Jesus vs Christians

Ask anyone what they think about Jesus and most of the time you'll get answers like these: love, grace, mercy, forgiveness. Ask those same people what they think about Christians and quite often you'll get a different answer: condemnation, hypocrisy, hatred, division. What has happened? Why does Christianity as a religion provoke such a different response than the founder?

Have we as Christians turned Jesus from a blessing into a curse, not by our association with Him, but by His association with us?

To me, what gives Christianity a bad name are the protests, lectures, music videos of hatred, the glares of disgust and disapproval. Does our world have problems? Of course. Are there evils worth fighting? Absolutely. Combat, however, doesn't change people. Jesus does. He changes hearts. He reconciles people with God. Which in turn changes actions. Christianity, however, has too often emphasized a strict moral culture that focuses more on external actions than internal values. In other words, we've got it bass-ackwards.

That kind of church culture is what grinds a lot of people. Don't get me wrong: it's awesome hanging out with people who are bursting with love and joy. Enthusiastic people who help one another. Who reach out to others. People who laugh when you laugh. Who grieve when you grieve. Who accept you as you are. Who take an interest in you. Who want your involvement with them. People who bring you food when you're sick. People you can trust. People who become family because of your common bond of faith. That is church at its best, and there are huge numbers of Christians who personify those qualities.

But sometimes church becomes a sanitized culture that refuses admission to those who are different. People who don't fit the mold. I attended a church once that declared a ban on wearing shorts. It was stinking hot back where they were in summertime, but rules were rules and shorts were not allowed. Conform or get out. Never mind those who had already left because they were not allowed to drink "demon" alcohol.

That kind of squeaky clean culture is not what Christianity is all about. Scottish clergyman, Lord George Fielden MacLeod (1885-1991) said it this way: "Jesus was not crucified between two candles, but on a cross between two thieves. On the town garbage heap. At a crossroads so cosmopolitan they had to write the charge against him in three languages. At the kind of place where cynics talk smut, and thieves curse and soldiers gambled. That is where He died, and what He died about. And that is where churchmen should be, and what churchmen should be about."

To do this, you've got to be made of tough stuff. Jesus was. He wasn't the cuddly stuffed doll we've been led to believe he was. Nor were his followers. They were rough, rugged, flawed individuals who defied the world rather than chased it, as is the case today, where outward affluence is valued more than inner character. I wonder: would that apostolic vagrant, Paul, be welcomed in church as a teacher today? Would Jesus? Maybe...if they wore long pants.

The fact is: Jesus changed lives by hanging out with people on the street. He partied with them: "Out of wine? Here, let me make some for you." (And we're not talking grape juice, either, but the good stuff. Better than a South Australian shiraz, if you can imagine that.) He associated with drunkards and prostitutes. With (gasp) non-Christians. With the reviled of society. With the sick. With atheists. With people of all religions, at the crossroads of the world. With people in need.

I once spent two years in seminary -- aka "cemetery" -- and found it so distasteful and lifeless I dropped out. Theology, I discovered, doesn't change lives. A changed life may decide to study theology, but theology itself doesn't change lives. Love does. That's why Jesus was such a revolutionary. He was, quite literally, God among us. And in that, showed us what God was all about.

Tony Campolo is the associate pastor of the Mount Carmel Baptist Church in West Philadalphia, and an emeritus professor of sociology at Eastern University. On that campus is the Campolo School of Social Change. It serves inner city schools as well as AIDS hospices and Christian service programs in Haiti, the Dominican Republic, Africa, and Canada.

When Campolo gives speeches, he sometimes opens them this way: "I have three things I'd like to say. First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation from diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a shit. [And third] What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said shit than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night."

That kind of coarse language might offend people, and that's exactly my point: quit being offended about the stuff that doesn't matter and start caring more about people. Incidentally, the apostle Paul beat Campolo to the punch when he said, "More than that, I count all things to be loss in view of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and count them but shit in order that I may gain Christ (Philippians 3:8).

