“Back From Graceland” By Jim Bennett November 19, 2009

The only thing missing was the aroma of Brut.

 A few weeks ago I gleefully announced that the Mrs. had arranged for me to fulfill a lifelong dream:  We would visit Graceland, home of the late, great King of Rock ‘n’ Roll, Mr. Elvis Aaron Presley.
            My joyful anticipation prompted many who had already made the trip – including the Mrs. herself – to warn me not to get my hopes up about what I might see there.  “It’s not what you think,” they all said. 
            But I wasn’t disappointed.  Not in the least.  In fact, every expectation I had was thoroughly exceeded.
            Memphis is rich in character, color, and legacy; there are breathtaking antebellum mansions, magnificent restaurants and galleries, and there is the musical carnival that is Beale Street. 

Kinda like Bourbon St. in Nawlins, except with older tourists, less profanity, no nudity, and fewer con men.

 But the cultural hues of the city, vibrant though they may be, have simply been overwhelmed by the imposing shadow of Graceland.   Like Elvis himself, his famous home has eclipsed and influenced everything (and everyone) around her.  It’s as if the entire city has become little more than a glorified yard for that one mansion.  And the nearer one draws to the King’s castle, the more boldly this phenomenon presents itself. 

I have reason to believe we all will be received at Graceland.

Virtually every native we met inquired, “Have you been to Elvis’s house yet?”  (I got into the spirit of things, naturally:  Each time a friendly local asked where we were staying, I would reply, “In the ghetto.”  Eventually, the Mrs.explained that I was the only one who actually found this amusing.)         
            By the time we finally reached Elvis Presley Boulevard, I didn’t see a single business that didn’t have some kind of Elvis pun in its name.  I expected the “Hound Dog Veterinary Hospital,” of course, and “Jailhouse Rock Bail Bonds” was no surprise.  But I was a little shocked by the “Suspicious Minds Psychiatric Clinic,” and I still question the propriety of the “Return to Sender Funeral Home.”
            Nonetheless, it all made sense once we walked through the front door.  The house was quiet, despite being packed with people.  Part of the hush is due to the elimination of human guides.  The tour is now self-guided; visitors are given headphones and a digital audio device programmed to play a pre-recorded spiel about each room.  For normal people, this approach provokes silence, giving the tour its tone of reverent awe.  For the pathologically chatty visitor like me, however, this method just means that I will forget that I’m surrounded by people and end up making a lot of embarrassing verbal declarations at the top of my lungs that I would normally keep to myself, like these gems:
            “Wow!  Now THAT’S a long couch!  I could take two naps at the same time on that sucker!”           

            “Maybe I could bribe security to let me upstairs. Why, if I could get a photo of that porcelain throne that the King rode into eternity, I could sell it to the National Enquirer and recoup whatever it costs me to grease the guard.”
            “How ironic that a man who hated televisions enough to hunt them down and shoot them for sport would also love them enough to watch three sets at once.”
            It was all there, and I savored every bit of it:  The “Lisa Marie” jet; the rhinestone-spangled jumpsuits and the ’68 Comeback leather ensemble; the gold records; and all those fabulous cars.
            What was unsettling for me, though, was concluding the tour at Elvis’s graveside.  I had just stepped out of a house which, during his life, was considered the ultimate in extravagance.  Now I was faced with his grave, a bleak, tacit reminder that all the wealth, adoration, and achievement in the world can’t delay that one inevitable appointment.
            It reminded me of “Citizen Kane,” and that Coleridge quote at the beginning:  “In Xanadu did Kubla Khan a stately pleasure-dome decree…”  Like the film’s titular character, Elvis came from nothing, yet he ascended to the highest heights of human materialistic desire.  For both Kane and the King, even everything wasn’t enough; their self-destructive appetites first embittered them, and then consumed them.      
            In Ecclesiastes 5:10, Solomon declared, “He that loveth silver shall not be satisfied with silver; nor he that loveth abundance with increase: this is also vanity.” 
            There’s a statue of Christ and the cross near the grave.  Elvis had decreed a stately pleasure-dome indeed, but it is Jesus alone who prepares our eternal, heavenly mansions. And they aren’t for sale – they’re free.  Whether any of us takes up residence will not be decided by our bank accounts or our achievements.  It will all come down to whether or not we have turned to Jesus in repentance of our sins and trusted in him alone for forgiveness and salvation. 
            Elvis’s Graceland may sit high atop a hill, but in the land of the grace of Christ, his shed blood makes the ground perfectly level for all of us.

