Dear Porn,

Where do I draw the line between you and art? How do I know the difference? You are so subtle and enticing…confusing. You don’t care if I’m male or female. You just want my body. You don’t give a damn about my soul. Oh wait, maybe that’s exactly what you’re trying to do to my soul.

You gradually erode my artistic creativity and squander my time. You fill my heart with guilt and numb my senses. And so my eyes become cloudy and dark and ultimately opaque. Why is that humans with my artistic temperament seem locked in an endless struggle with you? Is it truly a battle for my heart? Could it possibly be true that every longing for your delights is, at its core, a longing for intimacy with God? Do I want intimacy so desperately I will seek it anywhere?

Why is it every person that struggles with you also seem to be the most fun to be around? And the ones that don’t struggle as much seem so cold and dull and black and white? Is there a correlation?  If you were around in Bible times, I’m pretty sure King David and Solomon and John would have struggled with you. Peter and Paul maybe not so much – they had other issues. Oh yeah, they were human just like us, we all have issues. We just like to condemn the ones we don’t struggle with.

How can I know the difference between beauty and pornography? (excerpted from Sex, Lies & Religion). “When we take off our clothes in lovemaking, it represents a revealing of sexual and spiritual secrets between lovers. Therefore the truthful artist, in depicting exposed flesh and the intense passion of the sex act, speaks in a way that portrays both a spiritual and sensual communion. In many works that overemphasize titillating aspects, the artist doesn’t show too much, but on the contrary, he shows too little.

When these spiritual and sensual elements mysteriously connect the artist with the viewer, there is a sense of satisfaction and revelation. The wholeness provides the viewer, as Luigi Galvani calls it, ‘an enchantment of the heart.’ But this is vastly different from the act of viewing pornography. The actors in a pornographic film are portrayed as partial rather than whole beings. In fact, once a perception of completeness enters the story (for example, realizing the character is someone’s son or daughter who possibly has been abused and coerced) it diminishes the pornography’s ability to titillate.

The pornographer causes the viewer to subjectively respond to the person or act portrayed only as a means of personal gratification. Creators of pornography sell a perception that sexual fulfillment represents the only value of a person and that meaning exists only in fleshly aspects. There is no opportunity to respond to either the wholeness or harmony of that person or to the mysteries and radiance of the sexual act. As far as the question of radiance, there remains no ‘all is right in the world’ feeling, or leaving a better person, or a sense of the lingering presence of true beauty.

Another test of art versus pornography is whether the subject’s nudity makes him or her seem more or less human. Does it enable you to identify with the subject, or does it distance you from the subject, allowing you to view that figure as an object rather than as a complete person? Within the context of love, a mutual giving and receiving takes place, leading to the orgasmic pleasure of sexual intimacy. Through intercourse, we share with our lover what is ours to give. This personal giving and receiving unites our souls so exclusively, that for another person to view or partake in the sharing of this erotic gift violates an exclusive communion. There remains no room for a ménage a trois.”

It’s important to know this ménage a trois can occur with three humans, or as a threesome between a human, porn and God. And we know what God says about that – He wants nothing between us and Him. He wants our longings to find their object in Him. A sensual God desires to know us intimately. He calls for all our spiritual and physical senses to be fully alive!

Not deadened and darkened and damned by pornography.

Sensuously,

Randy

P.S. I write extensively about this subject that religion rarely addresses, especially how to know the difference between art and pornography in “Sex, Lies & Religion”.

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Dear Rhythm,

You’d think of all people I would get you. I’m a musician, an artist. 1, 2, 3, 4, 1, 2, 3, 4…but oh no, I seem called to march to the beat of a different drum. An irregular meter. A swaying, undisciplined stagger. A mess.

Music is “spirit, but spirit subject to the measurement of time,” wrote the German poet Heinrich Heine. George Gershwin wrote “I got rhythm” a century later. They were talking about the same thing.

Rhythm is the way music and life is organized and measured in time. It is the structuring according to sounds and silences of varying duration, and the forming of measured sounds and silences into patterns. The patterns fit in a framework of beats.

