Church and the devout's misdirection.

This morning, someone I know for decades wrote to me. That friend said that she’d met an ex-church worker. That ex-church worker had been working for church for decades and said it was a wake-up experience. This is that person’s own words as expressed: -

"I came out of the darkest pit. I am no longer a Christian. I am a free thinker". 

Ironically, it seems like that person has found the truth, and it had set that person free, at least free from the “darkest pit”. 

After hearing that, my friend stood there in shock, speechless. Me too. I read that and it took a while before I snapped out of it.

I however needed to write this note this morning to set the record straight. And the record has always been that we pay the price when we mistake the Church for Christ. That is the price not of the Cross, but the price of a devout’s misdirection. 

This reminded me of the sad City Harvest saga. It took a trial of many years, and many lives and faith destroyed, before the leaders came to their senses and apologised. 

As Peter denied Christ thrice before he bowed in utter remorse, it took the head of City Harvest that many times, three that is, before he ceased all struggles and accepted the verdict. But by then, many, I believe, had come out of their own “darkest pit” and...well, became free? 

Returning to the price of a devout’s misdirection, we are all never too innocent when we are embroiled in our own church’s saga. I always believe that humanity itself is already a struggle to make ends meet, that is, to untie the Gordian knot of our own unmaking as we confront the common temptations in the different contexts in which they unravel before us. 

But when you light the match of religiosity and toss it carelessly into the rapid kerosene river of the mess that we are struggling with, that is, the hypocrisy, the pride, the lust for power and the ego, what you get is an institutional inferno that perpetuates itself indefinitely. 

Alas, truth be told, the church is supposed to be the bride of Christ. That much is clear. But this is one bride that has her own issues; some of which are deep, dark ones that seldom see the light of day. 

Let me nevertheless make this controversial statement, and it is this: the rise of a leader is often taken to mean that it is an anointing of and from God. That is another bold presumption over the long and convoluted history of church leadership. 

But let’s face it, the rise of a leader can be for many reasons, and for some, the predominant reason can be one other than an anointing of and from God. Or it may start with that, in the Spirit, but end midway in the flesh. That is, to me, is one of the manifest symptom of a devout’s misdirection. 

And for this sacred reason, it is indeed a blessing for a leader to start in His Spirit, persevere no less in His Spirit, and complete the race gaining the crown of Life, yes, in His Spirit. 

Let me return to my point about misdirection above, and let me ask you this: which came first, Trump’s Office of the President or God’s anointing? In my view, it is (most of the time) the former. The office of the President brings about the coveted legitimacy. And the anointing is therefore its afterthought.

So, by default, he or she who enters that office is deemed anointed, not the other way round. It is the chicken-and-the-egg quandary all over again. But the difference, in the context of a country and a church, is that one is an academic teaser, while the other concerns lives, thousands, if not millions of them. That’s the sin of misattribution, the close cousin of misdirection. 

When Christ declared to Peter that upon this rock, I will build my church, and the gates of hell shall not prevail, made no mistake about it, He is not referring to a human means to a glorified end. He is however talking about a Godly means to a Godly end. Any other way conceived by men is no more than men building their own tower of babel to reach not the One who created us in His image, but to reach the ones who create gods in their own image.

This is the mark of a devout’s misdirection. It is as insidious as it is deluded. For the price of the Cross is not in building the church for all to marvel. It is in the building of the temple within us, so that all could be transformed by the power of His name that we bear. Make no mistake about that, because committing that mistake is the allure of the pit that turns ever darker every time we tell ourselves otherwise.

 

Have an overcoming mid-week. God bless.

 

Tale of a delusion: If frogs can fly...

The tale below is inspired by the parable about Felix the Frog whose Internet author is unknown. Here is my version of it. Hope it makes you think.

Once upon a time, there lived a frog trainer. He ran a frog circus. People came from all over the world just to watch his acrobatic amphibians do their thing. They were trained to hop through fire hoops, jump over chasms, and belt out popular choruses. Well, it is not exactly pitch perfect, but the frog chorus always brings the house down.

Business was good in the early years. People were coming in. The trainer was making fast cash. His frogs were performing seven nights a week to packed halls. He worked his frogs to the bones.

But as the novelty faded, the crowd also thinned. After a while, the frogs were performing only to half its capacity. Most of his audience were attracted to the other circus acts down the street. The competition was killing the business. And the trainer was desperate for new acts to lure in the people. He knew he needed to spruce up the show.

