BATON ROUGE AND THE BIG EASY

Sparky, Cassie, and Stubby at the fry.
(Click photos to enlarge.)

We did go to the Mormon-sponsored fish fry, and I will admit: the Mormons can fry fish. Sparky is ever infiltrating various religious persuasions, bringing them truth incrementally. He met these Mormons while helping them with construction projects. Sparky calls himself “Special-Ops.” God drops him behind enemy lines, and he picks people off (and ticks them off) one at a time. 

Spark told this Mormon kid I was
"looking into the Mormon religion."
I could have pounded him.

Sparky and Cassie are a unique pair. She is twenty years his junior. Age makes no difference here, because here is a union of common souls. As Sparky says, “Brilliant calls unto brilliant.” It’s no exaggeration. Love also calls unto love; love is boundless and  insists on defining itself. Who would care to stop its momentum?

After the fry, we went to the beach just off a pretty town park, to dabble in a little salt water.

Leo’s is a fun place to eat in Ocean Springs. We got some wings and drinks in the dining area half in and half out of the warm spring air.  

Arriving home, I had to start thinking about the next morning’s talk in Baton Rouge. I studied and wrote a little in bed (“on the air mattress”) before turning in. I was feeling pretty darn good about everything.

Bridge off Ocean Springs.

This French guy first explored the region about
300 years ago. He doesn't move much now.

Looking out onto the Gulf.

Baby bird at Leo's in Ocean Springs.

Cassie peeks through the wooden napkin holder.

Zender looks off.

Sheldon looks in.

                                                     BATON ROUGE

In the morning, it was off to Baton Rouge. On the way, thank goodness, we picked up Cassie’s mother, Maureen. I say “Thank Goodness,” because I really liked Maureen. It was like when Ringo finally joined the Beatles. Now, our little evangelistic group was complete: Sparky, Cassie, me, Sheldon, Maureen. Oh, and Stubby. Nothing happens quite as it should without Stubby.

I wish I’d taken more photos at Abiding Hope Fellowship in Baton Rouge, but I was too much in the moment. It was the same deal here as elsewhere: Fellow members of the body of Christ understand one another upon contact. You shake hands, hug; everybody gets it. Still, you want to bring them a message making Christ even more alive.

Thomas Kissinger's wife Sarah.

I spoke to them about our freedom from sin, and how it thrives in the face of sin. This is one of my favorite things to tell people. It never fails to move people; folks don’t often think the way of freedom. Bondage dies hard, even among seasoned spiritual veterans. We all have leftover “stuff.” Even I, Martin Zender, had leftover stuff before meeting Clyde Pilkington. I have since felt bricks falling off a religious wall I didn’t know existed. I guess you would call it, “Leftover Catholicism.” For these folks, I suppose it would be  leftover Pentecostalism. After all, this is the land of Jimmy Swaggart.

I never feel to raise my arms for Jesus in public. I rarely do in private, but it happens. Mainly, for me, it’s an awareness of the abiding presence of God. Everything is always raised inside me for Him, aware, so thrusting out the arms seems redundant. This is why I’m rarely moved to do it. But if the movement comes, I will do it. I’ll do whatever I feel, because living in me is Christ. If I don’t feel, well—living in me is Christ.

Cassie and her mother, Maureen

David is the pastor (I’m sorry I don’t know his last name), and the assistant pastor is Thomas Kissinger, who writes books, including The Glory of God, and the Honor of Kings. I loved the spirit of these two men of God. Great and glorious, so simple, so true. After all, look at what they are doing: believing God in the middle of Satanic worship. Satan worship in Louisiana comes in three forms here: 1) Catholicism, 2) Jimmy Swaggart Ministries, 3) Voodoo.   

I don’t mean to be harsh, but the funky magic of bloody, scarred, headless-chicken-death-entities is to be preferred over the teaching that God Almighty and His Son, Jesus Christ, will oversee the eternal torture of billions of Their creatures. I am sorry to have to say that. I wish it were different, but it’s not. I'm not saying Jimmy isn't a good man. He is. But he's teaching a false gospel that is so false, words can barely describe it.

The remedy to all this is the truth of the cross of Christ, the gospel of Paul, and the Word of God, correctly cut, correctly translated, and boldly articulated.

Martin Zender, Thomas Kissinger, Tom "Sparky" Purcell.

Thomas told me to speak between 30-40 minutes. That’s my usual, anyway. But the people were drawing from me. Everyone was awake and hyper-attentive. I could just tell. It was perfect. It rarely happens that so many people hop on your ship simultaneously and ride whatever wave you kick out from the podium. I cannot help gauging body language. Sometimes it is necessary to ignore it. This group, however, was alive and kicking the whole way through. So on I went for 55 minutes. It was not too long. I believe in my heart I could have gone another 55 minutes, such was the pull of those loving people.

