Friday, January 11, 2013

STEELER NATION, DISPLACED


(Before I get started on my rant of the day, stay tuned tomorrow for a detailed report on the three guests we received Wednesday from Sarasota; the spiritual discussion was so rich. Also, tomorrow afternoon is our big meeting here, which I’ll blog on Sunday. Less than an hour from now, I’m heading down to Miami with a woman named Mary Ellen, who will show me “Little Havana” and other sites of a city I’ve never explored. Plan on lots of photos from there, probably Monday. Okay, now I can relay to you something that has been weighing heavily upon my heart.)  

Back in western Pennsylvania, everyone is a Pittsburgh Steelers fan. It isn’t that I don’t like the Pittsburgh Steelers, it’s just that I’d come to despise them. I’m ambivalent now, but back in the day, growing up in Northeastern Ohio, my family rooted for the Cleveland Browns—especially my dad. The Browns and the Steelers were more rivalrous than cats and dogs (big cats, and mean dogs), so I used to hate everything about Pittsburgh, especially the fact that they won most the time. I used to think Terry Bradshaw was the ugliest man on earth, but couldn't deny he was the best quarterback on the very same planet.

Okay. I got it. You're Troy Polamalu.
I live two hours from Pittsburgh now, and the fans are as crazy as advertised. To me, the ultimate sign of nuthood (besides waving yellow bath towels) is wearing a Troy Polamalu jersey. It seems that every other person in western Pennsylvania owns one, including women and babies. Dogs, too. To what depths does humanity plunge, I wonder, when individuals, born of God, unique as snowflakes, surrender their identities to assume that of a person with womanish hair whose claim to fame is: he makes it extremely difficult for other people to catch footballs thrown them by quarterbacks not nearly as unlovely as Terry Bradshaw (which is all of them).

Get a life, dude.
This jersey thing irritates me, obviously. Something about the Steelers themselves has irritated me for years, though I’m mostly over it, thanks to the realization that God is going to eventually save them, too.

So I come to South Florida thinking: This is not only going to be a nice break from the Pennsylvania winter, but I’ll also be getting away from Steelers fans for awhile. What a refreshing change of pace.

Oh, shit.

Then what happens? I FIND MYSELF IN THE MIDDLE OF STEELERS NATION! WTF!? There is a whole fan base in this town, all Steelers-crazed. But that’s not the worst of it, oh no. If only. Waylan and Regena are gung-gung-ho for the men in yellow and black. Where does this leave me? Sucking my thumb.  

I know when I am beaten. I am a gracious man. As they say, if you can’t beat them, take your thumb from your mouth and join them. So: Go Steelers. Give me a Terrible Towel, and I’ll wave it. Turn on an NFL Sunday show with Terry Bradshaw commenting, and I’ll watch it.

I know when I'm beaten.
But if the cute little pooch, Zack, shows up tomorrow morning in a Troy Polamalu jersey, that's where I draw the line.

© 2013 by Martin Zender

Thursday, January 10, 2013

TO THE BEACH AND BEYOND


When you invite me to your home and say, “make yourself at home,” be prepared for me to do just that. After a day or so (or several hours) of trying to behave, I will begin my quest for chocolate. You will not notice this at first, because my mission will be one of stealth. It is not that I couldn’t simply ask you for chocolate and you would give it to me. It’s that stealthing your chocolate stash, slowly away, is far more satisfying and fun for me.

I will not take your candy bars, for that would be too obvious. With whole bars of candy, you are safe. The best thing I can find (the worst thing for you) is an open bag of chocolate morsels from the Hershey company. I prefer the semi-sweet variety, but I am expanding my repertoire. Milk chocolate will do, as will white—as I have discovered here.

Yesterday, in the pantry—what unbelievable luck! After rearranging only a few items, I located my Nirvana: an opened bag of Hershey morsels. These morsels were of the white variety—not my favorite, or so I thought. I forgot how good these things were! My intention was to only pour “a few” into my palm, and eat them one at a time, to make them last.

Times ten, and counting.
I succeeded. In fact, I have succeeded ten times.

I am succeeding at least two times a day.

I think Regena will probably read this blog, and the gig will be up. If she doesn’t read it, then on a day shortly after I leave, she will reach for the bag of white chocolate morsels for a favorite recipe (a recipe for which, no doubt, the morsels were intended), and find a mostly-eaten bag. At first she will think, we must have mice, but then she will be unable to reconcile this thought with the fact that mice do not generally replace the bag clip.