“Christianity Caused the Recession, but Islam Didn’t Contribute to Fort Hood Massacre” November 15, 2009

I saw this on the magazine stand at Union Station in Chicago yesterday.  At first I thought it was some kind of parody, like The Onion.   It isn’t. 

In all fairness, the article does refer to the prosperity gospel chicanery of the name-it-and-claim-it, word-faith frauds.  (Even so, to describe the article’s hypothesis as “a stretch” is to be exceedingly charitable;  I’m as disturbed by the Benny Hinns and Creflo Dollars of this world as much as the next Baptist, but to blame them for the cataclysmic folly of Barney Frank and Christopher Dodd is fantasy activism.)  

Looking at the cover, however, there is no distinction drawn between those health-and-wealth con men and legitimate, sincere, biblical believers. 

Now, in Islamic regions, in parts of India, and in communist nations like China and North Korea, persecution simply comes with being a Christ-follower.  Here in the States, though, the church still has it pretty soft and cushy (which is why the American church herself is, for the most part, soft and cushy).  Nonetheless, even here we are seeing the earliest and mildest signs of what is to come.  Magazine covers like this one are merely a foretaste. 

When Emperor Nero wanted to initiate his own campaign of anti-Christian slaughter, he first needed to scapegoat the church.  He did it by pinning a disaster on them.  Granted, it was a devastating fire and not a financial collapse, but I think the parallels are apt enough.

In 64 A.D. a fire destroyed 10 of the 14 wards of Rome.  The citizens suspected Nero was behind the fire.  In Annals of Imperial Rome (XV.44), the Roman historian Tacitus wrote an account of Nero’s response:

    “Consequently, to get rid of the report, Nero fastened the guilt and inflicted the most exquisite tortures on a class hated for their abominations, called Christians by the populace. Christus, from whom the name had its origin, suffered the extreme penalty during the reign of Tiberius at the hands of one of our procurators, Pontius Pilatus…  Accordingly, an arrest was first made of all who pleaded guilty; then, upon their information, an immense multitude was convicted, not so much of the crime of firing the city, as of hatred against mankind. Mockery of every sort was added to their deaths. Covered with the skins of beasts, they were torn by dogs and perished, or were nailed to torture-stakes, or were doomed to the flames and burnt, to serve as a nightly illumination, when daylight had expired.”

Nero killed two birds with one stone.  He deflected the blame for the fire from himself, and he finally had a viable rationalization for his “final solution” to wipe out all Christians.

Some would say, “Well, this magazine cover does hit on Christianity, but other religions take a beating in the media too.”  Really?  Let’s contrast the Atlantic cover against one recent incident:  The Fort Hood Massacre.  The Culture and Media Institute is a conservative group that monitors journalists and media trends.  Their recent study* on the way the major network news broadcasts are handling the story is very telling.  Below are some highlights, but I encourage you to read the entire report for yourself:

    85 percent of the broadcast stories didn’t mention the word “terror.” ABC, CBS, and NBC evening news referenced terrorism connections to the Fort Hood attack just seven times in 48 reports.

   Slightly more than one-fourth (29 percent) of evening news reports mentioned that Maj. Nidal Malik Hasan was a Muslim. Of those, half (7 out of 14) defended the religion or included experts to do so.

In short:  Christianity caused the recession, but Islamic terrorism didn’t contribute to the Fort Hood Massacre. 

Got that?

In Matthew 10:17-23, Jesus said, “But beware of men: for they will deliver you up to the councils, and they will scourge you in their synagogues; And ye shall be brought before governors and kings for my sake, for a testimony against them and the Gentiles.  But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak.  For it is not ye that speak, but the Spirit of your Father which speaketh in you.  And the brother shall deliver up the brother to death, and the father the child: and the children shall rise up against their parents, and cause them to be put to death.  And ye shall be hated of all men for my name’s sake: but he that endureth to the end shall be saved.   But when they persecute you in this city, flee ye into another: for verily I say unto you, Ye shall not have gone over the cities of Israel, till the Son of man be come.”

