed force, is obedience an appreciated trait.

Not only should our citizens be clamoring for our leaders to be obedient to the foundational truths of our nation as found in the Constitution, we should question ourselves as to whether or not we are being appropriately obedient to the One who made us.

So many issues facing our country today could be solved simply by focusing on the question, “Am I being obedient to the revealed will of God?”

“But!?!?” Someone will retort, “You can’t push your moral and religious views on the nation!”

Why not? Everyone else is? All the issues we deal with are moral. All of them have something to do with a theological outlook. Is God central to our thoughts and practices? Or are we more concerned with ourselves and our own thoughts?

Regardless of what “religion” anyone is, the core of the will of God can be summed up in a statement that is not only reasonable but foundational to all men. “Love God with your whole self (body, mind, spirit), and love your neighbor as yourself.” How can we get more simple (or profound)?

We must be obedient to these commands if we hope for a brighter tomorrow and a better self. Love is the Answer and the Key to Truth. Give it a chance. Seek to love God with your whole self. Seek to love your neighbor as yourself. It ain’t easy, but it’s right.

God Stuff, Life, Politics
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On My Nightstand


The Holy Bible (English Standard Version)

The 1928 Book of Common Prayer

What I’m Currently Reading


Surprised by Hope by N.T. Wright

Worship Without Dumbing Down by Peter Toon

Erasing Hell by Francis Chan and Preston Sprinkle

The Barefoot Church by Brandon Hatmaker