We think of our life as something that moves. Rhythm is what makes it move; it is the brush stroke with which life paints. And the patterns and combinations of rhythm determine how the brush (and thus the artist) moves through time, whether it flows or flourishes or dances, or whether it skips or staggers.

Rhythm is also a generic term used to refer to any measured pattern in either sound or movement. The various combinations of long and short sounds — dots and dashes — that make up the alphabet in Morse code, for example, are all “rhythms,” or “rhythmic figures,” even though they’re not music. Think, too, of the rhythms of speech, the rhythm of the waves, or the rhythm of a horse’s gallop.

“The body is a rhythm machine,” in the words of Mickey Hart, drummer of the Grateful Dead. We breathe in a rhythm, and our hearts beat in a rhythm. Our every physical movement, conscious or unconscious, creates a rhythm, implies a rhythm, or is governed by a rhythm. It should come as no surprise, then, that rhythm composes an essential element of an artist’s life. There can be rhythm without melody — think of a drumbeat — but no melody without rhythm, without some notes lasting longer than others.

Changing the tempo, however, does not change the rhythm, it just speeds it up or slows it down. Few artists and leaders grasp this crucial scientific law. For every moment in life, the artist must decide which rhythm, in the context of the tempo and in combination with the melody, will be the most effective, the most persuasive, the most beautiful. Rhythm has much to do with how moving our life ultimately will be.

You’d think of all people I would get it. The tempo, melody and even harmonies of life I do pretty well, but this rhythm thing…I just can’t quite get it organized and structured. And I pay the price.

I am finally coming to realize the patterns and discipline of the great artists have a direct correlation with what they accomplish on earth and the legacy they leave behind. Now, if only I could sing in time with Gershwin, “I’ve got…”

Staggering,

Randy

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Dear Life,

You really suck sometimes. But then again, yesterday, as I experienced the Easter celebration, you seemed less sucky and even somewhat hopeful and vibrant.  To the artist in me, Easter represents an extraordinary banquet of magic, wonder, incarnation, love, family, spring, beauty, Eucharist, friends, music, flowers, warmth, comedy, tragedy, fairy tale, and hope.

My daughter Lauren has a life quote from the movie Auntie Mame:

Auntie Mame: Oh, Agnes! Here you’ve been taking my dictations for weeks and you haven’t gotten the message of my book: live!
Agnes Gooch: Live?
Auntie Mame: Yes! Live! Life’s a banquet and most poor suckers are starving to death!

I must admit that many days of my life I have missed the banquet. Especially the early days. Yesterday, however, I feasted. The celebration of Holy Communion at St. Paul’s was truly life-giving to me. Here is how I describe it in Chapter 11 of  Sex, Lies & Religion, “Through this Holy Communion with God not only do we become one body and one soul, but we are restored to that completeness and love the world has lost. We realize that no one is “worthy” to receive communion, but that life comes to us as a free gift. Schmemann says it beautifully: ‘Adam is again introduced into Paradise, taken out of nothingness and crowned king of creation. Everything is free, nothing is due and yet all is given…There is nothing we can do, yet we become all that God wanted us to be from eternity, when we are Eucharistic.’”

Can life truly be a sacrament? One definition of this marvelous word sacrament is: Something regarded as possessing a sacred character or mysterious significance. Alexander Schmemann in his epic book For the Life of the Worldsays, “Man is what he eats. We are hungry beings and the whole world is our food. Man must eat in order to live; he must take the world into his body and transform it into himself, into flesh and blood. He is indeed that which he eats, and the whole world is presented as one all-embracing banquet table for man. So, please help me answer this penetrating question, was Schmemann quoting Auntie Mame…or at the risk of being totally inaccessible, were they both quoting the German materialistic philosopher Feuerbach who, in turn, was unwittingly quoting the Bible?

Schmemann describes the sacramental life this way: “Lost and confused in the noise, the rush and the frustrations of ‘life,’ man easily accepts the invitation to enter into the inner sanctuary of his soul and to discover there another life, to enjoy a ‘spiritual banquet’ amply supplied with spiritual food. This spiritual food will help him. It will help him restore his peace of mind, to endure the other – the secular – life, to accept its tribulations, to lead a wholesome and more dedicated life, to “keep smiling” in a deep religious way.

