Sincere People Scare Me

Have you noticed that sincere people are very charismatic? Because of their genuine concern for whatever it is that drives them they have a spark. There is something about them that makes them seem wise and solid. They seem to have a direction and purpose in life that others don't have. We are attracted to them and so many people attach themselves to them and worship them, whether we know it or not. Their sincerity is passion and passion is strength. We are attracted to their strength.

In the ultra-pampered society of most industrialized nations many people have become complacent. We depend on those sincere people to be our teachers, conscience, motivators, mentors, leaders and protectors. Those people we are so attracted to generally do a good job.

There is great danger in seeding so much of yourself over to someone else. They are just people. They are just as apt to screw up as anyone else but when they do it, it seems to do more damage. If you are really introspective you may find enough honesty to realize that you allow others, particularly those passionate, powerful, sincere people in your lives to lead you. Maybe you even allow them to rule you in some way, after all they are so passionate or sincere, there is no way they would ever hurt someone. How could they be wrong, they are deeper into it (whatever "it" is) than you will ever be and they are naturally better at it. Therein lies the danger.

I am a Christian so I have nothing against Christians. But the Christians of this modern world, so blended with the idolatry of pop culture, the god of television and the pseudo-knowledge of science, have grown soft. In fact there is very little discernible difference between Christians and non-Christians. We flaunt our feebleness and celebrate our ineffectuality and lack of self control. We gladly give total control and the right to think freely over to our leaders. Our pastors cannot possibly be wrong! They are called of God! How dare you disagree with them? They are the shepherds you are the sheep! Remember, "Sheep who follow sheep get crap on their feet!" I used to buy into all of this. . . until the pain became too deep.

I was fortunate enough to see just how human my pastor was. No, there was nothing sexual! Just a lapse of judgment. A revealing of the total humanity of the man. He was not a bad person, just totally and completely human. Not nearly the man-god as I was taught to think of him. I loved him dearly, like a father, even after this fault revealing time, but I learned that growing up was a responsibility I could no longer deny.

It was a good thing really. Like when you are a kid and you realize dad doesn't know everything after all. Nor is he the strongest person in the world. In fact you may be smarter and stronger than he is one day. There is a kind of pain in that, and a kind of fear. At some point you realize you are responsible for yourself and your parents really don't shape you as much as psychologists lead you to believe. Yet the draw is strong, even as an adult to let somebody take over thinking for you. That is where these sincere people come in. We become convinced of their superiority and we conveniently give them informal power over us. We find ourselves becoming very religious about them and their words. Giving them the stature only a true deity should possess.

When they crash and burn they take so many people with them. They break so many hearts. Ruin so many lives. . . The weakest among us find another sincere person to latch onto like an infant to the pap, creating a cycle of childhood to childhood to childhood existence, never growing. It is true that sincere people scare me but not because they are sincere. The worship lavished upon them carries a curse. They become damaged and begin to believe they are more worthy than others. They grow to expect our unquestioning fealty. They begin to be dazzled by their own glamor and believe that they are, in fact, more, higher, better. . . infallible. But as scary as this is, it's the people that use them that scare me even more. The mindless zombie followers that encourage their worship and refuse to let others escape to saner grounds. What's worse still is the notion that I may be doing it myself. I may even over achieve and in the diversity of weakness ruin lives myself while still at someone else's pap. God forbid!

Christmas Communion

I decided to begin DeepKeek with an experience I had about ten years ago. I do this in honor of Christmas and the gift giving season. I wrote this in 1997 and never published it. The experience was mine and absolutely real. I hope you find some personal value in it.

The most costly gift of all cannot be found in fine wrappings under a tree, but beaten and bleeding, hanging upon it.

There is something special about communion service; it puts us all in our place. I remember being swept up in worship of the lord and tears were coming to my eyes as I realized I had no idea what Jesus really went through to save me. I have read the biblical accounts probably several hundred times, but the words were just words. I had no perspective to help me understand. I remember praying in sudden anguish, "Lord I am so sorry. I cannot properly thank you. I try and try to understand what you actually suffered for me, but I can't!"

Suddenly I was in a room far removed from the church sanctuary I was in just a second ago. I was standing in a concrete looking room that had a circular hole in the roof. An extremely bright beam of sunlight was shining down through the hole onto a pole that was embedded in the middle of the floor. The pole was about 8 feet tall and it had strips of leather dangling down from the top of it. It was brown and looked wet or worn, so did the straps.

There was some kind of straw or wood chips on the floor; otherwise there was no covering for the dirt. There was a smell in the room that mingled with the heat, something like sweet salt. I was just about to wretch when I heard a noise that started the feeling of anxiety and fear in me. Some very loud and boisterous voices were coming toward the room I was in.