Eventually, the truth will come out—though not from me, of course. Eventually, a realization of the truth will hit Regena, as the truth of the salvation of all hit her in 2006. “It was Zender,” she will say. And by golly, she will be right.

I do not intend to finish the bag. (I am presently unaware of God’s intentions.) It is my plan to leave the family with maybe six or seven morsels. Considering the hospitality I’ve been shown here, it’s the least I can do. The other option is to eat every last morsel, and dispose of the bag by stealth. That way, the family may forget they ever even had a bag of Hershey white chocolate morsels.  

I think this would work on Waylan, for sure. But Regena? Ah—she is far too sharp for such shenanigans. 

                                                            *  *  *

Mornings here start with Waylan, Zack and me outside, watching the sun rise. What a marvelous pastime. I am soaking it up as much as I can, because I will be back in Pennsylvania on Tuesday, where it is a little bit colder, with fewer palm trees.

Waylan, Zack and me having coffee two mornings ago.
(Click photos to enlarge.)

One of the trees out back.
The little lake out here is its own zoological paradise. There are cranes, ducks, and turtles. Twice, Waylan has seen an alligator. Yesterday, an otter splashed around the opposite bank. This morning, some crazy crane was in the palm tree over my head, squawking his greeting. I said something nice back to him. He was a cute little crane. Some cranes are white, but this one was purple-ish. He seemed very proud of his plumage.

This morning, I was out by myself as the sun was coming up. 



                                                            
                                                              *  *  *

Two days ago, it was off to the beach! Waylan took me to Deerfield Beach, 11 miles from here. It has been five years since I have seen the Atlantic Ocean, and probably 15 years since I've jumped into it.

I had to keep telling myself that it was January 8. It was just kinda weird and unbelievable. I could get used to it, though. But then maybe that would be the problem: you get used to it. But Waylan still hasn't “gotten used to it,” in this sense. He is still thrilled, every day, about the beauty down here. We were sitting on our beach chairs watching the waves come in when Waylan turned to me and said, “Martin, I love the ocean.”

I gotta say, I like it myself.

(Click photos to enlarge.)
January frickin' 8th.





Waylan and I took to the water for thirty minutes of body-surfing. The air temperature was 82 degrees and the ocean temperature was 75, so it was no problem diving in, walking out, and riding some waves back in. Waylan says the ocean is much choppier in the winter, so we got pummeled by some impressive breakers. I swallowed about a quart of salt water (by accident), so hopefully that will help my throat.

Just before jumping into the surf.
Beach hair.
                                                            *  *  *

That night was the Skype broadcast to the church group in Faith, North Carolina. I’m not quite clear on every detail here, but Waylan used to belong to this church, or maybe he belonged to the church that was the bigger church before the teaching of the salvation of all, through Christ, broke through the door and thinned the ranks. Nevertheless, the pastor there, Alan Hess, is going great-guns teaching truth. Waylan was a big influence there, and occasionally he will teach this Tuesday night Bible group.

On Tuesday, it was the Zender broadcast. The Skype video connection was glitching, but the audio streamed perfectly. Waylan, Regina, and Josh and Ashley were here in Coral Springs for the broadcast, and there were about fifteen or so in attendance in Faith.

I spoke of the blessing, during this administration of grace, of believing without seeing. The Circumcision is all about works, signs, and miracles, whereas the gospel of the Uncircumcision is all about not seeing things, but rather being strong in the midst of infirmity, and conquering in spite of the disadvantages of flesh. In this era, what pleases God the most is faith. And what is faith? It is a conviction concerning matters which are not being observed (Hebrews 11:1). If you’re observing signs and miracles, it doesn’t require much faith. In fact, it doesn’t require any at all.

As for the fruit of the spirit, it is not raising the dead, seeing angels, hearing voices, or miraculously mending broken bones. Rather, it is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, meekness, gentleness, self-control (Galatians 5:22-23). These things are most effectively exercised and manifested in the face of evil, oppression, and fleshly disadvantage. For more on that, see Romans 8:35-39.

The message was very well-received, and Alan has invited me down (up, from here) to be a guest speaker. Amazingly, the Faith, NC church—teaching the salvation of all—brings in about sixty people Sunday mornings. Who knew?

