If you’ve never heard of the seminal American rock guitarist Link Wray, his Wiki page is here.

By way of remembering Wray, who died four years ago yesterday, I thought I’d share with you the below, which is a review I wrote of a show of his that I saw maybe ten years ago, at a club called The Casbah in San Diego. The video above could have been taken that night: that’s exactly how he looked. (Thanks for the link, Laura!)

Link Wray is arguably the first—and unarguably one of the finest—American rock guitarists. On his four-million selling 1958 single “Rumble” (the only purely instrumental tune ever to be banned from radio: it instigated rumbles, don’t you know) Link introduced the Rock God guitar sound that later inspired Pete Townshend, Jimmy Page, Jeff Beck, Bob Dylan, Paul McCartney and Jimi Hendrix—to name just six who have named Wray a primary influence on their own work.

It’s legitimate to wonder what American rock would sound like today if it weren’t for the galvanizing guitar genius of Link Wray.

Today Mr. Wray is a thin, pale, 70-year-old with one lung (he lost the other decades ago to tuberculosis contracted during his service in the Korean war). You’d think that would slow him up a little. Think again. With his flowing black ponytail, sleeveless black T-shirt, bluejeans and ever-donned Ray-Bans, Link is still every bit the sort of feral, menacing punk your mother begs you not to hang out with. From the opening chord of “Rumble”—routinely referred to as the most important D chord in history—through his shingle-shaking encore some ninety minutes later, Ray prowled around the Casbah stage like a caged puma, executing the kind of blindingly fast fretboard work and maelstroms of precise phrasing that for the past forty-five or so years have proven so crucial in the development of everything from rockabilly to punk.

If this is old, bring on the Geritol.

Backed by a ferociously talented young bass player, and perhaps the only drummer in rock ‘n roll capable of simultaneously driving a beat and playing a trumpet, Link pretty much stuck to the sound for which he is most revered: the dirty, hickory-flavored, reverberating guitar tones that made “Rumble” such a hormone-generating menace to society.

Serving up steaming slabs of such trademark tunes as “Jack the Ripper,” “Ace of Spades,” “Raw-Hide,” and “Branded,” Ray played merciless hailstorms of fiery notes, seamlessly interspersed with the chord chunks laid down just behind the beat for which he is renowned. Challenging his delighted bass player to keep up with him, letting audience members in the front row strum his guitar while he coolly worked the frets, and constantly imploring the sound man to “Turn up the guitar, man! Turn it up!” Link Wray gave the mostly under-30 crowd something new to forever associate with the term “Rock of Ages.”

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Kidding!

[In the afterlife.]

Atheist: Wow. I can’t believe I’m dead.

God: Believe it.

Atheist: Whoa! Didn’t see you there! Who are you?

God: Hi. I’m God.

Atheist: Ha, ha. No, but seriously. Who are you?

God: I’m seriously God. It’s nice to finally meet you.

Atheist: You’re God. You’re telling me that you’re God.

God: This is what I’m saying.

Atheist: I don’t believe you.

[God instantly transforms into a colossal version of himself as Studly Old White Man, with the white robes and beard and all. In a dramatic gesture he thrusts his staff aloft. The skies rent and crack with lightning. As quickly as he changed it, God then resumes his former appearance.]

Atheist: Um. Okay. You’re definitely God.

God: Really? Are you sure? Because you don’t want to jump into anything. Perhaps what you just saw was an illusion of some kind. Maybe you’re asleep, and this is all a dream. Maybe there’s a scientific explanation for what just happened.

Atheist: [pause] You know, you’re right. Perception is a tricky thing. There could always be—

[Instantly Atheist has a second head---which, like his first now, wavers at the end of a long, rubbery neck. The two heads swing into view of one another. They both start screaming. After a moment God switches Atheist back to his former appearance.]

Atheist: [dropping to his knees] I believe I believe I believe I believe.

God: So that’s what it finally took? Two heads?

