Now the men of Sodom were wicked and were sinning greatly against the LORD. (Genesis 13:13)

Why was God so dang primeval back then? His attitude toward the emerging GLBT community was positively godawful. You’d think that, being God, he’d have had a little more sensitivity about sexual orientations and alternative lifestyles. But nooo. Our boy was all fire and brimstone. Our boy got himself into a big huff and roasted the suckers (sorry about that). Thanks to divine homophobia, the local GLBT fellowship met a flaming end. The robust citizens of Sodom and nearby Gomorrah tested positive for HIV (Homos In Vicinity) so he simply inoculated the whole damned Lot. It’s an awkward moment in Biblical history for folks who prefer their chosen deity a bit more tolerant.

You’d think that the boys of the New Testament would have had a more progressive attitude about sexual orientation and preference. You would hope that they would have picked up some cues from Jesus who defied the religious prudes of his day by hanging out with weirdos and wackos of all kinds. Unfortunately for us religious hipsters, the New Testament writers are a rainbow coalition of sexual rigidity.

The Apostle Paul is the worst of the bunch and poses the biggest problem for those who wish to liberate Christianity from its archaic sexual outlook. Paul is an unabashed homocidal freak for whom same-sex trysts are categorically “unnatural” and a blowhard (sorry) who holds that those who engage in homosexual acts are point-blank perverts (Romans 1:26-27). He doesn’t stop here. Paul goes so far as to include gays and lesbians with the “wicked” and to actually exclude them from salvation, declaring that neither the sexually immoral nor idolaters nor adulterers nor male prostitutes nor homosexual offenders nor thieves nor the greedy nor drunkards nor slanderers nor swindlers will inherit the kingdom of God (1 Corinthians 6:9-10). Whoa. Talk about Dick and Jane dogmatism. This is the 21st century after all. If Paul had been around today he would have had to buy his Starbucks incognito.

So what’s a sophisticated Christian to do with such unenlightened Biblical material? Some have tried to reinterpret or recontextualize the more blatant homophobic passages in the Bible in order to render them ignorable, or at least less objectionable. This hasn’t worked out all that well since the most offensive passages are squeamishly unambiguous. Others sheepishly admit that the Bible does indeed include some draconian passages, but they assert that, like Darwin’s monkey, a viable religion must evolve. Christianity, if it is to remain relevant, they say, must change to keep in step with the times. Any religion that discriminates deserves extinction. But the good book ain’t going down easy. The Bible appears to have a few more desperate offensives left before it finally gives up the Ghost.

The good news for religious hipsters is that the Bible has become less important to Christian faith and practice. These days not many Christians actually know or care what the Bible says about anything, let alone about same-sex relationships. This should encourage those who find the Bible irrelevant, medieval, or just plain crap. If trends continue, the church may one day jettison the Bible altogether and finally welcome everybody into heaven without regard to sexual preference, marital status, moral inclination, or doctrinal conviction. Despite the frothing rants of those rabid fundamentalists, that old-time religion just may be going the way of the dodo bird.

Of course, when we hipsters finally liberate heaven, God will have to find a new place to live.

“Holy, holy, holy is the Lord God Almighty.” (Revelation 4:8)

I don’t get holiness. I do get that God is good. I also sort of get what it means that God is righteous. I can at least imagine what his glory is like (though I tend to fizzle at about 300 watts). And on a good day I can juggle omniscience, omnipresence, and omniscience without vapor locking. The Trinity package is still a bit beyond me—but even God seems to have some trouble explaining that one. On the whole, I’d say that I’m pretty hip to the divine ingredients label—that is, except for the holiness thing. I totally do not get holy.

Most of God’s attributes are at least somewhat readable. Sovereignty means he’s the boss of everything, plain and simple. Justice means he’s always fair, even when he’s not. Perfection means that God is—well, perfect, flawless: no missing keys, no broken shoelaces, no zits. Aseity is only a fancy word meaning that God doesn’t need to be plugged into an outlet in order to operate. (He’s the original and still the only genuine perpetual motion Gizmo.) And though the claim that God is love is definitely a wowser, it’s still basically an understandable concept. The reason why the items on the ”God is ____” list are at least kind of gettable is because most them are things we lowly humans have some experience with. The main difference between me and God is that whatever nifty thing I’ve got going, God is a ton better at. That seems reasonable. He’s had a lot longer to practice.