Then one day, he got an epiphany. It came to him in a dream while he was vacationing. It came as an audible voice accusing him of performing mediocre circus tricks with the frogs. The voice told him that the frogs could do much more if they just believed more. In fact, the voice convinced him that his frogs could fly. The trainer could not believe what he had heard. Fly?

Before he woke up from his dream, he was specifically warned not to mix mediocre circus tricks with the far superior gravity-defying acts of flying. And he was assured that if he just focused on flying, his audience will return and his business will prosper beyond his wildest imagination.

That day transformed his life completely. He vowed never to allow his frogs to perform ground-hopping stunts ever again. They were made to soar and soar they shall.

The trainer then hurried home to tell the frogs the wonderful news and most of them were excited. Well, a few were at first hesitant but they were nevertheless daring to go. Still, a handful protested: "We are frogs, you idiot! We can't fly! Are you mad?" Undaunted, the trainer paid off the naysayers and he sent them away. The rest of them stayed for the next exciting phrase of their training.

The trainer took them to the highest floor of a building and lined them all up. He then fired the frogs up with a short speech about taking the leap of faith and off they went. One by one, they hopped off the edge with a victory chant - "We can flyyyyyy!"

Alas, one by one, they became gravity's victims. The sight was a rain of frogs like the plague that saw some of them landing on the road where they became road kill. Immediately they ascended to lily-pad heaven.

Yet those who survived wanted more of it. They were determined. They were still believing. They were openly defiant. I guess the only thing they defied that day was common sense.

The next day, the trainer brought them to a mountaintop, checked the wind direction, and fired them up with another leap of faith sermon before watching them dived off the cliff.

Again, gravity had the last laugh. The frogs splattered to the ground and some got their heads crushed against the rocks. They went straight to frog heaven.

This went on for quite a while. Every death-defying dive was met with more unnecessary plunge of death. Strangely, the more frogs jumped to meet their maker, the more delusional the trainer became. He became obsessed with the voice that told him frogs can fly. For every failure, every casualty, he blamed it on everything else - the wind, the diving position and insufficient height for initial launch. He just refused to accept that frogs can’t fly.

Weeks went by, and the trainer was reduced to just five jaded frogs – three of which were limping. Many had suffered their last jump to the end.

Before the five leapt off, they tried to persuade the trainer to return to what they did best, that is, ground hops and hoops jump. Basically, mediocre circus tricks so called. But the trainer refused to mix those lame acts with flying. He was still stubbornly holding on to the belief that flying is the new thing which would revolutionize the industry. It was the big break he had been waiting for all his life. That voice can't be wrong. He had lost too many frogs to turn back.

Disillusioned, the five kamikaze amphibians spread their hind legs, suck in their tummy, and bounced off the parapet. One after another, they flew away. But they had it all planned out. This time the dive was next to a river and they took aim of it. And one by one, they dived into the running river and disappeared for good.

The trainer tried to look for them but they were gone. His last batch of frogs escaped with their life to tell the tale of a delusion that has gone too far, an obsession that refused to come to its senses, and a belief that had costs them too much.

This tale ends with the frog trainer looking up to heaven, wailing in despair, "What have I done wrong?" Suddenly, that same voice from within returned and whispered these words to him, "You need smarter frogs." Cheerz.

I see stupid people.

When Haley Joel Osment told Bruce Willis ominously in N. Night Shyamalan's movie The Sixth Sense this, "I see dead people", I too had a similar experience. Only this time, I experienced a different apparition. For me, it is this: "I see stupid people." No, seriously, I see them. They are alive and well, roaming the earth. 

They are actually not hard to find. Contrary to conventional belief, they do not hide under rocks or behind locked doors. Neither do they come out only at night and retire just before dawn. They are not discreet about it. Neither are they ashamed of it. These apparitions walk amongst us with a confidence that shines brighter than stadium floodlights. They also come in varying forms and shapes, hues and textures. But they all carry something in common. That common thread is ignorance. That's what stands out in them.

The hierarchy of these phantom menace works this way: The more ignorant they are, the higher they are in ranks. The generals with stars to boot are usually the politicians, preachers, intellectuals and a fair amount of common folks (especially when they come in a group to form an unthinking mob). And the lower in ranks are distinguished by their age. The younger ones are at the bottom and they inevitably progress up as they advance in age. Some are even in the fast track to generalship.

