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...

Those Pompous, Arrogant Know-It-Alls

No, I'm not talking about the Idol judges. I'm talking about writers. You know the type: rodomontading, bombastic raconteurs, forever gasconading with big fancy words.

Thankfully, I'm not like that (as you can tell!). But it's not because I haven't tried. I just couldn't get away with it. Let me tell you what I mean.

I was in Poland in my early days as a smuggler behind the old Iron Curtain. The East German guards had reluctantly allowed our car past, having looked in every imaginable hiding place with sniffer dogs and mirrors on long handles. Finding nothing, they had waved us on. It was a warm, Indian summer day and I was bringing hard currency for the support of a contact.

After making our delivery, I paid a visit to a retirement home. It was more of an institution. A dilapidated old house with barrels outside where sauerkraut was prepared. The place was full of lonely old people. Much like today. Shuffled off to some other place so as not to interfere in the lives of their kids. Through translators, I spent a few wonderful hours chatting about our favorite topic: food. Not surprisingly, no one mentioned the sauerkraut.

I then had the privilege of attending a children's camp in a neighboring village. Ranging between the ages of nine and fourteen, the children spoke no English except for a beaming young boy named Norbert, who ran up to me yelling, "Pizza ... Mickey Mouse ... Disneyland!" That was the extent of his English. He gave me a hug and called his friends over. His friends all hugged me and began talking in rapid Polish. They were wonderful kids: generous and giving and honest in their affection, as kids usually are.

The town where the camp was located had a dilapidated train station that saw an old steam engine hiss to a stop twice a week with its string of sooty carriages. Huge trees shaded streets of broken pavement, and along each side were large three-story houses with louvered shutters, slate roofs and crumbling plaster walls. Years of war and Soviet occupation had been hard on the people. No one could afford the upkeep. Coal was the main source of heating. The air smelled of it. Food was also scarce. Bread lines were more common than bread.

But these hardships did not dampen the spirits of the children, who were singing happily as we walked to the station to watch the train arrive. It was the way kids hung out together in a country without shopping malls.

The station itself was an old wooden structure with scalloped trim. Once grand and picturesque, it was rundown like everything else. With the smell of coal heavy in the air, we marched up the ramp and onto the concrete platform as the train ground to a stop. Passengers paused to look at the music and laughter filling the air.

We approached an old woman with a wooden push cart piled high with strawberries and cherries. She was bent over with age and wore a faded floral dress. She had a bandana tied over her hair. The kids pooled their meager savings and bought two small paper sacks bulging with fruit. I offered to buy each of them a sack but they wouldn't hear of it. Nor would they permit me to buy a sack for myself. Instead, they then offered me some of theirs. Over twenty kids sharing two small sacks of fruit.

I will never forget the magnificent taste of that fruit. Or those children that taught me so much about generosity and happiness. The joy for those kids wasn't in getting everything they wanted. The joy for them was in sharing.

Meals for the camp were furnished by a local restaurant. Breakfast consisted of a huge pot of spaghetti boiled in milk. Lunch was a huge pile of sandwiches made of dense bread and homemade jam. Dinner was chicken and vegetables. Remember, these were Iron Curtain days and food was both scarce and expensive. The East Bloc existed purely for the benefit of the Soviet Union, which took the best of everything Poland (and other occupied Eastern European countries) had to offer. I have personally stood in a bread line for over three hours, starting before dawn, in order to buy our rationed loaf of bread. On a train, I once gave a small "brick" of coffee to a woman. She grabbed me in a tearful hug and said, "This would have cost me two month's salary."

Dinner the first day consisted of chicken breast and vegetables. On the second day, we had chicken thighs and vegetables. On the third day, we had chicken wings and vegetables. And on the fourth day, we had what was left over -- chicken intestines and vegetables.

Yes, chicken intestines. They had been prepared in a sweet and sour sauce in order to masquerade the taste of intestine, not to mention the gelatinous giblet paste that had been packed inside them. It looked terrible. It smelled revolting.

But I wasn't about to let these kids see me as a spoiled Westerner. No way. I was a Cool Dude Writer. I knew big words. I could eat anything and not complain. So I dug in and made a big deal of how much I loved the meal.

"Ummm, yum," I moaned with mock delight while nodding and smacking my lips.

I could see the kids watching me carefully while they picked at their vegetables. Vegetables only, mind you -- while ignoring the intestines -- which should have been a major clue. But I was oblivious to the clue because I was so focused on letting them know how cool I was.

I sliced off more bites - "Ummm, yum," I exclaimed while washing them down with the artificially brilliant yellow drink we had been given.

Suddenly, nearly every kid at the table began scraping their sweet-and-sour intestines onto my plate. "I'm not eating this stuff," they all began saying. The translaters, who interpreted for me, howled with laughter at the shocked look on my face.

