"No one ever won a war by dying for their country....they won it by making the other poor soul die for his!" - Gen. George S. Patton
The original sin was described by the phrase "I will be like the Most High"(Is. 14:14). There is a caution we must all take in our lives regarding this. The danger is that we fail to accept any direction from any source, becoming our own god and doing what is right in our own eyes. But that being said, I want to share what I feel is a revelation of sorts that I took away from my father's death.
When he began sharing with me his experiences and told of his mistakes and regrets, I gained an insight into him (and by extension myself). He told of men who were drunk with their own positional power. They refused to accept that another man could make a decision if it was not first filtered through their judgment. They could not allow a man to be a leader of his own home. The opinion was that the pastor was "the voice of God in your life' and that if God spoke it would be through them. This was contrary to not only what my father read in Scripture, but also his training and performance in a leadership role in the military. A good leader does not make his soldiers impotent. A good leader teaches them how to think for themselves, so that if the leader is not accessible, the soldiers can survive on their own merits.
The individuality of a Christian is paramount in our faith. The Body is comprised of many individual members. Collectively, we are a functioning army of love. My dad ministered to many people in his life. He did things for others who could not do for themselves. He gave land away, vehicles away, time to those whom he could. He sang and played his guitar in the solitude of his own home unto the Lord. He was no longer interested in being a "superstar" or a paragon of spirituality by other men's standards. He wanted Jesus. Pure an unfiltered. But to get that, he had to leave the confines of modern circles of religious practice. He never gave up on God. He just stopped worrying about being accepted by others. He realized it would never be good enough. He was too big of a presence. Too strong of a man and leader in his own right (as evidenced by his Air Medal for combat excellence) to allow someone who did not have the same qualities to dictate how he ought to conduct his personal decisions. That may sound rebellious to some. To me it sounds like freedom.
Freedom is not the right to do what we want. But the ability to do what we should. If freedoms are impugned, then there are only three choices: lead a revolt, change your location, or subjugate your own conscience. The only one of those three that is acceptable is the second. And my father's life reflects that endless journey. He finally found his rest on December 19. But his voyage shows his son that being an individual is not a popular choice. Men fear what they cannot control. And whenever men are afraid, they cling to power and use position to manipulate what threatens their authority.
I have spent the greater part of my life without self respect. I have cowered at the prospect of being rejected. But fifteen years ago my father showed me that things are not always as they seem. The last conversation I had with my dad, I was having to borrow money from him because I couldn't find work. I told him how I was trying and how frustrated I was. He knew that I had also felt very wounded by the apathy that church people exhibited towards us. But I did not begin to cry until he said "I'm proud of you son. I love you." Tearfully, I told him I loved him back. I didn't know those would be his last words to me on this earth. But how grateful i am for them.
My dad was a man who commanded respect, even if you didn't like him. At his funeral a friend said that all the women loved him and all the men wanted to be him. I went to northern Idaho to bury my father, but what I actually did was find myself. He WAS proud of me. Those weren't idle words. And if a man of his quality and strength respected who I am and what I stand for, then maybe I should start respecting myself.
The gift of God is that we no longer have to be beaten down by life. There is a hope. But another aspect of our salvation is that we are free. Free to use the gifts God has placed within us. And free to follow after Him without a fear of men's opinions.Great men help others become great. I hope that I can prove just how great a man Roger Davis was.
I am the son of my natural father. I am the son of my Spiritual Father. My life's goal is to honor them both if I can.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
It's been a minute, but I'm still here
"It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you...without a dope rhyme to step to." - EricB and Rakim circa 1985
I took a break since my grumpy little diatribe about Christmas. Five days after I wrote that post, I was awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night informing me of my father's sudden passing. Along with the emotions and hectic nature a death brings, this was especially difficult. Perhaps I will write about it sometime. For today, I want to share with you something that his life and death have brought to light.
My mother and father quit attending church on a regular basis back in the 70s. By the time I was born, in 1978, it was a major occasion for my dad to darken the doorway of a religious establishment. And a oneness apostolic church had a better chance of seeing farm animals at the altar than my dad. Growing up (after the inevitable divorce) in a single parent home, and then with an atheist/agnostic step-father, I knew about Jesus and went to churches sporadically. But admittedly I was unimpressed. I would feel the urge to go to the front and accept Jesus (usually we went to denominal churches or Assembly of God), but never felt the desire to become a part of the group of people present. I did feel a sure difference in the atmosphere of the churches my aunts and uncles took me to (UPCI), but were no more impressed to be involved with them than any others. I always found religious people (and preachers in particular) to be haughty and pretentious.
When I was 18 years old, I was reunited with my father after a seven year hiatus. We drank beer, smoked pot, and lived in the wilderness with only a generator to run lights and a stereo. We worked hard and played harder. But one thing that happened has forever changed me. We had a lot of conversations about why the family split up. We would sit under the stars of northern Idaho and have God talks. That was truly where the seeds that had been planted by my church experiences were watered by my father's love for God.