While I take exception to two thoughts here, namely that man “easily” accepts the invitation (at least for this man it has never been easy), and secondly, the delineation of the “secular” life, the central idea is LIFE-CHANGING. Life is a banquet!

Unfortunately, I have the double curse of having an “activator” personality and growing up in the current Western mindset that more is better and that much more is much better. So, many days I tend to tragically miss this banquet called life.

However, as I grow older and hopefully wiser, there springs hope that I am beginning to understand the sacramental life. Here is a Facebook/Twitter status exchange from a few evenings ago between myself and a respected friend:

@RandyElrod Fun pre-Spring evening strolling down Main Street w/@spencesmith having intriguing conversations @55 South, McCreary’s Pub, and Vino at Village

@JerryBarnette You are reminding me of some of the stories told by CS Lewis in his book Surprised by Joy. It is a contemplative, sacramental life that you seem to be living and very uncommon in the modern stressed lives most of us live. If this is true, then you are an example of what Richard Foster says:”Far from being evil, the physical is meant to be inhabited by the spiritual.”~Richard Foster, Streams of Living Water

I must confess that tears welled up as I read Jerry’s comment. For you see, in this portion of my life, looking at life through fifty-one year old eyes, while still feeling eighteen inside, I still find myself asking, as does Schmemann, How am I to catch up with the life that has gone astray?

What is this life that I must regain?

What is the ultimate end of all this doing and action?

What is the life of life itself?

Sincerely,

Randy

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Dear Depression,

It’s five o’clock somewhere, isn’t it?

And when you don’t have anywhere to turn, then dammit, bring on the medicine. I suppose I’m just tired, but then again I’m too numb to feel tired. I feel as though I’m floating in a black suffocating vortex of debilitating weariness. Except that floating is too ethereal and too pretty a word to describe the hell I’m feeling. I guess I do feel. At least enough to feel…hopeless.

Hopeless. Tired. Numb. Numb. Tired. Hopeless. (Repeat)

Oh, its only three o’clock?

God, am I not listening? Or are you silent? I feel I can’t talk or hear you. Am I so wrapped up in my selfish desires that I can’t hear you? Are you not talking, or am I not listening? I feel so desolate, so depressed, so alone. I want to be John – not David! Your beloved -  not a man after your own heart. A friend, not an artist. I don’t want this freakin’ “restore to me the joy of my salvation” crap. I want to sit next to you at supper and lean on your shoulder. But no!!! No!

It’s five o’clock somewhere, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Is it true that the mystery of God’s presence can only be touched by a deep awareness of his absence? Is it really true that in the center of my longing for the absent God I discover his embrace? Is it true that absence makes the heart grow fonder? Is it true that filling my body with “the five o’clock medicine”, with chemicals, with too much food, too much excitement, too much sex (is that possible?), too much shopping, too much…of anything, will keep me from moving toward the mystery of your absence? Is it true that in listening carefully to my longings, I can hear God call out to me?

Is it true, like the Christian radio stations and books say, that every story has a happy ending? That you can have a terribly depressing experience in the first and second verse, but the third verse magically solves all the problems? Is it true that depression is just old fashioned sin, pure and simple? That I just need to “get right with God” and everything will be “my best life now” and that I really can “become a better me?” Is it true that the only reason I’m not healthy, rich and famous is because I haven’t “claimed it in Jesus name?”

Or does life just suck sometimes?

Is it Friday or Sunday? Sunday or Friday? Death or life? Life or death?

Is it simply coincidence that Jesus died around happy hour?

Randy

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Dear Approval,

Oh how I long for you. Your words are like honey on my tongue. You are a sumptuous banquet for my hungry and needy soul. I can’t get enough. I will go out of my way, forget self-consciousness, and even prostitute myself on the altar of ego, just to hear one syllable of affirmation. Oh how I need you.

But your words are fleeting. Like an cool aperitif on a hot summer afternoon, your satisfaction fades all too quickly. Like a breathtaking sunset, you bring a happy sadness. Your honey is like nectar licked from a razor’s edge, a delicious agony. But still I seek you.