Yes, those kids taught me a valuable lesson: don't try to be someone you're not.

So you see: being a know-it-all Cool Dude Writer isn't something I'm very good at. Someone always discovers the truth. My abruptly grounded ego notwithstanding, I have never eaten chicken intestines since.

Australia's Political Message to the World: Grime Pays

Australia recently held an election and the subtext of that election was this: grime pays -- he who plays the dirtiest wins.

Or, in this case, "she".

It was a sad day for politics. Not that politics has ever been for sissies. It's hardball. Your life becomes the proverbial fishbowl. Every detail is scrutinized, analyzed, sensationalized, paraded, caricatured, cartooned, berated, and blogged. You know the drill. "Par for the course," as the familiar golfing metaphor goes. People who go into politics know this. They've got to be tough. It's not just a recommendation; it's a requirement.

Be that as it may, we still expect a certain amount of integrity from those we elect. We trust them to do what's right for us and for the country. That doesn't mean each individual gets everything he or she wants. It should mean the needs and concerns of individuals get heard and balanced with the needs and concerns of other individuals ... that decisions will then be made which benefit the greater community. In other words: it's about serving the people.

The background of the Australian election is this: Kevin Rudd was elected Prime Minister in 2007 on a platform of educational reform, cutting greenhouse emissions, and increasing Australia's profile in world affairs. Youthful, energetic, and full of promise, Rudd was swept into office by a landslide. But Rudd's progress stalled. His popularity plummeted. And Rudd's Australian Labor Party (ALP) did what any good political organization -- or tin-pot dictator -- would do: they staged a coup. They killed off their leader. In Australia's case, I'm speaking politically. But the similarities are tragically similar.

You see, these days politics is not so much about policy, it's about popularity. How in the world is a leader supposed to lead -- to make tough choices -- when his party cares more about winning the next election than doing what's right by the people? No wonder nothing gets done. No one wants to make a tough choice for fear of falling ratings.

Recalling the drama of ancient Rome, when Julius Caesar was stabbed by his good buddy, Brutus, Rudd was unceremoniously "knifed" by his deputy, Julia Gillard, who led a blindside revolt against Rudd's leadership. The ALP voted him out and installed Gillard as Prime Minister just days after Gillard was proclaiming her steadfast loyalty, insisting she was positively not interested in the job. Three cheers for the "grime" of politics ... for playing dirty to get ahead. Thankfully, the deed did not go unnoticed by the world, as this video spoof from Taiwan illustrates (subtitled in English).

Did Rudd deserve what he got? Was a change in leadership warranted? If he was a waffler on making important decisions, then his advisors should have kicked his butt. That's why you have trusted advisors. To tell you hard truths you need to hear. But that didn't happen. What happened was a betrayal.

The rub for me wasn't that change occurred. It was needed to get Australia back on track. The rub for me was that the people Rudd trusted lied to his face and then stabbed him in the back. What does this say to the governments of other nations? It says beware of Australia. They will betray you if it serves their purposes, no matter what they tell you to your face. It means "fair dinkum" -- doing what's right and fair -- no longer is the Aussie standard. It's an unfortunate message, because there are many honest, hard-working people in government. Sadly, in this election, that's not what people saw.

The good news is that a major segment of the Australian public voiced their disapproval at the ballot box. At least on the street (in many places, at least) "fair dinkum" still rules.

"We the people." It's something elected representatives should never forget.

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.

Three Women Who Changed The World

Every Mother's Day, and every late August and early September, I remember three women -- three mothers -- who changed the world. A wide spectrum of individuals and nations, families and fans, anonymous and infamous mourned when they died. Each woman is a powerful illustration of the impact one person can have on the lives of others.

Diana, Princess of Wales. Photo courtesy The Sydney Morning Herald

The first was a woman of exceptional beauty and style. Born Diana Frances Spencer until her 1981 marriage to Charles, Prince of Wales, "Princess Diana" was tragically killed in a car crash on August 31, 1997. Ten years later, her extraordinary life was commemorated with the spectacular Concert for Diana, in London's Wembley Stadium. Playing to a sellout crowd of 60,000 and a global audience of more than 500 million in more than 140 countries, the concert featured Sir Elton John, Rod Stewart, Fergie, Nelly Furtado, Sean "P. Diddy" Combs, Duran Duran, Josh Groban, and a host of other luminaries. Organized by Diana's sons, Prince William and Prince Harry, the concert was a virtual Who's Who of the music world.

And while the performances were outstanding, I was more impressed by the love and devotion of two young men who simply missed their mother and wanted her life and accomplishments to be celebrated. Even Australia's "Sixty Minutes" got in on the act by airing an interview with Prince William and Prince Harry. I felt an immediate bond with those two young men, mainly because I lost my mother just over a week after they lost theirs.