Years ago, I belonged to a church that wanted to have a foot washing service for members, who were invited to bring along friends and neighbors. Church leaders wanted to do it because Jesus once washed the disciples' feet, thus demonstrating how Christians should serve others. I agreed with their motivation but suggested they wash cars instead. To me, that was meeting the needs of people in our area. My idea was shot down. It wasn't spiritual/biblical enough. The foot washing went ahead and was poorly attended. Friends and neighbors were simply not interested.

I'm not sure how to end this blog, because I don't pretend to have all the answers. And what is right for me may not be right for you. I do know when I decided to write mainstream fiction and not Christian fiction, I caught some flack from a few Christians. But I have never regretted my decision. I love gutsy non-conformist lovers of God who enjoy a stiff tequila or a swig of shiraz. People of character and integrity who live and die defending the lives of others. That is who Jesus was (okay, without the tequila, although I've toasted Him with blue agave on numerous occasions). And those are the characters you'll meet in my books.

Now, if only they'll hang out with me wearing these baggy cargo shorts...

White Death

I'm a junkie. An addict. And I have been for a long time. It's a confession that's hard to make, especially here in public, but "white death" has been a part of my life for a long time. Too long. It's a situation that probably wouldn't have changed had I not spread rose hips jam on my scone that fateful day. Never mind the butter. I'll save that for another day.

James Houston Turner

My wife, Wendy, sometimes gets on health kicks. She did it with millet. This time it was sugar. That friendly sweetener in the white porcelain bowl with the cute little spoon. The sweetener that put Hawaii on the map. The sweetener that made rhubarb pie edible. The sweetener that's naturally low in calories. Only 15 of the little buggers in every teaspoon. Which is not a lot. Except when you drink twelve of them in a can of soft drink. Or spread a hundred of them on a scone as I was doing.

And I got caught.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Wendy asked.
"Making this scone taste really good," I replied. "Not that the millet didn't do the trick..."
"How can you say that when Otto Heinrich Warburg won the Nobel Prize in Medicine for proving sugar consumption causes cancer?"
"Otto who what?"
"He says the primary cause of cancer is sugar fermentation in the body. Sugar! White death! The stuff you're slathering on that scone! From now on, sugar is banned."
"You mean like pornography, assault rifles, and microwave popcorn?"
Wendy was in no mood for jokes. Sugar was banned.

My wife can sometimes take a hard line when it comes to health. No nonsense. Cut to the chase. And she can be rather "enthusiastic" with her convictions. This time, as usual, she had reasons that were pretty convincing. The rise in cancer did, in fact, match the rise in sugar consumption. Eating foods or drinking drinks with added sugar spikes insulin, which in turn promotes inflammation and acts as fertilizer for tumors (says neuroscientist, Dr. David Servan-Schreiber, a professor at the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine, in his excellent book, Anticancer: A New Way of Life, pages 76-82 [Scribe Publications, 2008). He writes: "Those who eat low-sugar Asian diets tend to have five to ten times fewer hormonally-driven cancers [ie, breast and prostate] than those with diets high in sugar and refined foods. All the scientific literature points in the same direction: people who want to protect themselves from cancer should seriously reduce their consumption of sugar [including high-fructose corn syrup]. There is no limit on fruit, so long as it is not sweetened with sugar or syrup. Another option is to use natural sugar substitutes that don't cause a rise in blood glucose or insulin."

And this is where it gets interesting!

I came home one day to see money changing hands in our dining room. A wad of bills was being given to Wendy by a friend in exchange for a "key" (kilo) of white powder. The exchange was not taking place in some dark, seedy alley. It was taking place right there, in our dining room, in front of the gorgeous photos of our grandchildren.

Wendy was trafficking white powder. A mysterious white powder called xylitol.

Originally manufactured from birch bark (although now made from maize/corn husks and cobs), xylitol is a natural sugar substitute that tastes exactly like sugar. But it does not spike insulin levels like sugar and so is advertised as being safe for diabetics. And because of its anti-bacterial/anti-fungal properties, xylitol can be used to treat sore throats and ear infections. It has also been shown to strengthen bones, thus showing promise as a treatment for osteoporosis.