Watch and pray, Believers.

*”PC News: Networks Downplay Terrorism, Muslim Connection in Ft. Hood Attack”
By Carolyn Plocher and Dan Gainor

“‘Dear Jimmy’ – A New Advice Column” By Jim Bennett November 10, 2009

            One of the benefits of writing this column is the mail I receive from readers.  I’ve been surprised, however, by a recent spate of missives from folks seeking my counsel in their personal affairs.  After all, I’m not an advice columnist.
            Or am I?  
            As I see it, there are really just three requirements for an advice column:  (1) Space in a newspaper.  Check!  (2) Questions from people seeking guidance.  Check!  (3) A self-righteous, didactic crackpot to answer those questions.  Check and double check!  Let’s light this candle!
 
            Dear Jimmy,
            I’m a 38-year-old man.  While I was at the SciFi Expo last year, I met the Padmé to my Anakin.  But recently, she made the jump to hyperspace and is hinting hard about marriage.  The thought of moving out of the Jedi Temple (Mom’s basement) gives me tummy bubbles.  The walls of this relationship are closing in like the garbage compactor in a Death Star detention block.  Help!  –Jittery Jedi
 
            Dear Jittery,
            Help you I can, yes.  A sewing room in her basement your mother desires, but in her way your bed with Ewok sheets is.  Always in motion is the future.  Of doing your laundry, tired is she.  Adulthood and marriage, fear them not, and a momma’s boy, be no longer.  Choice of you by girl I will understand never, but die alone you will, with action figures as only companions, if this one chance you miss.
                    
Dear Jimmy,
            Please settle an ongoing dispute my wife and I are having over the upbringing of our only child.   We both love our son “Roger” very much, but we have vastly differing ideas about how he should be raised.  I want him to try out for football and engage in other manly pursuits like mixed martial arts cage matches, ding-dong-ditch, the Sun Dance ritual, and belching the alphabet.  My wife, however, is adamant that Roger must spend all his free time doing nothing but scherenschnitte, collecting Hummel figurines, and perfecting his Trout Almondine recipe for the state fair.  He recently refused to watch “True Grit” with me because the Bravo Network was airing a “Project Runway” marathon.  His classmates have started calling him “Baron Dainty Von Prancengiggle.”  Now, I don’t know what that means, but I’m certain it’s not a compliment.  I’m scared.  Am I too late to raise him into swarthy, high-fiving, NASCAR manhood?  Is there anything I can do?   –Desperate Dad
 
Dear Desperate,
            You’re too late.  There’s nothing you can do.  Sorry.
 
Dear Jimmy,
            After a whirlwind courtship, I recently became engaged to the man of my dreams.  The problem is that my parents despise him.  Whenever I try to emphasize my fiancé’s good qualities, they only point out his flaws.  For example, when I describe him as a courageous man of action, Dad mocks him for his fear of flying.  When I praise him for serving our country as a member of a crack commando unit, my mother condemns him for being sent to prison by a military court.  “But it was for a crime he didn’t commit!” I’ll say, only to have Daddy immediately remind me, for the millionth time, how my future husband and his three friends promptly escaped from a maximum security stockade to the Los Angeles underground, how they’re still wanted by the government, how they survive as soldiers of fortune, blah, blah, blah… 
            All the conflict is stressing me out, and my fiancé is growing tired of all this jibba-jabba.  How can I persuade my folks to give this marriage their blessing? –Wanna-Be Mrs. T
 
Dear Wanna-Be,
            Simply arrange to have your parents abducted by a band of ruthless Bolivian drug smugglers (check Craigslist.com) or a bizarre mind-control cult (check Scientology.org) and instruct the kidnappers to hold Mom and Dad hostage in a heavily-guarded desert bunker.  Then have your fiancé and his friends infiltrate the compound by posing as renegade arms dealers with military-grade weaponry for sale.  After the enigmatic, sinister leader of the cult/cartel sees through the ruse, his army of henchmen will chase your Mr. Right and his three confederates to an abandoned mine nearby.  Once barricaded inside, they can use a rusted mining cart, some pipes, and a crate full of discarded dynamite to construct a crude tank.  Blasting their way back into the villains’ lair, they free your parents and bring them home.  Having won your parents’ blessing, you and their now-beloved son-in-law-to-be jump in the van and go get on the bridal registry at Pier 1 Imports.  Your mother prepares a baked custard with a layer of caramelized sugar on the bottom to give to her rescuers as a thank you gift.  This is sure to delight their cigar-chomping leader; he loves it when a flan comes together.
            Next week’s column:  Jim’s Graceland diary!