I don’t understand why people don’t understand me. Why can’t they see what I see? Why must I redundantly waste invaluable time and constantly use multiple words to explain my dreams? And when I do so, no one says thank you. No one says I understand. No one says I see.

Why must I carry this unbearable burden of empathy? So that I feel a person’s excruciating hurt as deeply as my very own? And I know their selfishness, and thus my own. It seems a cruel twist of fate, this double curse.

My dreams intimidate. My empathy debilitates.

And so, I’m barren. I’m hungry. I’m…starving…to death.

Do my longings, even this insatiable hunger for approval really come from God?

Do you understand me? Do you feel my pain?

Do you like me? Do you really, really like me?

And tell me, is it only me that feels this way?

Randy

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Dear Pastor,

For misunderstanding artists and using them for your own ambition, historically and unfortunately, you are the most culpable. From the Pope’s mistreatment of the artistic genius Michelangelo, the “Bonfire of the Vanities” and the religious zeal of Father Savonarola, the iconoclasts, the covering over of “lewd” nudes in the Sistine Chapel, neutering the statues at St. Peters, and on through time to the modern day evangelicals who have removed all semblance of true art and artistry from their services. From time immemorial, artists and the clergy have been, at best, uneasy bedfellows.

Power corrupts. Fear leads to suppression. These two sentences explain much. The last two years, I have carefully researched religious history in preparation for my latest book. Of the two overarching themes to emerge, one was the vice-like control exerted by church leadership to maintain power. We have all heard the phrase, absolute power corrupts absolutely. Most artists are simply too free and wild to control. And so, the Pastor fears them. And then suppresses them. And because most Pastors are all-powerful (dictators without accountability of any kind) in their churchdoms, they simply suppress anything that would cost them power. It is politics at its finest…or lowest. Machiavelli would be proud.

I didn’t realize this simple truth until the last couple of years. The new breed of “crowd charismatic, no people skills” orator does not ultimately endear themselves to their parishioners. They seem not to even comprehend the word minister. Their people fear and respect them, but are not ministered to by them. And so this particular breed of Pastor naturally fears the artist leaders who by nature tend to be more people conscious, empathetic and “among the people.” Subsequently, these particular pastors exert control and censorship to make sure the art is propaganda, therefore eventually rendering it powerless. One pastor told me in a condescending way, “You know, Randy, you can’t build a church on artists”.

In my early ministry as an artist, I was forced by my pastor to burn my “obscene rock albums” and watch my vintage Chicago, Kansas and Eagles albums go up in smoke. That same pastor preached that intercessory prayer, worry and doubt were sins. Another pastor severely reprimanded me for a soloist singing an Amy Grant song that had the reprehensible words, “baby, baby.”  I’ve been forced to change true-to-life lyrics to perfect endings, been screamed at, made fun of, and once, my Pastor hit the conference table with his fist in front of the entire staff and screamed at me, “We will NEVER have dancing in this church, as long as I’m Pastor.” (Who cares what the Bible says, of course). And I’ve watched as the creative team was forced to plagiarize Rick Warren and Bill Hybels rather than create our own service programming. So much so, that a cease and desist was issued from the Warren office. Unfortunately, these stories are only a few of the many that are too painful to recount.

The sad truth is that many of us (and most volunteer church leaders) are afraid “to touch God’s anointed” and so the Pastor/Priest is never held accountable for his/her actions. Because of the fear and control we have been taught in our religious upbringing, we are guilty of failing to protect our leaders who are human just like us.

There is no intercessor between us and the triune God. The Pastor is not our intermediary, nor is he supernatural. He is just a human being like me and you who has the gifts of charisma and oratory. He has not been given special dispensation by God, or a pass, if you will, to do whatever he chooses to do. He will answer for his actions, just as we will.

We must support our pastors by challenging them, not revering and pardon the french, brown-nosing them. We must love them with truth, not acquiescing to their every want and desire. We must hold them accountable and protect them from themselves even as we ask someone to do the same for us. Absolute power corrupts absolutely.

We need these men and women to teach us Biblical truths. We do NOT need to give them power to lord over our lives. I applaud their calling to teach. I applaud their calling to minister. We need Pastors. But even more, we desperately need healthy Pastors.