I had heard of xylitol because it helps remineralize teeth. Contrary to sugar, xylitol does not cause tooth decay, but actually helps restore teeth by killing bacteria. It also allows bio-available calcium to penetrate teeth. Having had massive radiation treatment on my face after my cancer operation, I now use a tooth mousse with xylitol that helps prevent gum erosion (a side-effect of radiation treatment). The results for me have been astounding.

So while sugar has indeed been banned in our house -- except small quantities for baking (xylitol's properties kills the yeast in Wendy's perfect bread) -- we now use this fantastic substitute.

But Wendy does not do things half-heartedly. She decided to order it in quantity. A large quantity. Meaning a big carton of the stuff arrived on our doorstep one day. It almost took a forklift to get it into the house. We took to selling it to friends and neighbors to whom she enthusiastically preaches the xylitol message.

So while my sugar addiction's been broken -- and without any night sweats or hard prison time -- I am now a dealer of xylitol for our sweet-toothed friends and neighbors. I don't know what my mom would think of all this: she was pretty old-fashioned about sugar. My dentist, on the other hand, is over the moon.

However, I'm still working pet names to replace the banned names of "sugar" and "sweetie."

A cool-dude writer with no remaining sugar addiction, author James Houston Turner pushes xylitol and writes thrillers from his home in Adelaide, South Australia. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com.

A Cool Dude Writer Eats His Own Words

How can you respect white bread? I mean, c'mon. Soft, airy-fairy, doughy, wimpy stuff that you can wad up into a tiny ball. Bugs won't eat it 'cause it's got zero nutrition. Mix it with water and it melts into this gooey, sticky mess. When the Bible says, "Cast your bread on the water and it will come back to you," I think it was referring to white bread. People on the other side of the lake don't want it. They send it back. Keep trying to send it to them and they'll come and burn down your village. Especially the bakery. No white bread.

I once had an upperclassman in my college fraternity who made me clean his room when I was a freshman pledge. He then took a slice of white bread and wiped the room down. Door tops. Tops of door casings. Chair rails. Places I didn't think to clean. He then made me eat the bread to teach me a lesson. Soon after, I switched to wholewheat.
Cool Dude Writers, of course, are kitchen magicians, and these days in our house we bake our own bread. I used to knead it by hand, but now we have a bread maker that makes the job real easy. We put in some water, olive oil, wholewheat baker's flour, dense wholemeal flour, whole grains, and a bunch of other stuff that magically turns into this fantastic elastic dough. You can then let it stay in the bread maker, where it bakes to golden perfection, or yank it out and divide into baguettes or little rolls, or pound out flat, throw high in the air in a circular motion, let flop on the counter, smear with tomato sauce and other goodies and bake as pizza on a stone in the oven. Over the years, Wendy and I have fine-tuned this recipe to our liking. It was perfect. Life was good. I was happy. No more white bread. Ever.
However, Wendy sometimes gets on health kicks and wants to start messing with perfection. You can see it in her eyes. They get this glassy, determined look, like a tiger about to strike.
And she had that exact look in her eyes the day she came home from the Adelaide Central Market and announced: "I'm adding millet to our bread."