On Dobson’s Retirement by Jim Bennett November 3, 2009

     Dr. James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family ministries and host of its radio program, is leaving the airwaves. For three decades, he has been the scourge of liberals and a trusted resource for conservative Christians; indeed, it seems people view him as either one extreme or the other. I’m that rare case who is ambivalent about him, so if you’re hoping to read either a hagiography or a broadside, you’re about to be disappointed.

     1.5 million people listen to Dr. Dobson’s program every weekday, and most Christian stations broadcast it. I cut my ministry teeth on Christian radio and I never worked anywhere that didn’t carry the show. Even a decade ago, when I was just starting, Dobson’s influence could not be overestimated. He has come to be viewed as something of a “kingmaker,” and politicians vie for a nod from him on his program; such a gesture could translate into hundreds of thousands of votes. Because he’s so respected by his listeners, he can marshal that enormous audience to bombard Congress with letters and phone calls. And he can organize a boycott quicker than an ACORN staffer can cook the books for a bordello.

     I and my fellow social conservatives owe a great debt to this man. We who grieve over the American holocaust of abortion have a great friend in Jim Dobson. We who view marriage as God’s sacred union of one man and one woman for life – a picture of Christ and the church – have a valued and effective ally in him. We who choose to educate our children at home rather than in public or private schools have found him to be one of our staunchest defenders against NEA propagandists and the paternalistic, intrusive regulatory presence of bureaucratic busybodies.

     Other groups would be quick to thank him as well: For example, those who struggle with unwanted same-sex attractions are given no hope from establishment psychiatry, and homosexual activists only tell them that the change they seek is mythical; however, Focus’s Love Won Out conferences have helped thousands see that “myth” become a reality. And he has been an outspoken advocate for parents who feel that ADHD diagnoses and mood-altering medications are being foisted on their sons, boys who were guilty of nothing more than the sometimes-inconvenient-but-altogether-normal behaviors of boyhood.

     But just like the rest of us, Dobson has his problems too, one of which is his skin: It’s just far too thin for the path he has chosen. His response to criticism is usually pouty, petty defensiveness. Not a good look for a man in his seventies. I’m just sayin’.

     And there’s something disturbing about his tendency to be star-struck by any celebrity remotely connected to Christianity. When Mel Gibson was plugging The Passion of the Christ, Dobson brought him on and practically canonized him as the apostle to Hollywood. Not long after, Gibson was caught driving drunk and during his arrest, he delivered his now-infamous anti-Semitic conspiracy rant.

     Just this year, Dobson gave 2009 Miss USA 1st runner-up Carrie Prejean the same treatment: To her credit, she had spoken out against same-sex marriage during the pageant, yet she seemed to have no moral dilemma when it came to posing for some prurient photographs. Dobson praised her for the former and had little to say about the latter, holding her out as a fine example of Christian womanhood who had been martyred by the media. I was still program director at a Christian station at that time, and we were given a choice between airing the Prejean interview or using an alternate show. We aired the alternate, and I’m glad.

     But my deepest conflict is over the times that, in my estimation, his patriotic fervor and his ardor for conservative political activism – which are both fine ideals in my book – have appeared almost to rival his zeal for the Gospel. This should never be, and I don’t think it helps the cause of Christ or the cause of conservatism.  My few complaints aside, however, James Dobson has advanced both causes in lots of other ways.

     Over the past few months, the mainstream media types haven’t hidden their celebratory glee over indications that evangelicals, especially Dobson, are becoming less politically and culturally influential. I personally feel that the celebration is premature; I believe this “trend” that they’re celebrating probably results from the combination of their own wishful thinking and their lack of connection to the America that exists outside of N.Y., L.A., and D.C.

     Nevertheless, the celebration is going to continue. Big-time scribblers and talking heads won’t allow reality to interfere with their conclusions. Certainly, the announcement that Dobson will step down in February of 2010 has made the gala even more festive for them, but one thing is for sure: Come March, the media party is going to need a new piñata.