Holiness, however, is a whole different ballgame. It’s easy to say that God is holy, but that’s like saying that North Dakota can get cold in the winter. I’m telling you, only those who’ve changed a flat tire without gloves in the dark at 25 below zero in a North Dakota blizzard know cold. And only those who’ve been smacked by holy know holy. A holy God is unlike anything in the universe; he’s fundamentally other than everything else, more other than we can even imagine. In fact, there are four really weird creatures in heaven whose job it is to stand next to God and yell about how not like the rest of us he is. So when God himself declares that he’s holy too—well, you’ve got yourself some serious mojo.

From what I read in the Bible, holiness—at least the cubed variety—generally freaks people out. When God flashes his credentials people throw shoes, kiss dirt, and often turn into blubbering idiots. Granted, this also happens to fans of Rush Limbaugh and Oprah Winfrey, but that’s beside the point. I don’t mean to be crass, but it seems to me that running head-on into Holy³ might be a little like overdosing on colon cleanser: your bowels jell and then collapse in a quivering heap of abject terror—and that’s when God’s being nice.

So, considering the rather disturbing side effects, why in the world would anybody ever want to get whacked by holiness? Well, most folks don’t. Those who’d rather keep their insides inside probably do well to steer clear of burning bushes and dudes with six wings. But for the true God-junkies, a lethal hit of Holy³ is faith’s pièce de résistance, the thermonuclear calling card of the Supreme Not Them. It is the condescending approach of the Unapproachable that affirms the sanctity of being, the flimsiness of death, and the utter incomprehensibility of deity.

We can worship the Holy. We can be transformed by it. But its ground lies forever beyond our grasp. It is the God we shall never be able to make in our own image.

He must hold firmly to the trustworthy message as it has been taught, so that he can encourage others by sound doctrine and refute those who oppose it. (Titus 1:9)

Apostles’ Creed

I believe in God,
the Father Almighty,
Creator of heaven and earth,
and in Jesus Christ, his only Son, our Lord,
who was conceived by the Holy Spirit,
born of the Virgin Mary,
suffered under Pontius Pilate,
was crucified, died and was buried;
he descended into hell;
on the third day he rose again from the dead;
he ascended into heaven,
and is seated at the right hand of God the Father Almighty;
from there he will come to judge the living and the dead.
I believe in the Holy Spirit,
the holy catholic Church,
the communion of saints,
the forgiveness of sins,
the resurrection of the body,
and life everlasting. Amen.

“For my eyes have seen your salvation.” (Luke 2:30)

I have seriously underestimated the audacity of God.

Okay. I gave him full points for the something out of nothing gig. The sheer moxie of Let there be boggles the mind. No primordial soup stock needed to whip up this cosmic enchilada; it was void to volume in one breezy step. A little ex nihilo with extra sauce, please.

And I have to admit that the walking on water thing all by itself wins Jesus a top slot on the FX A-list. That’s not even to mention his flair for storm-stilling, large-group catering on a budget, and his nifty knack for fixing dead people. Jesus most definitely could bling when he wanted to.

Then there are the nearly endless extravagances of nature itself. Astronomers estimate that the universe has about 70 sextillion stars (7 followed by 22 zeros). That’s about 10 times as many as grains of sand on all the world’s beaches and deserts. Talk about your big and lots. Flip the lens and the divine prodigality shows up in the nano-world too, a world so profuse and strange that scientists end up using words like “charm” and “strange” to describe it. There are more hypothetical particles than confirmed ones, including theoretical hopefuls like the slepton, the squark, the gluino, and—my personal favorite—the wino (which probably comes in a brown paper bag). Even in our middle world the profusion of God’s reckless creativity is everywhere. Heck, the existence of coffee beans alone is enough to make me a theist.

But as gonzo over-the-top as all these things are, nothing—and I mean nothing stacks up against the most preposterous, most outrageous, most ridiculously riotous display of excess ever devised by men or gods. That thing, my friends, is salvation.