Now, the politicians are in this category for obvious reasons. They are elected – mostly by popularity (because the crowd are easily sway-able). But the votes cast for them really have nothing whatsoever to do with how well they will perform in office. It represents a vote of confidence at present and not the fulfillment of the electoral promises in the future. The bridging of the gap (between the present and future) has yet to be tested. This is as plain as vanilla of course. Notwithstanding the brevity of political tenure (just 4 or 5 years or 2 short terms), these politicians are however compelled for the purpose of campaigning to promise their voters the sky.

They will inevitably claim that they know more than the next candidate. Suddenly, they are all uber-knowledgeable. They readily project that image of "I know what I am saying and doing" - even when they haven't the faintest clue what awaits them the next day after election victory. And because their perceived image is that of the savior of the country, and at the same time, they have to struggle to wear their pants one leg at a time, you can imagine how a complete red-flashing derriere they will make of themselves in office. Donald Trump actually comes to mind here despite his burgeoning popularity and the widening margin at the polls. Mind boggling right?

Then, we have the preachers. These are usually the pulpit slamming, Bible stomping personality "A" type. Nowadays, they usually come in the rainbow-colored cloak of prosperity and everlasting love. Somehow they seem to have the eyes, ears and heartbeat of the Creator of the Universe. And if smoke can get in one's eye, then these preachers are the apple of God's eye. The well polished apple type.

On stage, they act as if they are more favored than the Jews by virtue of the New Covenant. They somehow know more than every other pastor down the street and they freely claim that their new spin on the scriptures have got the divine endorsement (or divine head spinning). They are cocksure that their word over the pulpit is wholly God-inspired and any other sermon against it is simply God-defiant. They preach about heaven and hell like they are its regular tourists, proclaim grace and love like God is at their service, and clamor for donations and prosperity like nothing is amiss.

But the reality - if one is discerning enough - is really far from it. This is where their ignorance shines brighter than a supernova. Most times, their messages are practically one-size-fits-all, their revelation is self-serving and even self-indulgent, and their teachings give the illusion that they have found the answer to all of life's most vexing mysteries - when in reality, they have merely found a better moonshine to suck out more prosperity for themselves. And thanks to the suggestible masses (who wants to hear what they want to hear), there is enough moonshine to go around the planet and back.

Actually, allow me to drop a thought here: I have discovered that the more ignorant you are, the more you claim you know. And the more you claim you know, the more glaring your ignorance. It’s like a butt-naked baboon climbing up a tree and the higher it climbs, the more visible his bottoms become. And it’s a vicious cycle too because the world is hungry (desperate even) for answers; or at least a surrogate or an approximate of it. And the approximation can be a galaxy away from the reality or truth we do not want to face.

Most times, it's all about the presentation, stage presence and packaging. Because all that glitters is not gold, but who cares about the gold when the shiny stuff works just as well right? It is the same with hope. Not all hope leads us to the truth, but who cares about the truth when empty hope works just as swell?

So, I am back to seeing stupid people. They are everywhere. They make their presence felt - sometimes too close for comfort. And they are real - sometimes stranger than fiction. In fact, just the other day, one of them passed me by. Surprisingly, he raised his hand in salute to me and called me "Colonel Mike". Alas, I have unwittingly joined their ranks. I am the ghost. The ghost is me. I guess that's the same twist with Bruce Willis' character in The Sixth Sense movie. Cheerz.

The naked church.

I dreamt I went to this mega-church. It was huge. The attendance alone in one Sabbath service was about 10,000. The worship hall was like the indoor stadium with all-surround speakers, professional sound crew, and rows of cushy seats. Even the sound system with knobs and dials looked like the console on board the Emperor's death star.

Needless to say, any such service would be incomplete without the worship team, the choir and the music band. And in that mega-church, it was a rock-concert setup with guitar distortion, mega-microphones, floodlights, laser shows, larger-than-life screens, celebrity-like worship leaders, and backup singers that brought down heaven.

I have to admit that I was wholly impressed, speechless even. Then, after the power-packed worship service, which lasted for nearly an hour, the lights dimmed and the pianist played an enchanting number to usher in the founder, lead pastor and preacher for that morning. They called him Apostle Kong Ho. And he was wildly adored by his congregation. Not a negative word was uttered about him. Everything about Apostle Kong Ho started with an "Amen!" and ended with a "Hallelujah!" or "Praise the Lord!"

He was so endeared by his churchgoers that I can imagine every word that comes out of his mouth may as well be the same word that comes out from God Himself. And this is why just his presence alone on stage was enough to set my adrenaline racing and heart pumping like wild horses. I was all primed to hear what this veritable giant of God has to say. I was all psyched up like a pubescent concert groupie.