Milling around after the meeting.

I sold several copies of, How To Be Free From Sin While Smoking a Cigarette, enjoying several spiritual conversations afterward. Safe to say lives were changed. If this didn’t happen, I’d quit. It shouldn’t be hard to change lives if only you have truth and un-install all your filters.

There is nothing like going to the French Quarter in New Orleans after a hard teaching spell in Baton Rouge. This has been one of my favorite sayings for years, although I never had the opportunity to live it out until now. So the gang-of-six detoured off Interstate 12 onto I-55 South, easing along Lake Ponctchatrain into The Big Easy.

                                                 NEW ORLEANS

Since a picture is worth a thousand words, I’ll spare you a lot of reading by simply sharing my photos from New Orleans and the French Quarter. I will give you one word: Spectacular.

Meeting Mary Cage on the way to New Orleans.
To hear this story, click on Show 102 from the
Martin Zender/Dan Sheridan Show.

The Superdome, as seen through Sparky's windshield wiper.

Vintage French Quarter.

Down the sidewalk.

Jeanne d'Arc

Stubby needs help.

The Jazz capital.

Street band.

House of Voodoo.

And its wares.

Here comes the rain; Bourbon Street.

Aftermath.

On the sidewalk.

Self portrait.

Whose mama?

Sheldon at Tropical Isle; Bourbon Street.

New Orleans is famous for the Hand Grenade,
"the strongest drink on the French Quarter."
Don't worry; there's hardly any alcohol in it.

These people invented the Hand Grenade.
Unfortunately, they forgot the alcohol.

Amazon keeps watch over Tropical Isle. Fine by me.

This is where you sit.

Sheldon and me, inside Tropical Isle.

Saints outside the window.

Sin is rarely where people expect to find it. Jesus would have hung out in New Orleans and loved it. The people would have loved Him. When it was time to die, He would have headed over to Jimmy Swaggart Ministries and preached the success of His cross.

He would have found respite at Sparky’s house, I know that.

© 2013 by Martin Zender

DOWN TO MISSISSIPPI

Really? That's new.

God doesn’t go as the crow flies, and neither does United Airlines. My day yesterday started in Johnstown, PA. We took off, flew for ten minutes at an altitude of 5,000 feet (barely clearing some very tall trees), and landed in Altoona, PA. There, three people got off, and three people got on.

So it was a wash.

Even though I had just received the information in Johnstown, I once again had to learn, from a trained professional working from a script, how to fasten and unfasten my seatbelt. I paid close attention, just in case there was something I’d missed all these years.

There wasn’t.

From there, all 18 of us flew to Dulles International Airport, in Washington. So far, the general direction of my journey was not south, but rather north and east. This was remarkable, seeing as though Gulfport, Mississippi, my destination for the day, is about as south as one can get in this country. 

I wish.

A man I know asked God for revelation. The Ruler of the Universe sent him into the World Wide Church of God (a cult) for ten years. Only then, after ten years of bondage, did He show him truth. Did God answer the man's prayer? Yes, just not directly. Why would God do something like that? God is in the business of setting up contrasts. Without the contrast of spiritual bondage, the revelations of grace never really stun us. So God is doing this for us, not to us.

The same cannot be said for United Airlines.

I have some great news for you. En route from Washington D.C. to Houston (What? You thought I would go directly to Gulfport, Mississippi, from Washington, D.C.?), I wrote eight new “Crack O’ Dawn Report” scripts. That’s right, folks. I had decided—as I was circling the 21-laps-to-the-mile indoor track at the YMCA on Thursday afternoon (I believe the revelation occurred on lap 88 of 126)—that that my heart’s desire was to resurrect the show everyone tells me they miss.   

Self-portrait; Houston Intercontinental Airport.
Friday, April 26, 2013. (Click photos to enlarge.)

Stay tuned for more details.

Anyway, after three lovely hours in Houston (no tongue in cheek there; I'm generally happy wherever God places me), I took off for Gulfport—this time arriving there.

Sparky (Tom) Purcell, two of his sons, and his wife Cassie, met me at the airport. What a lovely family. We dropped Jake off at his aunt’s for the weekend, and off the rest of us went to Shaggy’s, in Biloxi, a hip little eatery right on the beach—the Gulf of Mexico beach, that is.

It was dark by the time we get there. A full moon glowed upon the black, rippling waters of the gulf. I love water. I love heat. The moon, I can tolerate. Palm trees, however, do it for me every time.

Sparky and Cassie at Shaggy's.

"Stubby" at Shaggy's. I have really taken to this kid,
and vice-versa. ("Stubby" is his nickname. I will
get his real name to you forthwith.)

Your's Truly, laid back at Shaggy's. The Gulf of Mexico
is back there somewhere. 

Enjoying good fellowship here today. Rumor has it we are going to a fish fry this afternoon put on by a group of Mormons. Sparky asked me, “Do you mind eating fish cooked by heathen?”