Here is the first minute of my hour-long Skype talk:



Oh! We received three visitors yesterday, who drove across the state from Sarasota to meet me and ask some questions. We talked for over three hours around Waylan’s back patio table, and the topic of conversation was important as can be. I will tell you about it tomorrow. For a sneak preview, go to today’s “Zender Special 34” audio show, titled, “The Greatest Manifestation of Spiritual Power Today.” Here is the link:

http://martinzender.com/new_zender_sheridan/Zender_Special/zender34.htm

I was so sick while making that audio yesterday afternoon. I had chills and some breathing issues. I was trying to finish the message before I really fell apart. I couldn’t wait to take a hot shower and go to bed, which I did immediately after, at 5 p.m. But this message is a testimony, I think, of how power finds expression in weakness. 

Thank God, I'm feeling much better this morning.

Tomorrow I will show you photos of the three wonderful people who visited here yesterday, and will also tell you what I found here in south Florida that I thought I was escaping in western Pennsylvania. I could not believe my eyes when I saw it.

© 2012 by Martin Zender

Wednesday, January 09, 2013

ARRIVAL IN SOUTH FLORIDA

Looking for Waylan.

As I stepped onto the jet bridge, I could feel the lovely heat already. Generally, I like heat.

Not only had I never met Waylan Dabbs, I did not even know what he looked like. Waylan told me to give him a call once outside, and look for a red Lexus. 

There it was!

And here he is!



(Click photos to enlarge.)
You folks would like Waylan. He is a “good old boy” from North Carolina who came to south Florida in ’07, but hasn’t let the “good old boy” get away. His path to truth brought him in and out of the North Carolina Bible Belt—into condemnation and death; out into the blinding sun of grace and life. When God’s hand is on you and His intention is to call you, He can bring you out of anything, even the Bible Belt. (Being chosen before the disruption of the world for the place of a son, certainly helps.)

But God doesn’t go as the crow flies. (United Airlines has become imitators of Him (Ephesians 5:1; see yesterday's post.).

I experienced the same marvel—conversing with Waylan en rout to his house—that I’ve always experienced with like-minded folks: instant camaraderie, and the sense you’ve somehow known these people forever.   

Waylan has done well for himself here in Coral Springs, to which these photos attest. He is branch manager for Crown Lift Truck. He has scored mightily in the dog department, too, to which Zack will attest. (Zack is wearing a sweater in these photos because, though it is in the high 70’s right now, Zack thinks he is cold. Well, Zack just went to the barber and got a Marine-like buzz-cut all over his body, so the poor pooch would be shivering without his handsome sweater. What a cute little pooch!

                                                            


Poor chilly pooch.
Zack strikes a pose, poolside.
                                                                          
                                                              *  *  *

Did you know that Waylan’s wife, Regena, did not always believe as Waylan does? Well, at one time, not even Waylan believed as Waylan does. Back in 2006, Waylan promised a not-very-happy Regena that he would “stop all this truth stuff,”—although Regena did not exactly call it “truth.” Waylan loves his wife, so he stashed his stuff away like so much God-porn. But then, only a few days later, a book came in the mail that might only be described as “God-porn on steroids”: Martin Zender Goes To Hell.

As Waylan tells it, “Regina said, ‘I thought you said you were going to quit this stuff!’ She was not happy about it, to say the least. In fact, she marched over to the waste can and threw the book in the trash.” 

“I chucked it in the trash,” said Regena. “I hated it.”

Waylan was grateful to have an errand to run, while God stayed home. 

Regena with the book she pulled from the trash--after throwing it in.
“For some reason—I didn’t know why at the time—I could not stop thinking about that darned book,” said Regena. “I was having a wrestling match with myself about whether to go and get it. I wanted to, then I didn’t. I kept see-sawing back and forth. Finally, I couldn’t take it any more. I told myself maybe I’d just take a little peek at a couple pages. Well, that’s all it took.”

When Waylan returned home, he was surprised as could be to hear Regina say, “Way (that’s her nickname for him), I think you’re right about these things. I think I’m seeing it.”

The date was July 15, 2006. The date is certain, because Regena dated the inside front cover and wrote: “Way—I love you with all my heart. Love, Regena.”