Now, as a good little evangelical boy steeped in the Western intellectual tradition, I have always envisioned salvation as a kind of point-to-point protocol: you believe the Gospel and God downloads a surgical shot of redemption onto your personal heart drive. Like a photon, the light of Christ is fired into you as a discreet, self-contained packet, all neat and tidy. No strays. No spillage—salvation as spiritual IV ministering carefully calibrated drops of living water to your thirsty soul.

Boy, I was wrong.

When Jesus kicked the bucket he also kicked open the cosmic floodgates. Forget your faucet of forgiveness. Rethink your rivulet of redemption. Jesus blasted the whole bloody dam, releasing a tsunami of infinite spiritual force and magnitude that engulfs everything in heaven and earth. The salvation of Christ swamps saint and sinner alike; it overwhelms every human institution, every human achievement, every human aspiration. A redemptive torrent, salvation drowns all evil and all good too. It breaks over angels and rushes over demons. The salvation of God roars through fortified palaces and courses through shanty towns. It swallows up tyrants and traders, heroes and hermits, gangsters and galaxies. Nothing can resist it—neither wickedness nor pride nor ignorance nor unbelief. There is no ark to escape the boundless tide. The salvation of Jesus Christ floods all of creation and all of time.

And everything it touches—which is everything—is transformed, is reconciled, is glorified. Salvation knows no exceptions. Even the vilest, most unrepentant evil succumbs and testifies to the power of God. The ugly becomes beautiful; the broken is made whole. Death dies. Ultimately, the universe itself will fail to hold so great a salvation. The old earth will buckle and the primordial heavens crack open as the entire created order breaks free from its ancient bondage and rushes with astonished relief into memory. Then salvation will fashion a new heavens and a new earth in its own image. And we, who with unveiled faces contemplate the Lord’s glory, we shall finally be home.

This, my friends, is what I want to give my life to. I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. “Come on in,” they call. “The water’s fine.” I believe them.

You come too.

Let your eyes look directly ahead, and let your gaze be fixed straight in front of you. (Proverbs 4:25)

Look. I’ve tried to be urbane about this. I’ve floated my cosmopolitan balloon across party lines, dallied with the temple prostitutes, and generally attempted to cultivate a religious sophistication that would find me at home with anybody from the Baptists to the Bohemians. I’ve billboarded myself as unconventional, nonconformist, unorthodox, progressive, creative, open-minded, avant-garde, offbeat, alternative, and decidedly artistic. I’ve paraded profanity as prophetic prerogative, sipped the nectar of the fallen gods, and pushed the envelope of grace as far as I dared without actually stepping to the dark side. With diabolical glee I’ve exploited the loopholes in the heavenly contract in order to explore the religious borderlands. I’ve shot my mouth off at the face of the Almighty, taunting him, daring him to rumble, to thunder, to smite, to do anything. Like an arrogant matador, I’ve strutted before the Ancient of Days, snapping my crass theological cape at him and jabbing the divine flanks with well-aimed blasphemies. Oh, I knew that he wasn’t going down, but I sure liked imagining the guy flinch.

So there I am, doing my devotions like a good Christian—after all, I figured I owed God at least that much, him being deity and all—and I’m reading my Bible at that superficial yeah-yeah-yeah-whatever-tell-me-something-new level when suddenly I stumble onto this verse: Let your eyes look directly ahead, and let your gaze be fixed straight in front of you. Suddenly, something deep inside me flares up like an acetylene torch, and in the blink of an eye, I am DEFINED. My carefully tailored suit of angst and attitude simply evaporates. To my astonishment, I am suddenly and utterly clarified. The mask is gone; the costume is gone; the hip rebel pose is gone. I’m snared in the glare of the Godhead, buck naked. Instead of burning me at the stake for crimes against the divinity, the subversive I AM disarms me from the inside: “This is who you am, buddy.”

1979, Minot, North Dakota. Two days off a pot-fueled weekend, I find myself in a pastor’s office howling for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo. The pastor, no hipster by a long shot, dutifully hears me out then, in his rich bass voice, prophesies over my bowed head. “Satan will sift you like wheat. You will not be able to do many of the things other Christians can do. Yours is a narrow way.” Thirty-three years later I am leveled by lethal injunction: Know thyself again.