My pastor, Pete Wilson, who is the antithesis of much I have written here, and a man that is comfortable in his own skin, radically transparent, and a lover of people and artists, posted articles on his blog recently HERE and HERE about pastors that deeply disturb me. Pastors have isolated and insulated themselves into despair and loneliness. A desperation they dare not admit because our religious psychosis demands that they are perfect. We have allowed them to die inside by bowing to an office and authority that scripture does not teach.

Could it be that we church goers tend to say like Pilate, “I wash my hands of this matter,” when in reality the guilt of placing them on a pedestal and expecting perfection is blood on our hands? Please understand me, I care about pastors.

This past February, I asked a pastor to speak to the global creatives that gather annually at the cre:ate Conference to help us understand the quandary and frustration pastors experience in dealing with us “artistic types.” As a former pastor for over thirty years, I personally offer “48 Hours of Solitude” for any pastor and/or leader that is a grace-filled, non-judgmental, no-holds-barred time of solitude and encouragement with the overriding philosophy, “what happens and is said at the 48 hours absolutely stays at the 48 hours.” A safe place. A place of grace and love. Nothing more, nothing less.

What else can we do to nurture a mutual love and respect for each other? As a wise man once told me, “The enemy does not necessarily strive to keep us from the truth, he strives to keep good men with the truth from each other.” This post like my most recent book is intended to facilitate conversation. To start us talking. Americans and especially religious people and leaders generally suck at dialogue. Open dialogue is often viewed by many pastors as disloyal and disruptive, when in fact, it could be the very thing that saves us all from heartbreak, despair and utter loneliness.

Sincerely,

Randy

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Dear Church,

You have not loved me well. In fact, throughout our time together, I’ve felt used and abused. You use my talents to get people in the seats, but then you twist and “spin” the art I create for propaganda. You abuse by using me without any conscience whatever – for you tell me, “the end justifies the means.”

You have built a great wall between the sacred and the secular. Delineating worlds that were never meant to be separated. You have created a gray vacuum, a netherworld in between, and so I am homeless. I feel hopelessly rejected by both the church and the world. In fact, my entire life has been misjudged by parents, friends, teachers – and now you. Of all the places I thought I would surely find grace and acceptance, it was with you. But, you have not loved me well.

You value cloning, not originality. You value imitation, not creativity. You value programs, not people. You value the destination, not the journey. You value the story, not the telling.

Do you think I’m stupid? I’ll admit to being quirky, absent-minded, undisciplined, moody, depressed, to name only a few. But I’m not stupid. When I question, with an artists mind, the literal truth of the Bible, and you tell me I am not allowed to do so. Suddenly, I feel as if I’m in some sort of evangelical cult. So, if we are supposed to believe the Bible literally, then why aren’t we baptizing for the dead? Maybe that’s why the artist Madeline L’Engle said, “I believe the Bible is true, but I don’t believe it’s literal.” This coming from a Christian artist who was condemned by the fundamentalist church in the 60′s for writing science fiction.

And why do I meet so many disillusioned artists who have left you? They haven’t left their “first love”, they have just quietly left an illegitimate lover who uses and abuses them. The ominous number of artists without a church home is an ever-growing indictment against the church. As Cyril of Jerusalem was once said to have exclaimed, “The church is a whore, but she’s still my Mother”.

Thankfully, I’m finally beginning to understand that when I try to group the church and God together as one and the same – I get in trouble. God is perfect and the church is not. The church is composed of imperfect people. They are two totally different things. Apples and oranges.

And maybe I’m an idealist – I am an artist, you see. For over forty years, I have been continually disappointed by the church. But she’s still my mother. She has taught me scripture, bible stories, and songs. She has formed in me a foundation and belief system for truth. And despite the control she continually tries to exert over me, ironically, it is the very truth she has taught that has set me free. And for that, I’m thankful.

Randy

P.S. If you like my writing here at RandyElrod.com, you will love THIS.