I could not see the door they entered in through. What I saw was two men in armor with spears in their hands buffeting the back of a third man with the blunt end of the spear. They were yelling continuously, a string of curses and threats that cannot be written here. Then, one of the guards kicked the man in the stomach hard, sending the man sprawling to the floor gasping for air, holding his mid-section. While on the floor the man was hit repeatedly in the face with the spear-ends splitting his flesh and causing the man to cry out from a swelling face.

"Up. Get up dog. On all fours!" The man was trying to get up looking up at the guards through blood and swelled eyes.

"Don't you look at me dog, I'm god here! I'll strike you blind if you look at me again!" He hit the man hard in the face knocking him to the floor again.

I could feel the impact of the blows the guards gave the man, and I could see and hear their horrible effect. Every time they hit him, a grunt of pain escaped the mans lips, and blood splattered on the straw covered floor. Seeing this, I began to cry. Whoever this man was he was surely going to die from this beating. I wanted to reach out to him. I wanted to kill the guards, I wanted to spill their blood with the same passion. I wanted to show them what it feels like to get their brains beaten out.

One guard left the room, I don't know where he went. The other one stood his spear in the corner and went to the man who was retching and heaving on the floor. He grabbed one of the man's arms without a word and jerked it out from under him causing his already broken face to hit the floor again. The guard wrenched the man's arm behind his back and forced him to stand against the pole, back to the guard. The guard pulled over a wooden box or crate and stood on it to tie the beaten man's hands to the pole with the leather straps. The light of the sun was blinding as it shown down on the man through the roof.

I could not see the man’s face, but I could tell he was still bleeding profusely. It was already running down the pole to the floor. The other guard came back into the room carrying a many stranded whip with shiny pieces of something tied into the strands. When he saw the man tied to the pole, the guard cursed and said, "Not like that! That's not what I meant!" Talking to the other guard he said, "Don't you know who he thinks he is?" He hit the man hard on the back with the whip ripping his robe and back open, causing the man to wail in pain. "He thinks he's GOD!"

Handing his whip to the other guard and grabbing his spear, he walked over to the man on the pole. Grabbing a hand full of the man’s hair, the guard pulled back hard snapping the man's head back painfully. In mocking tones the guard said "Oh Jesus! Jesus, save me!" Stopping to laugh for a moment he jerked on the man's hair again and pressed his face next to the man on the pole and said through clenched teeth, "Maybe, you should save yourself first!" The guard slammed the man's head against the pole and continued to mock him saying, "Oh my God, do a miracle for me. Maybe I will let you go!"

With the butt of his spear, the guard struck the man behind the knee of one of his legs tripping him and making him dangle painfully from the leather straps. The guard began to circle the man "Where are your disciples now, Oh my God?!" All the guard could hear was the creak of the leather straps and the gasping breath of the man.

Suddenly he ran over to the man with fury red on his face grabbed his hair yet again wrenching his head back. The guard looked down at the face of the man and said. "I'm God here! That makes you an impostor! You aren’t God at all, you are Dog!" Hysterical laughter tore through the lips of the guards for a moment.

Still laughing the guard took his spear and cut the leather thongs that kept the man off the floor he crumpled. Suddenly the man got up and stood by the pole. "No, no, no, that just will not do! Assume a position equal to your stature!" Then the guard hit the man hard in the stomach, knocking him to the floor once again, gasping for breath. Then the man began to heave and vomit onto the straw and blood covered floor.

The other guard grabbed the crate and forced it under the man by pulling on his hair making him rise slightly. Then he tied the man's hands to the bottom of the pole and just got out of the way as the other guard wildly struck the back of the man with his whip.

With every blow there came a mock and curse, "Do you feel pain like mortal man, oh mighty Dog!" Then he would jerk the whip from the man's back making the shiny bits in the whip rip flesh and robe.

Again. "Save yourself Dog!"

Again. "Can you find it in your heart to forgive me Dog?"

Again . . .

I felt a tiny hand on my shoulder. I looked in the direction of the hand. The sound of cursing and beating and screams of pain began to fade. Suddenly I could see all three of my children looking at me with concern on their faces.

I realized that I had been crying out loud, and my face was wet with tears. I tried my best to smile for my children so they would know I was alright. I suddenly felt how unworthy I was to partake of Jesus' body and blood. Then I realized that it was the least I could do; to remember his sacrifice and tell others about it. I heard the Holy Spirit speak to me saying, "No, you are not worthy, you never could be. That is why he had to do what he did. You see, your unworthiness was never enough to separate you from God, nor did it ever keep him from loving you just like he did when he created you. God has never given anything to you based on worthiness, but based on his love. You see he just cannot deny himself."

I lifted my hands and worshiped. I worshiped in Spirit and in truth, not because I loved Him, but because he first loved me and He alone is worthy, He alone.

I thank you Jesus for this tiny glimpse of the suffering you went through on my account. I know there was a great deal more and worse. Thank you for sparing me, even that. . .

Have a merry Christmas. Jesus is the best gift you can give, and receive.

© 1997, Russell Johnson, All rights reserved