              *  *  *

Waylan and Regena’s son Josh and his wife, Ashley, came over Monday night. They were stoked to meet and greet the guy recently arrived from the great white Pennsylvania north, with whom they’d fellowshipped so much but had never seen in flesh. It was one of the warmest, most fun welcomes ever. Ashley literally poked me in the shoulder several times and said, “You’re real. Sorry. I just wanted to see if you were real. You are real.”

Josh and Ashley
We sat outside until midnight talking about God, and about all the new books coming out about God, and the many facets of God’s creation. Josh and Ashley are so in love; what a soothing sight. God joined them seven years ago. Centering them is the faith of Jesus Christ, met with a faith given them by God to believe Christ’s message. Josh spoke eloquently of a Savior who could not possibly have failed at Calvary. Hearing this soothed my spirit.

Everything was soothed this night but my throat, which seems to be getting more raw by the day.

What could cure it? Hm. Possibly a trip to the beach.

© 2013 by Martin Zender 

Tuesday, January 08, 2013

TRAVELING WITH PAUL


I’m writing at Cleveland Hopkins International airport—a strange place to be when one is heading to Ft. Lauderdale, FL, having arrived here from Washington Dulles International, having begun the day at the Johnstown, PA Regional Airport, with its five bleary-eyed employees. They are zig-zagging me across the country a few times before depositing me in the sun. It’s all fine. I’ll go anywhere. I like getting places, but the transit may be even better, attributable to anticipation.

I like everything about flying. It suits a guy whose realm is inherent anywhere but on the earth. Travel hubs slay my goose. (That’s a good thing, in case you didn't know.) I like airline wine and coffee, but I bring my own meat and cheese. Rebecca taught me about the meat and cheese.

I got a taste of celestial/terrestrial contrast a few hundred feet above the wastes of Northeast Ohio. Unfortunately, it was the snatching-away in reverse.

I forget that the sun is always shining. The amazing celestial ball never goes out. It only seems to when six or seven cloud layers protect us from its multi-faceted blessings, which some crazy people repel with sunscreen.

Descending into Cleveland from Washington was, as just suggested, the snatching away run backwards. We zipped along at 300 miles per hour for several miles just above a magnificent cloudbank resembling a white cotton candy wonderland, soon to disappear.   

“We have begun our descent into Cleveland.” Yeah, I’ll say. Closer and closer to the cloud carpet we descended, until finally we pierced it. I wondered how long until the gloom would overtake us. Well, gloom never takes too long. The light disappeared in gradients as the first turbulence struck. In about ten seconds, we had gone from heavenly glory to the gray industrial tundra of East Cleveland. Now I know how Lucifer must have felt.

My brother Paul

I do have a brother named Paul—the apostle Paul. Allow me to regress a bit. I spoke to Paul on the ascent out of D.C., once we’d gotten above the cloud ceiling there. (I know Paul is dead, but I pretended he wasn’t. I communed with his spirit, if you know what I mean.) I knew Paul would be happy with me. I was taking the same evangel he taught in Asia, Europe and Greece, to yet another American city. I said to myself, Here I go, Paul. Off again to herald the same message you heralded. You struggled to preserve it and pass it on, and see how you’ve succeeded! Two thousand years after unceremoniously leaving this poor planet, your words continue through the mouth and pen of a man on a ship of another kind, this one hurtling through the sky. I wish you could see how we travel now. The Internet would excite you as well; I’m sure you’d have a nifty website, although, like me, I bet you would have bailed from Facebook a while ago. Anyway, you’d be happy to know I desire to imitate you—your spirit, your purpose, your love for the saints—as you imitated Christ. Occasionally, I even succeed.

Ships of sea or air—what does it matter? Feet on the ground? Same deal. Either way, you go where the need is. From whence come invitations, toward there you go. Those who, on the other hand, shun you, just figure to yourself you’ll come back for them later—maybe way later. If any middle ground exists, you haven't written or spoken clearly enough. Called a deceiver, though true (2 Corinthians 6:8), the evangelist of the pure message of grace (the one that demolishes religion and human pride) seeks receptive ears, though he is not averse to brief incursions into the land of the deaf. Depending on where one seeks “Martin Zender” on the web, I am either God’s gift to humanity, or the devil incarnate. Here at the Cleveland Hopkins International Airport, I am a passenger awaiting a flight to Ft. Lauderdale, Gate C-5.