Jesus nailed me; this I know: I am monomaniacal. I am indivisible. I am hardwired for one thing, and in my user’s manual there is a single entry: Give careful thought to the paths for your feet and be steadfast in all your ways. Do not turn to the right or the left; keep your foot from evil. I now see this, not as prescription or threat, but as the way home. If that’s not grace, I don’t know what is

And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

—T.S. Eliot

In just a little while, he who is coming will come and will not delay. (Hebrews 10:37)

It’s been a while, but I’ve needed the break. Nearly 400 consecutive daily installments of religious snark can take it out of a guy. There have been a mounting number of inquiries wondering what ever happened to Our Daily Fred and even a few ardent appeals to bring it back. To the few wise who have kept their lamps trimmed in anticipation for ODF’s return, you may soon be rewarded. And to those of you who have been getting along just fine without it—well, vapidity is its own punishment.

But I have to tell you: I’m not the same guy now. Oh, I’ve still got attitude and an unassailable sense of my own importance (based on extensive research), but a resurrected ODF won’t be the same. Careful readers may notice a shift of perspective, or not. One thing, however, will be immediately apparent: Our Daily Fred won’t be quite so daily this time around. Not that posts won’t be regular, just that new ones won’t appear like clockwork every 24 hours. The tyranny of the daily post just about killed me last time. I do have other things to do, you know. Besides, even many faithful ODF readers didn’t read every daily post. So I’m not going to sweat it this time. We’re still going to call this thing Our Daily Fred, mostly because it’s catchier than “Our Mostly Regular Fred” or “Our Frequent But Not Slavishly Punctual Fred.” Well see how it goes. Who knows? The daily part may once again reassert itself regardless of how I happen to feel about it. Obsession is like that. Otherwise, the M.O. is the same.

So here we go again. Some day you and God better thank me for this.

______________

Oh yeah. You can now follow Our Daily Fred on Twitter!

Then, because so many people were coming and going that they did not even have a chance to eat, he said to them, “Come with me by yourselves to a quiet place and get some rest.” (Mark 6:31)

Today—well, close enough anyway—marks two whole years that Our Daily Fred has been cranking out daily hits of religious genius. That’s more than 730 consecutive posts. Yeah, I recycled a few, but I still had the gumption to retool, redate, and republish. Only occasionally did somebody remark that a post seemed strangely familiar. That’s because a lot of folks subscribed later in the game and to them everything was brand-spanking new. The early ODF followers either didn’t mind reading a repost (rereading a post?) or didn’t remember it in the first place or must have stopped paying attention a long time ago.

But let me tell you: even revising and reposting on a daily basis is no picnic. It’s not like publishing a book which does just fine sitting on the shelf waiting patiently for another look. For ODF I kept track of the publication schedule, eliminated a few posts I no longer liked, checked on the ongoing validity of links and YouTube resources, and fixed dozens of typos that slipped by the first time around. (Thanks to my faithful reader/editors who pointed most of them out to me.) I rescaled images, tweeked language, and basically polished whatever needed polishing—all for nothing but the thrill.

But I’m not Charlie Sheen. I need a break, a real break—as in a real real break. I will probably be back. Subscribers don’t need to do a thing, though your inbox will be lonely for a bit. When ODF fires up again, you’ll automatically be the first to know. Those of you who’ve been linking here via Facebook may want to subscribe directly so you get the fresh stuff when it happens.

I added a calendar at the bottom so newer readers can click on dates and read posts that they’ve missed. The rest of you can start over on your own or just relax until the show’s back in town. Until then, read your Bible for a change. It’s not ODF, but you can’t have everything.

And if, in the interim, you’re in the mood for something decidedly odd, visit and subscribe to Fredzone at WordPress.com for a daily dose of weirdness that will keep you off-key and mentally constipated until the Second Coming of ODF.

There or later.