Millet

If you don't know what millet is -- it's, well, bird seed, simple and plain. I once had a parakeet that loved millet. Parakeets are called "budgies" here in Australia -- short for budgerigar -- with the tight little Speedo swimming shorts that men wear called "budgie smugglers," for reasons I won't go into here.
Anyway, some countries consider millet a staple food. It's a grain that is extremely high in protein, as well as being alkaline. Too many acid foods and beverages -- like coffee, soft drinks, meat, white bread -- can create conditions favorable to disease. Alkaline foods help fight disease. That's why we need to eat fruits and veggies every day. Besides being full of nutrients, they are alkaline. So is millet. Which is why Wendy wanted to add it to our bread mix. Our perfect bread mix.
"I already eat enough alkaline foods," I explained. "Besides, our bread is perfect."
"This will make it better."
"You can't improve perfection."
"We won't know unless we try."
"Millet's bird seed! It'll ruin the bread!"
"No, it won't."
Foot down. Executive decision: "Yes, it will! Not going to happen!"
With glassy, determined look in her eye, like tiger about to strike: "Wanna bet?"
Wendy started to pour the millet into the bread maker.
I tried to stop her.
She dropped the cup.
Had it been flour, it would have made a messy pile on the counter and I would have wiped it up. But it was millet. And each of the thousand or so little grains was perfectly spherical, like micro-BBs. The stuff scattered everywhere. And then rolled even farther. Under furniture. In tiny cracks in our wooden floor. All across the living room rug. In fact -- all over the house. I knew I was in trouble by the dagger looks I was getting from the tiger.
"Oops," I said, smiling sheepishly. "I'll help you clean it up."
"No, you won't be helping me. Nor will I be helping you when you clean it up. The vacuum's in the garage."
I vacuumed millet for the next half hour, and to my surprise, I occasionally still find it hiding under bookcases and in other tight spots. And I'm a pretty good house cleaner.
But by far the greatest surprise was the bread. The millet added this kind of wild prairie taste that absolutely took our "perfect" bread to a whole new level. It was fantastic! And I cannot tell you how hard it is not to overdose on the stuff, especially when it comes fresh out of the oven. This stuff is perfection!
I feel obligated to take some of the credit here, because had I not protested the way I did, Wendy might have wimped out at the last minute and not added the millet. Think of what we would have missed out on had it not been for me. (I know, I know -- I don't swallow it, either. But I had to try.)
So this Cool Dude Writer had to eat his words that day. But by far my greatest surprise -- and pleasure -- was eating that bread. That perfect bread. So the next time you come over for dinner...
Originally from Baldwin, Kansas, author James Houston Turner takes partial credit for making perfect bread in his home in Adelaide, South Australia, where he writes thrillers and does his best to keep Wendy away from buckwheat, another alkaline grain. He loves flying Qantas and is astounded the company hasn't asked him to be their chief bread consultant. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com.

Trapped By My Great Expectations

Trapped. In a rut. Caught in the grind.

James Houston Turner feels trapped by Great Expectations

This pretty much describes how I've been feeling lately. I have an editing deadline I'm trying to meet and the last few days haven't been going all that well. The reason: my Great Expectations.

And the harder I try to meet those expectations, the harder it gets, and the harder it gets, the harder I try, which means it gets even harder!

Stuff like this happens on occasion. I set unreasonable goals, get tunnel vision, forget to take breaks and find myself working longer and harder in an effort to finish.

But longer and harder doesn't always cut it.

So I decided to make pizza. I knew I needed a break and making pizza is this hands-on, romantic tango between me and this pile of raw ingredients. And it is a romance: a coaxing and teasing out of flavors ... a whisper of hints and subtleties from just the right spices. I get flour and dough up to my elbows, millet iseverywhere (those little buggers can sure roll a long way), and the kitchen is this insane war zone, with utensils all over the place, onions and vegetables sizzling in a century-old, four-generation blackened cast iron skillet, music blaring, and me -- occasionally -- swearing because I never follow a recipe and things -- occasionally -- go awry. It's a zany adventure into uncharted culinary territory each and every time. Which is why I love it!

Writing, on the other hand, is quiet, solitary work. Which is a good thing because I like working on my own. I like my own company and I'm a disciplined self-starter. I get up every day at 5:15, check emails, do my exercise, take a shower, eat my breakfast, then show up for work at my laptop by 8:30 or so.

But the very nature of writing means it's hard to share progress reports. There are no visible cues as in, say, cooking pizza.

"How's it going?" my wife, Wendy, asks.
"I'm at the fifty-six-thousand word mark! Only forty-nine thousand to go. That's using a twelve-point Times New Roman font, double-spaced, which equals about 370 pages, at about 272 words per---"
"Stop!" she says, her eyes glazing over. "You lost me at fifty-six thousand."

So I tend to push on so that I can finally announce, "I am done!" Those are the words Wendy likes to hear. Those are the words I like to hear. They are words to celebrate, even if we both know another edit may be just around the corner. I am done!

And this is what gets me into trouble.

The reason: writing, like pizza making, is a romance between me and this pile of raw ingredients. Sure, it's work, and there are days I don't feel like working. But I do because that's just the way it is when you've got deadlines and people are waiting. You suck it up and do what needs to be done. That's the business of writing.