“Graceland, Here I Come” by Jim Bennett October 27, 2009

                                                                                                     

 I don’t know about you, but it’s a rare occasion indeed when I get to fulfill a lifelong dream.  There was that time in 1994 when I accidentally got free cable TV for two whole days, but other than that, most of the other monumental aspirations of my youth have gone unrealized.  Please don’t pity me.  I accepted long ago, for example, that I’ll probably never develop super powers, open my own jazz dance studio, or read an entire book, and you know what?  I’m okay with that, and never more so than now, because I’m about to check off the only item on my bucket list that matters:  I’m going to Graceland, Graceland, in Memphis, Tennessee, I’m going to Graceland.
       The Mrs. and I always try to celebrate the anniversary of our first date with a just-the-two-of-us getaway.  Now, I realize a lot of you fellows take a nostalgic approach, rekindling those old fires by taking your wife back to that same quaint bistro and romantic ballroom where you first charmed her, but I can’t do that anymore.  There’s not a Mr. Quick’s within miles of here, and good luck finding any cockfights in this day and age.  (Way to ruin it for everybody, PETA!)  Besides, if I genuinely want to relive the most memorable part of our first date, we don’t have to go out – she can slap my face right here in the comfort of our home.
            But I digress.  This year my bride, who has endured 16 years of my Graceland hard sell, finally caved.  This has long been a sticking-point in our otherwise loving and healthy relationship.  You see, the Mrs. has actually toured Graceland (that’s the main reason I married her) and – get this – she “didn’t find it all that impressive; in fact, it’s awfully tacky.”  She actually said that!  I ask you, would the King of Rock ‘n’ Roll hold court in some gaudy dump appointed in a cheesy 1970’s Home Interiors motif with avocado-colored deep-plush shag carpeting?  This is Elvis Presley we’re talking about.  Be serious.

Tastefully understated.

            As a kid, I couldn’t even hold one end of a jump rope for the neighbor girls without singing “In the Ghetto” into the handle.  During my teens and twenties, I seldom left my makeshift basement laboratory where I spent every waking hour working on a number of Elvis-related inventions:  The ill-fated “Rogaine for Sideburns” and a pair of plus-size motorized chinos which would have allowed the wearer to perfectly simulate the King’s trademark gyrations.  And my thirties were devoted to recreating the diet and exercise regimen of Elvis’ later years with results that are nothing short of startling.

Like me, the King was just big-boned.

            Yet here she is:  She has walked through the Hall of Gold in person!  She has stood next to his rhinestone-covered jumpsuits and capes.  (CAPES, I say!)  She has seen the Lisa Marie, the flying Graceland, and acts as if it’s no big deal!  But that’s alright, mama.  When you handed me those Memphis-bound train tickets, I was overwhelmed with delight.                 

        So now I’ve got less than a month to prepare.  I’ve begun writing my souvenir shopping list (I hear there’s a gift shop or two in the Graceland area).   The ’68 Comeback snow globe with a small, black leather-clad Elvis immersed in a sphere of clear fluid is a must:  A few good shakes and you’ve got yourself one tiny, chilly King of Rock ‘n’ Roll; The Colonel Tom Parker action figure with Kung-Fu grip (useful for yoinking 50 to 80 percent of Elvis Presley’s gross earnings. Ethics not included); and there’s no way I’m coming home without the Gladys Love Presley low-cal, low-fat, whole food cookbook.  I am so going to learn how to make a proper peanut butter and banana sandwich.
            I know what you’re thinking:  “Jim, why on earth is a middle-aged country preacher so enthusiastic about all this Elvis nonsense?  50 years ago, wouldn’t you have been one of those fire-and-brimstone types who staged a big bonfire of all of his records?” 
            First of all, it’s not Elvis himself I’m concerned about.  I don’t even own any of his music or movies.  It’s the enduring spectacle that surrounds him that fascinates me.  But secondly, yes, I probably would have been among those preachers 50 years ago who were calling for all those records to be incinerated.  I’m just that cranky and ornery.  But it’s irrelevant, really:  This is 2009, not 1959.  Today, there’s no need to burn up copies of Elvis Presley’s records. 
            That’s what the collected works of Michael Bublé are for.