About that time there arose a great disturbance about the Way. (Acts 19:23)

Forget fair and balanced. The best way to create a problem is to tell people what they don’t want to hear. I, for one, don’t want the truth; I want to be affirmed. I want to be told that what I already believe is right. I don’t want sanctification; I want sanction, baby.

This is especially true of my chosen religion. I’ve got my creed nailed down cold, thank you very much, and I don’t need some hyper-religious, amino acid-headed, day-tripping chump dumping toxic exhortation on me. You can keep your Biblical proof-texts, your bleeding-heart hooey, and your dim-bulb revelations. I don’t want your version of whatever your version is a version of. I’ve got my own version of the divine script, and it reads just fine by me.

You see, instead of starting with the Bible and then promptly ignoring it like everybody else, I start with how I actually do the thing and work my way backwards. This way I end up with a creed I can really believe in. It may not be your orthodox claptrap, but at least I don’t come off as a hypocrite.

So here’s my personal religious creed. It’s damn good dogma. Oh, by the way, this is copyrighted religious material, so if you find a few items in here that you believe too, you owe me money. You think I’m gonna give this stuff away for free?

One more thing: this sounds really good if you read it out loud to the Adagio movement of Bach’s Oboe Concerto in D-minor. Go ahead and try it!

I believe in God, in Jesus, in the Holy Spirit, and in case my other gods don’t work out.

I believe nodding is an act of radical obedience.

I believe my large suburban house and two late-model cars is a sign of God’s favor.

I believe turning the other cheek is unrealistic.

I believe prayer is a pretty good theory.

I believe in secrets.

I believe in Apple, Starbucks, Honda, and the Bible—in that order.

I believe in excess well dressed.

I believe Jesus was prone to exaggeration.

I believe in minding my own freaking business.

I believe most pagans have it good.

I believe my way of life is worth the other side dying for.

I believe in being relevant.

I believe guilt is bad theology.

I believe in my neighbor’s fence.

I believe in possessions.

I believe sacrifice is Jesus’ thing.

I believe appetite is the leading of the Holy Spirit.

I believe the damned are damned for damned good reasons.

I believe that the Second Coming is a threat.

I believe God will make an exception for me.

“To what can I compare this generation? They are like children sitting in the marketplaces and calling out to others: ” ‘We played the flute for you, and you did not dance; we sang a dirge and you did not mourn.’” (Matthew 11:16-17)

Gee whiz. What does a guy gotta do to get a little appreciation? You heal the sick. You raise the dead. You kick some demon butt. You preach some desperately needed good news. And what do you have to show for it?

It’s not the hostility that gets to you. That, at least, is something. Besides, when you’re doing cutting edge stuff you have to expect a few bad reviews. Not everybody likes new stuff. (Your cousin, John, did a pretty good job of warming up the crowd, but even you have to admit that he was a little on the rough side.) No, hostility isn’t the worst thing that could happen. At least it shows that they’re paying attention. Besides, animosity at least fills the seats.

The worst thing is disinterest. There you are, waxing as eloquent as anybody about love, the kingdom of God, salvation—and all these guys do is yawn on you. So you throw in some free fish and chips and, after they eat like pigs, they leave you nothing but a mess to clean up. So you get a little flashier. You heal a few blind and crippled guys, and toss in a couple excorcisms (pretty impressive, if you say so yourself). But after the show, they shrug and wander off. Except for a handful of lowlifes, nobody gives you a second glance. No autographs either.

Then you ratchet up the flair by raising some dead people. This, you think, will do the trick. You even make sure there are lots of crying people around. Nothing sets up a dramatic death reversal like full-on despair. But, except for the parties involved, the whole thing drops like a lead balloon. Sure, you got some groupies out of it, but they’re not exactly the kind you had in mind. The rest applaud politely and head to the mall.

Finally, you decided to go for the whole ball of wax. You stage death-defying act that has never been attempted before. This will be the coup d’état, a show of inexplicable power that will turn these comatose idiots on their heads. You carefully arrange everything, from the trial before the Sanhedrin to the public appearance with Pilate. You will be paraded, beaten and half dead, through the streets at the busiest holiday of the year. You’ll be nailed to a cross and, after some well-chosen last words, die like a dog in front of everybody. To make sure everybody knows you’re really dead, you’ll let them wait for a couple of days. Then, on the morning of the third day, you blow the joint, gloriously resurrected.