But writing is not like house cleaning (and I have done my fair share of house cleaning over the years to support my passion to write). It's an art as well as a discipline. And there's a huge element of creativity that goes into it. It is not simply physical labor. So I must nourish my creative side, and that means hitting the "refresh" button now and then. It means taking a break.

I was reminded of this when I was standing in the kitchen with flour all over my face. I was on a break and loving it. I was refreshed and rejuvenated ... I was singing and dancing and throwing large disks of dough up in the air. When Wendy came in to see what the commotion was all about, I began talking about my story with excitement and animation. (That was after she got over the shock of seeing the kitchen.)

It's such a simple and obvious lesson -- taking a break -- but one I had forgotten in my Great Expectation to be more of a writing machine than I am. The romance had slipped away. I needed to get it back. So I stepped away from the laptop and made a massive mess that was more satisfying than I can fully articulate here. (Yes, I cleaned it up!)

And guess what: when I sat down again at my laptop, the romance had returned.

Which goes to show what a miraculous food a good millet pizza can be.

Like I said, working longer and harder is not always the answer. Working smarter is what I need to keep doing. And that means taking time to live and laugh (and bake) "in between the lines" of my writing.

Hence, when the time comes to celebrate the release of my latest book, you can guess what I'll be doing.

Let's see: will that be pepperoni or picadillo...?

Originally from Kansas and a self-confessed pizza fanatic, author James Houston Turner writes thrillers and bakes pizza in his home in Adelaide, South Australia. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com.

We Never Forget Our First

We never forget our first, and Jessica Chapnik was mine. And although you're filled with anticipation and excitement at what might happen as a result, your first can be a frightening experience ... terrifying, even painful ... forever etched in your memory.

But it can also be exhilarating beyond description. In fact, it's the element of venturing into the unknown that makes it so alluring.

Actress and musician, Jessica Chapnik. Photo courtesy The Daily Telegraph.

Jessica has gone on to greater things. Aussies will remember her as "Sam Holden" on the hit television show, Home and Away. In 2008, she recorded the Ben Lee soundtrack for the Joel and Nash Edgerton film, The Square. The song was nominated for an Australian Film Institute Award for "Best Original Music Score," as well as an ARIA (Australian Recording Industry Association) Fine Arts Award for "Best Original Soundtrack". A singer of exceptional talent and beauty, Jessie has toured internationally with musicians Sarah Blasko, Ben Lee, the Kahn Brothers, and Old Man River. Her 2010 Appleonia Music video, It's Not So Precious, exemplifies the gentle, inspirational quality to her voice. Which surprised me since she is such a raging soccer fanatic (go Argentina!) who loves espionage thrillers and vegetarian pizzas (go pizza!).

So while most of you may know Jessica as an exceptional actress and musician, to me she will always be "the first" ... my first ... book critic to review The Second Thirteen, when it was originally published in Australia in 1999.

At the time, Jessy was writing for Who magazine (the Australian version of People magazine), to whom I had sent a copy of my novel for review consideration.

A first review can play with your mind. It did mine. For one thing, I had no idea Who magazine would even look at my novel. Who was, after all, one of the premier celebrity magazines in Australia, and I was this unknown author whose book had been published by a micro-press no one had ever heard of. And if by some miracle they did review it, would they like it? Would they trash it? Was this going to be a painful experience? Fears collided with possibilities (and a wild imagination) to produce a tornado of emotional turbulence. I could hardly stand it. But, as I said before, it was the element of venturing into the unknown that was, in fact, its allure.

We need book critics. We rely on their seasoned judgment to sift the wheat from the chaff. Sure, some critics like to find something wrong with everything: "no turn unstoned," as the old saying goes. Some are snotty, uppity elitists who are downright arrogant and rude.

So are some writers.