I said, “Nope.”

(... to be continued ...)

© 2013 by Martin Zender

MY THREE SONS

Gabe, Paul, Luke; Norwalk, OH; 1993
(Click photos to enlarge.)

I have three sons: Gabe, Luke, and Paul. People ask me how old they are, and I have not much of an idea. I can come within three years, generally. What I know for sure is the years they were born. It is easy to remember these numbers, because the numbers never change. Gabe was always born in 1986, Luke in 1988, and Paul in 1992. “If you really want to know how old my sons are,” I tell questioners, “you will have to take it from the birth years and do the math yourself. Sorry about that.” Surprisingly, most of them do the math. I then find out from these people how old my sons are—and promptly forget it.

Gabe works in Columbus, OH, for a telephone company; his passion is music; he’s a writer and performer. Luke is in China for the second year in a row, teaching young people conversational English; he teaches yoga in his spare time. Paul attends Ohio Wesleyan University in Delaware, OH, where, as a sophomore, he is a starting pitcher for the baseball team (I guess that would make sense.) He is majoring in education.

I loved raising these kids. What a privilege given me by God. I am a big kid myself, so it was no trouble. It was hard sometimes, but no trouble. I always had fun with them. I jumped into their world, and they liked that. I was real with them. I looked them in the eyes and spoke to them like real people, which they seemed to be.

For instance, I never told them there was a frickin’ Santa Claus; I couldn’t bring myself to do it. How could I tell them about a frickin’ Santa Claus, then hope to tell them about God and Christ and have them believe me? This doesn’t mean we didn’t have fun at Christmas, because we did. Marcia and I tried to make everything special for the kids, and succeeded fabulously. We did Christmas cookies; music, hot chocolate; presents. Why not? I know it’s a pagan holiday, but I didn’t recognize it as such. I sure didn’t recognize it as Jesus’ birthday. I just recognized it as a good excuse to eat cookies, listen to happy music, and drink hot chocolate. Why not? It’s the winter solstice, for God’s sake. The days get longer at that point, for God’s sake. What’s not to like?

With Gabe and Luke. Please forgive the glasses.
These were very popular 900 years ago.

I took my wife and kids with me to many, many conferences. They heard the truth. My sons know what their dad does, and have seen him do it. They haven’t seen me do it for years now, but oh well. It’s in them, so I don’t worry about it. Why worry? They have their own lives. God loves them more than I do, last time I checked. (But I do give God a run for His money and try to love them more than He does.)

Gabe and me; 1989

Gabe today.

Even though I loved playing with my boys, I was also a disciplinarian. Not a crazy one, but a sane one. Yes, I spanked them, but then I always talked to them afterward, hugged them, and cried with them. It served them well. Today, they are fine citizens. None of them have ever bombed anything. I feel pretty good about myself; I think I get a gold parenting star. But again, it wasn’t too hard. I can’t overemphasize how helpful it is to be a kid yourself—or at least still be able to think like one.

Luke and me; 1991

Luke today.

Baby crying is one of the most irritating sounds imaginable. Even so, I loved everything about my babies, even their crying. I remember putting my ear directly to my sons’ mouths, even when they were wailing loud enough to break glass and pee themselves. Their cries pierced my soul, but that’s what I wanted. I wanted my soul pierced. I couldn’t get enough of my babies, even the unpleasant stuff. I guess what this means is that nothing was really unpleasant. I was born to be married and raise kids. I loved it. It was my first calling, my first happiness, my first joy.

I loved changing their diapers, too, and we’re talking cloth diapers here. Yes, we were old school. I always put the kids up on the washing machine, and away we went. If the washing machine was running, it was even better. I always made a game of it. I had them laughing their heads off most the time, so that they never knew their diapers were being changed. I would sometimes kiss them on the lips while I was changing their diapers. They may be finding this out for the first time. That’s how it was, so there you have it. Why the heck not?

Paul and me; 1995

Paul today.

Today, these men are all my friends. Even if we don’t talk for a while or see one another for a while, when we do talk and visit, we hit the ground running as though we were never apart. They already know how much I love them, but someday they will really find out. I suppose this will happen when they have kids of their own, or maybe when they stand before God and see how loving God really is and that their dad gave them his life without wrecking his own in the process.

Paul and Gabe in Greenwich, OH.

Luke in Bangkok.

Luke with woman.

Gabe with camera.

Gabe pensive.

Luke wired.

Luke falls calmly from building.

Paul with girlfriend Sarah.

Gabe in color.

Luke in China. You can see the
"How to Be Free From Sin While Smoking a Cigarette"
cover look. 

With my family, the day I quit the Postal Service
to herald the Word full time; October 1, 1993.

My sexy wife Marcia on our 10th anniversary;
October 15, 1992.