"These are a few of my favorite things."
I love to whiz on jets. Some people avoid the lavatory at all costs, but to me it is spectacular—even special—to empty my bladder at 30,000 feet, while hurtling through the atmosphere at 500 miles per hour. My theory is, one may as well take advantage of some of the marvels of this life, before it’s too late.

Did Paul take arcing leaks off the bows of ships? I can’t see it any other way.   

© 2013 by Martin Zender  

Tuesday, January 01, 2013

TRIP TO OHIO, AND NEW YEAR’S EVE


As I write, there are about 17 people sleeping here. I am not one of them. It is 7:30 a.m., New Year’s Day, and so far I am the only one up. I went to bed at 12:30, woke up at 4:30, and got down here at 5 to answer some e-mails, write this blog, and work on a book.

The trip to Ohio was great. I surprised my two sons, Gabe and Paul. My sister Kelly arranged to meet them, along with Paul’s new girlfriend Sarah, at the Cheddar’s in Mansfield, Ohio, the town I used to hang out in. The boys didn’t know I was driving in from PA. I left here at 9:30 Sunday morning, and got to Mansfield at around 2:15. The plan was for Kelly to text me when everyone was situated. That happened at around 2:50.

Were the boys ever surprised! I had not seen either of them since April, so it was a great reunion. I loved meeting Sarah, who is a very sweet person. I also got to see Kelly’s boyfriend Rick, whom I’d only met once. Here are some photos of the good times, as they rolled:


At the table.
(Click photos to enlarge.)

My youngest son Paul and his girlfriend Sarah.

My oldest son Gabe; a shifty one.

Checking for broccoli in the teeth of the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc.,
publisher of the best book on the apostle Paul on the planet:
The First Idiot in Heaven.

Removing broccoli from the teeth of the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc.

Me with the president of Starke & Hartmann, Inc., also known as my sister Kelly.

Paul and Pops at the mall in Mansfield, OH.

I drove the hour to Canton in the dark to spend the night at Kelly’s house, also known as Starke & Hartmann Headquarters. We had a relaxing evening, talking about old times, new times, good times, bad times. In the morning, we went to my favorite breakfast place: Bob Evans. Nothing can ever go bad at a Bob Evans restaurant.

My goal was to get back here by around 6 p.m. for the New Year’s Eve festivities. I did it, and it’s a good thing I hadn’t had much to eat. Wow. What a layout of food: chicken wings, two kinds of chili, corn bread, breaded chicken, a veggie plate, 49 bags of different kinds of chips, and various samplings of adult beverages.

Have you ever played “Apples to Apples” with 14 people? I have. Last night. For the first time. I did not win, but I had fun.


I have no idea who this is.
She was not here last night.
I am lousy at poker, so I was one of the first ones out on “Indian Poker,” which we played after, “Apples to Apples.” Indian Poker has you dealing out one card to each player, putting it face-out on your forehead without looking at it, and betting on it without seeing it. I am no good at bluffing. I’m not even good at not bluffing. I’m no good at any kind of poker, period. I am such a “face value” guy, that I don’t get the tricks of poker. Somehow, in poker, you are supposed to trick people several times a minute. I don’t know how to do it. Additionally, you are supposed to figure out other people’s tricks, and facial ticks, and eye movements. I’m no good at any of it. I’m too much of a literalist, I guess. I am too honest for such subterfuge. I am too slow to figure out 16 people at once. Therefore, last night, I bet stupidly and lost hugely. This did not bother me in the least. In fact, I was delighted. It was fun watching everyone else try to figure out everyone else.

I lost all my poker chips, but gained several Dorito chips.

Our Indian friend, Harsh Bhavsar, was driving up from Virginia, where he was visiting his parents. He threatened to arrive before midnight—and he did! He walked into the living room at 11:57. We all watched the ball drop on Time’s Square, and had a champagne toast. What a wonderful bunch of people to bring in the New Year with.

Martin Zender, Harsh Bhavsar

The whole gagne, with champagne.

Oh! A friend sent me a photo of Hobbes (of “Calvin and Hobbes” cartoon fame), reading my book, The First Idiot in Heaven, on New Year’s Eve. Hobbes is even smarter than I thought.



I don’t know what 2013 will bring, thank God. I can only walk one day at a time. Right now, that day is January 1, 2013.

I am glad to be walking it with all of you.

© 2013 by Martin Zender