At this time, Apostle Kong Ho swaggered over to the pulpit to rousing applause and he waited for the blitz-like reception of cheers and clapping (and I thought I heard wolf-whistles) to die down before he spoke. But this is the shocking part. This is uber-queer. Apostle Kong Ho spoke, but nothing came out! No, seriously. Nothing.

His mouth or lips were moving - moving at times frantically - but nothing came out of the all-surround speakers. A pin drop would have been louder.

At this time, I panicked and thought I was struck deaf. I then quickly inspected the sound system to see whether they are working. And they were. The splattering of lights on the console were still flashing. The volume dials were up above mid-range. And when Apostle Kong Ho's mic drew near to the choir's speaker, there was the usual ear-piercing feedback. Even when his lips hit the mic, there was knocking sound. The only problem is that nothing was coming out. The volume indicator lights were at ground zero.

Apostle Kong Ho was clearly moving his mouth and walking around on the stage in animated gesticulation. In fact, everything about him was moving, in synch that is, except for uttered words from his mouth. It was the strangest service I had ever attended. I was again speechless just like Apostle Kong Ho was to me wordless.

So I turned my attention to the surprisingly rapt audience. I began to ask the person next to me this: "Pss, good message?" He smiled at me and nodded enthusiastically. The next person I asked immediately gave me a thumbs-up. I wanted to ask further but hesitated when I realized I was becoming a nuisance.

Yet, I could not make heads or tails of the service because there was neither head, tail nor body to it. It was a ghost of a message, an apparition of soundlessness. Imagine lip-synching without the minus-one tape being played out. Or imagine a game of charades but no one was doing the guessing.

The whole congregation was in fact nodding in agreement at the right time as if they had understood it, and some had even shouted "Amen!" and "Praise the Lord!" in unison. And when Apostle Kong Ho stopped moving his lips, the congregation burst out in applause. Dying to blend in, I too clapped but was none the wiser.

Essentially, everyone that day was getting it except poor old me. I was struggling to keep up with the charades. At the same time, I was flabbergasted by the incredulous silence. It was like watching a silent black and white movie of the 30s but without the subtitles appearing on screen. I therefore had no idea what was preached that Sunday morning.


After what seemed like an eternity of wordless gesticulation on stage, Apostle Kong Ho took a bow, waved his hands, and walked off the stage. He went to the front row to take his seat, and during the whole time, the standing ovation was almost deafening. I have to say that I was totally relieved that the strangest service of my life had come to an end.

After the last song and the third collection of the day, I went around to ask for feedback. I needed to know what they heard since nothing was heard by me throughout the service. Of course, I pretended that it was a superb sermon and endorsed it by blind faith just to blend in.

When I approached individual church members, they told me that the sermon moved them deeply. It was at some point prophetic, and at other point, revival-like - so they said.

On my part, while listening to the heap of praises for Apostle Kong Ho's fill-in-the-blank sermon, I was even more clueless – speechless in fact for the third time. How could sheer silence say so much?

I then approached a group of people to seek their views and asked, "What do you guys think of the message?" A cautious pause ensued in the group before one of them said beaming, "The part about Moses and his encounter with God was refreshing." That was it. That was a rather detailed description of a mute sermon. This was also where the group came to effervescent life.

Another dived into the discussion and added, "Amen. What touched me was his modern day adaptation on the parting of the red sea...isn't that God-inspired?" Another chimed in, "Such message can only come from God Himself!" At this time, a few of them fist-pumped the air and shouted, "Amen to that!" I again followed suit, still a little hesitant of course.

Then, I committed the unpardonable sin and asked: "Did you guys really hear anything?" I think my last question was louder than intended and everyone in the foyer came to a standstill. Their chattering stopped. All attention, mostly glare of displeasure, was converging on me. I could tell that they were immeasurably disturbed by my question.

From where I was standing, their faces registered "blasphemy". I knew I needed to do something desperate. So, I let out a churlish squeal and said, "Because I heard it loud and clear! God is parting the red sea for us in our trials and performing a miracle in our life!" The crowd burst out in a chorus of "Amen!" and "Hallelujah!" and some even sung familiar gospel songs to add to the incredulous unanimity of spirit.

"Phew!" - that was my immediate response. I escaped the social lynching. At that point, my dream came to an end and I woke up still reeling from the strange experience. Cheerz