“Woe unto you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites!
For ye compass sea and land to make one proselyte,
and when he is made, ye make him twofold more
the child of hell than yourselves.”
Matthew 23:15
I mean it, y'know. The whole thing about not believing my music or writing are any more (or less) important than indoor plumbing or car repair, and that writing is not an inherent act of worship, any more than changing a water pump is an act of worship. There's nothing inherently sacred, or profane, about any of it. The sin is not in the work itself; the sinful heart of the artist is reflected by the work, at most.
Dirt begets dirt. Flame begets flame. And if there's anything the human heart is made of, it's burning dirt.
It's a fine line, admittedly, but it's not the same thing. You can paint your car blue, or you can put flames on it. You might think the flames look cool, for awhile, but there's nothing profane about the paint itself. Of course, if a professing Christian continues to paint flames on fast cars (or grocery carts for that matter), without the slightest trace of repentance in his or her daily life, any discerning soul should keep one eye open in the presence of the hypocrite, lest they get burned themselves. But if some guy just happens to be wandering around the junkyard of his former work, and points out the paintjob on a car that is particularly amusing, and perhaps even well done, it ought not to be assumed that he is reveling in it, or showing it off. It's possible that even though he's clearly taking the tarp off, at some level he may also be marveling at how far away from the work he has come.
"Wow, I can't believe I wrote that," he says, kicking the flat tires of the automotive corpse out of habit, rather than in a belief that the car will ever drive again. He doesn't bother trying to start it, but perhaps washes some of the dust off of the hood with a garden hose, so as to better see the paint job.
"Wow, yeah this is really old," he says, before realizing that by rinsing some of the dust off the hood, and in fact displaying the relic to the people on the museum tour of obsolete lyrical themes, that it looks like he still believes in it. Or is in some way proud of it.
The latter, I admit, is not untrue. I find the writing in "Dope is a Thing with Feathers" to be exceedingly amusing. I even like the recording. Which is often not the case.
But, lest anybody think I am reveling in, or in any way actually believe in the infernal paint job with which I adorned the rusted-out musical chassis of idiotic choices I've made in the past,
I've decided to put the tarp back over the dusty, obsolete relic, and take it down from YouTube. "To Emily X, Who Died in the Reign of Terror" has been unlisted, and removed from any playlist. I will keep the post up on this blog, behind glass, with the silly urban drug-fiend story captioned underneath. For anyone who may be interested. I did take my English degree to the streets, after all, and indeed I even shot some of it into my veins. Mostly I drank it. But even though there is no literal "Emily X," of course, the story isn't fundamentally untrue. Perhaps someone will relate to it, and see that even if they're broken-hearted and furious to the point of hardcore misanthropy and self-destruction, and long for nothing more than to be free of the chains of sin, and can't see any way out of the self-inflicted mistakes and heavy consequences,
Perhaps my story will help them see that they're not alone,
And that there's hope.
The work is NOT sacred, so I'm taking it out of the public YouTube showroom, lest anybody make the honest, reasonable mistake of thinking I believe in it,
But I'm not going to burn it down, deny that I wrote it and think it's a good piece of writing, or throw it away. The song has been on fire since it was conceived anyway; y'ain't gonna do any more damage to it by throwing it into hell, at least, not any more than it has already sustained by being BORN THERE,
But there is a way out. If you're down there, smoldering with incapacity and rage in the pits of furious torment, don't give up hope. There is a way out.
I'm telling you.
Cuz really, how DO you tell the sheep from the goats?
Not by looking at the paint job, I hope.
Cuz really, you can't have one without the other. I'm not saying you have to make every bad decision in the book, at street level for years, to find salvation and forgiveness. But there's more hope for people who need hope, than for people who think they already have it.
After all, I've never heard anybody say, "I learned this the easy way." All the songs are true. Even if the engine has been removed from some of them. Even if I wouldn't replace those dead engines to save my own life. It's all true.
Or was, at one time. I thank God for all the ways my showroom has become a junkyard.
Finally, those cars are obsolete.
Thanks for listening.
Heaven Is On Its Way
I used to be an angry man
I used to live like a garbage can
listen to what I say
Heaven is on its way
Jesus was with me but I didn't care
of the mercy of God I was not aware
listen to what I say
Heaven is on its way
Jesus Christ, man
You set me free
so I raise my hands
thank You for saving me
I dug a hole and crawled down inside
you couldn't have reached me if you had tried
I reaped what I sowed
but Heaven would not let go
Lying on a hospital bed
I thought for sure I was dead
baby it's no lie
Heaven will never die
Jesus Christ, man
You set me free
so I raise my hands
thank You for saving me
Christ on a crutch of my own invention
I flipped Him the bird and paid no attention
I licked my gums with a tongue of flame
but Heaven can not be tamed
The limits of love I put to the test
my heart collapsed like a paper bird in my chest
and while I was passed out in the street
Heaven was at my feet
Jesus Christ, man
You set me free
so I raise my hands
thank You for saving me
After 3 days Christ walked out of the tomb
after 3 days clean I walked back into the emergency room
how easily we stray
but it's okay!
Heaven is on its way
Jesus Christ, man
You set me free
so I raise my hands
thank You for saving me
©2012 Nathan Payne