And whereas Diana was a passionate champion for the rights of the disadvantaged and people with AIDS, my mom was a passionate champion for a little fat kid with a wild imagination.

Born in Kansas in 1904, Vera Anna Florance Turner was ninety-three years old when pancreatic cancer took her life. She was a petite woman who loved dirty jokes, butter fried chicken, designer labels and White Zinfandel wine. I'll never forget her serving up a pot of boiled turnips that looked just like mashed potatoes, then laughing so hard she almost wet herself when we spit them out.

Vera Florance Turner

I learned a lot about laughter and pranks from my mom. She also cultivated in me two extremely valuable qualities: curiosity and imagination. She encouraged me to build things, collect things, invent things. I once drilled holes in my bedroom door, much like the points on a compass, in order to make an electric combination lock. She helped me build a photo lab in my closet and a chemistry lab in the basement. It's a wonder I didn't burn down the house. She taught me to cook and sew, and she attended every one of my football games, many of them in driving rain. Neighborhood kids were always welcome at our house, and often stayed for dinner (unannounced, of course). My mom was a wizard at making food stretch. I learned about sacrifice and giving from my mom. I also had the privilege of being with her the final weeks of her life, where we talked about life's lessons and the good ol' days. It was a chance to say good-bye ... to say things that needed to be said.

Although blind for many years, my mom loved strawberries. Especially Arkansas strawberries. If you've ever had one, you know what I mean. They are magnificent. One day during her final weeks of life, I happened to see some in the store and bought them. When I returned to her hospital room, I held one in front of her nose and said, "Here, Mom, have a sniff."

"Oh, Jim, that's an Arkansas strawberry!" she exclaimed at the unmistakable fragrance. And she proceeded to eat the whole punnet ... after which she said she wanted a hamburger and fries for dessert! She was always one for doing things her own way.

As she sat there in bed eating her strawberries, she admitted she was frightened at the prospect of dying. So I read some verses from the Bible that talked about eternity and how there will one day be no more disease or suffering or getting old ... how we'll be skipping and dancing and singing ... and of course eating strawberries.

When finished, I said, "Mom, I don't know everything, but I do believe this: the strawberries will be sweeter in heaven. Even better than these Arkansas berries. So if you happen to get there ahead of me, would you pleeease save me one? I know you have a tendency to eat every one you can find." She laughed and squeezed my hand. "I'll do it!" she said. "I'll save you one! I may even save you a couple."

My mom died peacefully on September 9, 1997. A woman of newfound faith. A woman at peace. A woman I will always remember and whose life I will always celebrate in my writing.

But there is another woman who died about the same time as Princess Diana and my mom. I wonder if anyone will ever give her a concert? I wonder if Sixty Minutes will ever devote any air time to her life? You certainly don't see her on many magazine covers, and to my knowledge she has never been listed in the Top 100 most beautiful women in the world. I reckon she should be, because she radiates warmth and love like no woman I've ever seen. Her name is Mother Teresa.

Born Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu, in Macedonia, in 1910, Mother Teresa felt the call of God at the age of twelve. At the age of eighteen, she left home and joined the Sisters of Loreto, an Irish community of nuns with missions in India. Soon after, she took her vows and began teaching at St. Mary's High School in Calcutta, where she was so moved by the suffering and poverty around her that she started an open-air school for slum children.

In 1950, she started what would become known as the Missionaries for Charity. Its purpose was to care for the hungry, the homeless, the crippled, the blind, the unwanted, the unloved, the uncared for throughout society, including lepers.

"Mother Teresa" Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu

For Mother Teresa, serving God meant showing love and mercy to anyone in need. What a difference from those who claim to serve God but turn a blind eye to the suffering of others ... who blow up hospitals instead of building them.

In 1979 Mother Teresa was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize because of all the lives she had saved. Not surprisingly, she asked that the $192,000 award be given to the poorest of India.

Some fundamentalist terrorists were recently discovered working in England as doctors. They were cloaked with mantle of helping people while secretly plotting to kill them. Mother Teresa, by contrast, once commanded a temporary cease fire between the Israeli army and Palestinian guerrillas in order to rescue thirty-seven children trapped in a war zone hospital. When the Iron Curtain collapsed a few years later, her Missionaries of Charity initiated numerous projects in the former Soviet East Bloc. By 1996, she was operating over five hundred missions in more than one hundred countries. THAT, my friends, is serving God.

If you believe in the "butterfly effect" – that the tiniest of actions can cause a chain of events leading to a large-scale result - then your actions and mine can lead to consequences that can and will affect others. Perhaps one, perhaps one million – who knows?

And while I don't know everything, I do indeed believe this: one person CAN make a difference. These three did.

Three women who changed the world.

Three women who changed my world.

From his home in Adelaide, Australia, James Houston Turner writes suspense thrillers filled with these same kind of men and women. You may visit him at his website: www.jameshoustonturner.com.