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Dear Friends,

To Sam, thanks so much for opening my eyes, albeit in a raw and shocking way, to the birds and the bees. By pulling out your penis in the back of the school bus in sixth grade and showing it to Suzie saying, “Let’s make a baby”, you were the first to expose the ignorance of my religious teaching. When I promptly blurted out, “that’s not how you make babies, my Mom and Dad told me they prayed for me and that’s how I was born,” the back of the bus grew awkwardly quiet and you hurriedly zipped your pants, and I didn’t really know why, but suddenly I felt like a fool.

To Brad, with one flick of your scissors, you changed my life forever. I had never met anyone like you. You loved music, fashion and hairdressing. Thanks for making me let you totally change my hairstyle and my clothes. It was like some sort of magical makeover. The next day at school for the first time in my life, everyone saw me. Not only did the most popular girl in school ask me if I could give her a ride home, but after seventeen very long years, I felt like a normal person. I still don’t know if  it was good or bad, but I do know I was never the same. You gave me the confidence to audition for Spring Follies and my life and calling as a stage musician began.

To Tom, you taught me how to see. As we backpacked together in the North Georgia mountains, you stopped and pointed out the extraordinary in the most ordinary things. Long before I encountered Thoreau, it was you who taught me the difference between looking and seeing. You helped me doubt my religious teaching in the most healthy of ways. Watching creation dance caused me to question why I was not allowed to do so. Seeing the wonder and freedom in nature caused me to question religious legalism and control. You helped my artistic eyes see that every sunset is tragical, a happy sadness. That its okay to doubt, its okay to be depressed, and its okay to be devastated. That putting words and music and pigment to the utter devastation of life is part of what being an artist is all about. Perhaps the most important part.

Thanks,

Your friend, Randy

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Dear Teacher,

Why does our school reward mediocrity? Teacher, do you even know what that word means? By the way, I learned that word and many more at home at the age of six from a Mom who cared about my vocabulary more than you will ever care. She also cared passionately that I knew the layers beneath the words. So that is how I have the words and layers to ask this question. Why does the National Association of Educators care more about their political agenda than my education? Why do they feel that leveling the playing ground for everyone is fair? Or even ethical? Why am I required to be in a study group with 3 people that do not give a sh*t (their words) about the assignment? Why must I be ashamed when I’m afraid to do the work because they will think I’m a sissy?

I would like to say thanks for nothing to Mrs. H. at Ringgold High School for teaching me zero about the art of Social Sciences. Do you think I didn’t notice when you came to class day after day unprepared? Do you not realize I have feelings when you act as if I don’t exist? When I see you day after day talk only to the popular kids and use my class time to plan the prom?

Oh, and Mrs. V., do you think I didn’t see the surprise and even disappointment (and veiled disgust) in your face when you called this seventeen-year-old into your guidance office and looked at my clothes and hair and asked who I am? And I ask “Why, am I in trouble?” and you say “No” and proceed to ask how could I have possibly made the highest grade in the history of the school on the ACT test when she has never even met me. And how she couldn’t understand how the all-RHS Mr. & Mrs. Valedictorian & Salutatorian made nine points less than me. There must be some mistake. Miss Guidance Counselor, do you not realize I have feelings like a real person?

But a huge thanks for everything to Mr. Thomas at East Lake Jr. High School. You taught me far more than history. You taught me (contrary to my racist upbringing) that a man of color can be brilliant, articulate, sensitive and creative. Long before our current President, you helped me realize in 1971, in a city filled with racial tension, that any American regardless of skin color can be anything they dream to be, IF they are rewarded for effort and aspiration — not mediocrity and laziness. You alone sir, four years later were responsible for my one point from a perfect score in the history portion of the ACT. You taught me not to memorize, but to absorb and absolutely love history with every fiber of my being.

Mr. Thomas, your creativity inspires me to this day, over 39 years later. Thanks for making dead people come alive and seemingly irrelevant events throb with meaning to the artistic and sensitive soul in me. Oh yeah, and thanks for the milkshakes to the five of us on the WINNING history team. Thanks for rewarding intelligence, effort and academic excellence. And maybe more importantly, for teaching me that the color of a person’s skin should be invisible, that it is the heart that really matters.

Thanks,

Randy

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