I had never thought of him as a religious man, but he was adamant about his love for Jesus. I had been told about his "calling" and how he had wasted his talents by living a life away from the church. But what I found out from him was a different story. He and my mother had been faithful saints, very involved in church and did their best to live up to the demands of pastors. The reason that is a plural and not a singular is that time and time again, when someone felt threatened by the force of my parents' influence (due to undeniable talent, intellect and personality), the demands from the leader would ramp up so as to bring them under condemnation. This was done by family members. This was done by men of stature. It was enough to drive them away. Eventually, the monotonous and persistent defeat at the hands of power hungry Napoleons caused my parents (and my father in particular) to surrender to the voice of exclusion.
Call it backsliding. Call it a survival instinct of a man who was a decorated Vietnam War veteran. What I call it is typical. My dad lived his life with a personal and passionate relationship with the God whom he had known in those jungles of warfare. He was not allowed to fit into the "church" because he was unwilling to relent his own good conscience into the hands of men whom he did not trust (due to character flaws he knew of both intimately and publicly).
The tale is not one of woe or bitterness. My dad did not tell me these things as an angry man. He told me them to help me understand him and his God. He told me, a young wild teenager without any direction, that the only thing worth anything in this world is to know Jesus. To know Him and to know His love, mercy and grace. It began my search in earnest for an answer to the question of who God is. I see, in retrospect of his life, the never ending anguish of having to sift through mistakes and failures and bad decisions. He probably could have handled the situation better and kept his family together. He could have been a better father figure. But one thing he left as a legacy is that no man can teach you who Jesus is. You must find Him for yourself.
Working out our own salvation comes with a cost. Personal responsibility means making your own mistakes and owning up to them. This Freedom and Liberty is what the Constitution was intended to preserve for its citizens. It is what the blood of the Cross was intended to secure for those who had no righteous credential to allow them a relationship with a holy God.
I will make another installment to finish the thought soon. Until then, I pray you are blessed with knowing God for yourself...even if that means you make some mistakes along the way.
I took a break since my grumpy little diatribe about Christmas. Five days after I wrote that post, I was awakened by a phone call in the middle of the night informing me of my father's sudden passing. Along with the emotions and hectic nature a death brings, this was especially difficult. Perhaps I will write about it sometime. For today, I want to share with you something that his life and death have brought to light.
My mother and father quit attending church on a regular basis back in the 70s. By the time I was born, in 1978, it was a major occasion for my dad to darken the doorway of a religious establishment. And a oneness apostolic church had a better chance of seeing farm animals at the altar than my dad. Growing up (after the inevitable divorce) in a single parent home, and then with an atheist/agnostic step-father, I knew about Jesus and went to churches sporadically. But admittedly I was unimpressed. I would feel the urge to go to the front and accept Jesus (usually we went to denominal churches or Assembly of God), but never felt the desire to become a part of the group of people present. I did feel a sure difference in the atmosphere of the churches my aunts and uncles took me to (UPCI), but were no more impressed to be involved with them than any others. I always found religious people (and preachers in particular) to be haughty and pretentious.
When I was 18 years old, I was reunited with my father after a seven year hiatus. We drank beer, smoked pot, and lived in the wilderness with only a generator to run lights and a stereo. We worked hard and played harder. But one thing that happened has forever changed me. We had a lot of conversations about why the family split up. We would sit under the stars of northern Idaho and have God talks. That was truly where the seeds that had been planted by my church experiences were watered by my father's love for God.
I had never thought of him as a religious man, but he was adamant about his love for Jesus. I had been told about his "calling" and how he had wasted his talents by living a life away from the church. But what I found out from him was a different story. He and my mother had been faithful saints, very involved in church and did their best to live up to the demands of pastors. The reason that is a plural and not a singular is that time and time again, when someone felt threatened by the force of my parents' influence (due to undeniable talent, intellect and personality), the demands from the leader would ramp up so as to bring them under condemnation. This was done by family members. This was done by men of stature. It was enough to drive them away. Eventually, the monotonous and persistent defeat at the hands of power hungry Napoleons caused my parents (and my father in particular) to surrender to the voice of exclusion.
Call it backsliding. Call it a survival instinct of a man who was a decorated Vietnam War veteran. What I call it is typical. My dad lived his life with a personal and passionate relationship with the God whom he had known in those jungles of warfare. He was not allowed to fit into the "church" because he was unwilling to relent his own good conscience into the hands of men whom he did not trust (due to character flaws he knew of both intimately and publicly).
The tale is not one of woe or bitterness. My dad did not tell me these things as an angry man. He told me them to help me understand him and his God. He told me, a young wild teenager without any direction, that the only thing worth anything in this world is to know Jesus. To know Him and to know His love, mercy and grace. It began my search in earnest for an answer to the question of who God is. I see, in retrospect of his life, the never ending anguish of having to sift through mistakes and failures and bad decisions. He probably could have handled the situation better and kept his family together. He could have been a better father figure. But one thing he left as a legacy is that no man can teach you who Jesus is. You must find Him for yourself.
Working out our own salvation comes with a cost. Personal responsibility means making your own mistakes and owning up to them. This Freedom and Liberty is what the Constitution was intended to preserve for its citizens. It is what the blood of the Cross was intended to secure for those who had no righteous credential to allow them a relationship with a holy God.
I will make another installment to finish the thought soon. Until then, I pray you are blessed with knowing God for yourself...even if that means you make some mistakes along the way.
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