Most critics, however, are decent people who devote a lot of hours to their craft. They're not in it for the big bucks. They're in it for the love of reading. Critics and writers (and publishers) have one thing in common: the desire to present a good book to the public. These days, with shrinking budgets and cutbacks, there are fewer critics writing for fewer publications, so the challenge of getting reviewed in a major publication is harder than ever. But in today's world, a good review -- or a bad one -- can spread "virally" like wildfire via twitter, Facebook, MySpace, and a host of other social networking sites and blogs, not to forget the customer review sites hosted by online giants like Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Like never before, the reader has become the critic with a voice.

Which keeps a writer like me on his proverbial toes, especially since I have updated The Second Thirteen into what I hope is a sizzling thriller that will yank you in by the lapels and not let you go until the final page. Whether I succeed or not will be -- gulp -- up to you.

As for Jessica, with whom I stay in touch ... well, my "first" had this to say: "The Second Thirteen, by Kansas-born, Adelaide-based James Houston Turner ... will delight aficionados of the genre with its punchy pace, intricate plot, compelling structure and, best of all, goose-bump-raising-climax."

Stay tuned for updates on when the new edition of The Second Thirteen will be available.

A self-confessed pizza fanatic, James Houston Turner writes thrillers and invents new topping combinations from his home in Adelaide, South Australia. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com.

Honoring Simon Baker and Dr. William S. Bate.

What a privilege to meet actor Simon Baker, star of the hit TV series, The Mentalist, who was honored at the prestigious G'day USA 2010 black tie gala in Hollywood. Wendy and I had flown from Australia to meet with several film executives regarding my screenplay, Big John, a true story based on the life of Big John Levi, the great 1920s Native American fullback from Haskell Institute in Lawrence, Kansas.

Simon Baker and Wendy Turner at the G'day USA black tie gala

We then topped off the week by attending the gala, where actress Nicole Kidman introduced Simon to the crowd. She told us about the years Baker struggled as an actor, which eventually earned him a Logie Award in his native country of Australia for Most Popular New Talent. But his career never really ignited, so at Kidman's urging, Baker -- a former bricklayer -- moved his family to Los Angeles, where he scored a supporting role opposite fellow Aussies, Russell Crowe and Guy Pearce, in the 1997 Academy Award-winning film, L.A. Confidential. This was followed by other successful roles, including the popular TV series, The Guardian, the film, The Devil Wears Prada, and finally the blockbuster TV series, The Mentalist.
Baker was affable and accessible and enjoyed meeting fans. Which may not continue for long given the shocking behavior of some people. Wendy and I were speaking with him at the gala when several young women in sprayed-on cocktail dresses shoved their way to the front and burst into the conversation.

Sam Worthington

Two of them held digital cameras my way while talking with him effusively. I snapped pictures, after which they grabbed them abruptly away and shoved their way toward Aussie actor, Sam Worthington, star of Clash of the Titans and Avatar, who was standing a short distance away. Sorry about that, Sam.
One of the highlights of the evening was Nicole Kidman's introduction of Baker with husband Keith Urban. With Kidman

Wendy Turner and Keith Urban

dancing around on the stage, Urban sang a humorous tribute to Baker to the tune of Men At Work's iconic Australian classic, Down Under. Some of the lyrics include, "From a small town in Tasmania, in the rugged country of Australia, came a little boy with wide-eyed wonder, destined to rise up from Down Under. And his name is Simon Baker, surfer dude, home renovator... he's a sexy baby maker, and secretly your laptop screen saver. He's a straight-up guy, no bullshit taker. He's CBS' big money-maker, The Mentalist, a ratings breaker." Baker then donned his "rockin' Buddy Holly glasses" to shouts of approval from the crowd. Urban's song brought down the house and you can watch it on YouTube here: (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=31CsuFwYbsk). Other honorees at the gala were golfer Greg Norman, who was introduced by the legendary John Travolta, and actress Toni Collette.
Toni was introduced by the gorgeous and zany Cameron Diaz who, after witnessing the roof-raising introduction of Simon Baker by Keith and Nicole, said to the audience: "After that, I looked at Toni and she looked at me, and I said, 'We are so f#*ked!' " The crowd went wild with laughter.
But as spectacular as the black tie gala was, by far the greatest highlight of our trip was seeing Dr. William S. Bate, whose cancer diagnosis helped save my life back in 1991. After a missed diagnosis by another doctor in San Diego, I was examined by Dr. Bate, whose biopsy confirmed what he suspected simply by looking at the swollen mass on my jaw: a malignant tumor was eating its way into the bone. Not having health insurance, we were forced to fly to Australia for medical help, where a team of surgeons excised the tumor, by that time the size of an orange. We had to pay for the operation, but $17,000 was a lot less than the $200,000 required in San Diego. I was given 18 months to live. It will soon be twenty years!