Trouble is, you do the resurrection thing early in the morning and nobody’s there to see it. Mary shows up after the fact, but she’s virtually incoherent. Besides, as a woman, nobody believes her anyway. So you appear to your groupies who have locked themselves in a room—not a good sign. You try desperately to drum up some press by appearing a number of times to small crowds (though one was as big as 500). But after all that, all that you’ve accomplished is getting them dissed in the tabloid press.

So you call it a game. You gather your most devoted followers and say goodbye. In a last impressive gesture, more as a favor to the loyalists, you slowly levitate before their eyes until you disappear in the clouds. You’ll be back, you tell them. Oh yeah, you’ll be back. But this time you’re going to blow the freaking planet away.

You’ll definitely get their attention next time.

Women should remain silent in the churches. They are not allowed to speak, but must be in submission, as the Law says. (1 Corinthians 14:34)

Don’t look at me. I didn’t say it. This is the Apostle Paul, the guy who toured the third heaven, the guy who got his butt kicked on the road to Damascus by none other than Jesus himself. This is the dude who claims authority straight from the Godfather, the guy who pretty much invented Christianity (though he did agree to keep the original poster boy). We’re talking the same guy who gave us virtually every major doctrine known to Christendom and a bunch of others that most folks seem clueless about. Paul is no fringer; he’s the spokesman for the right way to do Christianity. You cannot ignore Paul and remain a Jesus freak of good standing—well, according to him anyway.

Let’s be blunt. Paul thinks that in church women should keep their mouths shut. It’s the law, he says. He doesn’t offer any qualifications or exceptions. He doesn’t chant “Ding dong the Law is dead!” like he does other places. He doesn’t eggshell his way through cultural relativity or historical social structures or religious distinctives. He doesn’t play the “In Christ/Get Out of Gender Free” card, even though he designed that card himself. Nope. Paul is excruciatingly point-blank about it: Ladies can blab all they want elsewhere, but in church women should shut the freak up.

Now, there are three conclusions you can draw about this:

1) Paul is full of shit. Granted, this is an extreme position, but for many women this is the instinctual (although often internalized) response. Paul may be inspired when it comes to theology, but he’s a complete jackass when it comes to gender issues. After all, it’s Paul who refers to women as the “weaker sex.” He’s clearly a world-class misogynist. The disadvantage of writing Paul off on the babe thing is that, if he’s screwed up on this one, who’s to say he’s not wrong about some other important things, like salvation or sleeping with your father’s wife. Of course, the advantage of this perspective is that you can take Paul with a shovel full of salt on just about everything he teaches. If you don’t happen to like what he says, you can pitch it in the manure pile.

2) Paul is right for his time and context but not for ours. In other words, Paul’s only half full of shit. Paul is addressing a male-dominated society and talking to those who are steeped in Jewish tradition. He’ s telling them that the best way to model freedom in Christ is to keep the women in submission; once the girls start yapping the whole Jesus thing is pretty much shot to hell. Back then everybody knew that women were rebellious, jabbering sex-pots with little restraint and even less brain. These days we have to treat women as equals, mostly because they get really bitchy if we don’t. Paul didn’t have to deal with modern females, so his teaching has to be adjusted for conflation.

3) Paul is inspired by the Holy Ghost on this matter. In other words, Paul’s cool, but God’s full of shit. We all know that God’s never really gotten over the Eve thing and has had it in for women ever since. Sure, God allows women to get saved, but he’s not all that happy about it. With them in heaven it’s going to be a long eternity. God must housebreak them now or most of the male citizens of the New Jerusalem will move to hell for relief. As a guy himself, God knows how touchy dames can get, so he wimps out and orders Paul to lower the boom for him. Being under contract, Paul has no choice but to do the dirty deed. And there you have it.

None of this probably matters. Like always, women are going to do what they’re going to do; and, like always, the men are going to let them do it. God has only himself to blame for this situation; after all, sex was his idea—which is about the only good thing to come out of it.