James Houston Turner and Wendy Turner

So imagine Dr. Bate's surprise when I walked into his office to say thanks. He and I had not seen each other since 1991 and he did not even know that I was alive. He asked where I had gone for my treatment and I told him. He said, "There are few places in the world better than Adelaide, Australia, for what you had done. They did a magnificent job."
We shook hands and a beaming Dr. Bate said I had made his day. I told him he had made my life.
Thanks to Dr. William S. Bate, Dr. Dan Hains, Dr. James Katsaros, Dr. Peter O'Brien, and Dr. Liz Coates, James Houston Turner continues to write thrillers from his home in Adelaide, South Australia. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com.

There is no God, says the Bible.

"There is no God," says the Bible. It's right there, plain and simple, for everyone to see. Psalm 14:1. Think I'm kidding? Check it out for yourself. Don't worry about which version of the Bible you're using; they all say pretty much the same thing.

There is no God.

Oh, yeah, I forgot about the first part of that verse. You see, in its entirety Psalm 14:1 says, "The fool has said in his heart, 'There is no God'."

The point of this has to do with what I call "hijacking" of religious texts to prove a point. I did it just now. I lifted a phrase out of context and made a misleading statement to illustrate my point.

Hijacking is nothing new, and it usually has much more serious consequences. For centuries, men have been hijacking verses to keep women quiet and exert control over every aspect of their lives (naturally, while ignoring those verses that praise their multi-task skills, initiative, and leadership abilities). Still other verses have been hijacked to prevent people from drinking alcohol, to justify slavery, conduct inquisitions, shun outsiders, and declare "holy wars" (what an oxymoron that is!).

No wonder so many people hate religion. How many wars have been fought in the name of religion? How many of us have had religion rammed down our throats? And yet how many good deeds have also been done: wells dug, people clothed and fed, houses built, hospitals built, lives saved. In other words -- faith in action. If religious zealots actually served God with something other than rhetoric, they would be building hospitals, not blowing them up. Feeding people instead of starving them.

Actions do, indeed, speak louder than words. But actions based on the whole truth, not isolated fragments.

There is a difference between passion and extremism, and the dynamics of both continue to fascinate me. Take the opening paragraph of Chapter 12 from my geopolitical thriller, The Identity Factor: "There are cities, there are great cities, and there is Jerusalem. Able to make small men feel great and great men feel small, Jerusalem is forever a passion to those who believe, a marvel to those who do not."

There is nobility in passion. But there is a line -- a precipice, if you will -- between passion and extremism ... when individualism turns malignant. And hijackers are masters at finding just the right verses to justify their malignancy. Thankfully, there are those passionate enough about protecting our common humanity to take a stand against oppression and brutality.

And not all of them are in novels.

In my case, some of them are, which is why I've invited you here. This blog will be about life as seen and experienced by a writer ... this writer.

It's about "the road between the lines," which was inspired by the book of Genesis, where one verse described Abraham being in one location, with the next verse describing him hundreds of miles away. So I asked myself one day: I wonder what happened on the actual road he traveled between those lines I just read. What took less than a minute for me must have taken weeks for Abraham. What were his days like? What did they talk about? What did they joke about? Did they get argue? Did they belch (and did everyone laugh then, as we do now when that happens)? What was the "road" for Abraham really like?

There is, of course, no way to tell apart from the historical and religious documents we have been given.

But I hope to give you some insight into my road between the lines. This is a work in progress, just as I am a work in progress, so I hope you will leave comments, which will help guide me along this road.

I look forward to hearing from you.


James Houston Turner writes thrillers from his home in Adelaide, South Australia. You may visit him at www.jameshoustonturner.com