Atheist: I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.

God: Well, you should be. Please—stand up.

Atheist: [slowly rising]: I can’t believe I’ve been wrong all this time.

God: Well, that’s not important now. Right now the only thing that’s important is whether or not when you died you happened to be wearing flame-retardant underwear.

Atheist: [panicked] What?!

God: Relax. I’m kidding. They’re not going to help you.

Atheist: What?!

God: Kidding! I’m kidding, okay? I do have a sense of humor, you know.

Atheist: [calming down] No, actually, I didn’t know that. I’ve heard you don’t.

God: You hear all kinds of crazy things about me. But trust me: I have a sense of humor. You have seen pictures of dinosaurs, right? How are they not funny? Those little heads!

Atheist: Yeah, I guess dinosaurs are pretty crazy looking. Hey, whatever happened to those guys?

God: Long story.

Atheist: I’ll bet.

God: Listen, about you.

Atheist: Must we?

God: We must. You know that for the entire time you were on earth, I was almost desperately trying to communicate with you. You do know that, right?

Atheist: I guess I do now.

God: No, you do know now. I’m telling you. I never stop trying to communicate to people who have chosen not to believe in me that I am, in fact, real. That I’m here.

Atheist: I’m so sorry I didn’t listen to you.

God: So am I. And I’m sorry for no other reason besides that you knowing that I was here would have made your life so much better for you. You would have been so much happier.

Atheist: I would have been.

God: Boy, do I love me some atheists.

Atheist: You do? I mean, I’m super-glad to hear it. But why do you love atheists?

God: Well, for one, I made them, didn’t I?

Atheist: Yes. Yes, you did.

God: And I made them with free will, didn’t I?

Atheist: Yes.

God: Well, once you give someone true free will, they’re free to think, believe and do whatever they want. That’s part of the package. Besides, what kind of God would I be if I designed people so that they couldn’t do anything but love and praise me? How excruciatingly boring for me would that get?

Atheist: Pretty boring?

God: Gee, ya’ think? Who needs a bunch of applauding zombies? What I want are partners. Friends. People who love me because they choose to, not because they have to. I want real relationships. In that regard, I’m just like you or anyone else.

Atheist: I wish I would have … known that about you.

God: Well. You were stubborn.

Atheist: I was.

God: And you were also an especially capable person, weren’t you? Smart. Resourceful. Good-looking. Great personality. You had it all, baby.

Atheist: I guess I did.

God: No, you know you did. You certainly knew it then. And people like the person you were—strong, smart, capable people—are always more resistant to my overtures than are people with a little more reason to look beyond themselves.

Atheist: [pause] Yikes.

God: Yeah. Funny, isn’t it? On earth, the very things that make a person a winner are most likely to keep them a loser.

Atheist: I always thought I could handle everything myself.

God: I know you did. And how’d that work out for you?

Atheist: Terribly.

God: But you kept up a good front, didn’t you? Nary a crack in the ol’ facade, right?

Atheist: Right. That’s right. I kept up a front.

God: And all along I tried to let you know that you didn’t have to do that. I tried to let you know that I was here, that I was loving and watching out for you. The whole system you were in is designed to unceasingly prove the reality of my loving presence. The earth. The sky. Wind. The seas. All of it.

Atheist: How I wish I had listened to you!

God: How I wish everyone would!

I also wrote Bob, Satan and God in Heaven.

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Here's a standard Christian youth camp indoctrination game we like to call Follow Jesus.

Atheists: I hereby declare that you are right. I give up trying to pretend otherwise. You win. You’ve got my number. Despite everything I’ve been saying and writing for years, you know the truth, and your laser-like focus upon it that truth finally burned through my facade of deception.

So here, finally, is the truth I’ve been too long denying: All Christians are, in fact, ignorant, narrow-minded, self-righteous, intolerant, intrusive, hypocritical, fear-driven, gay-hating misogynists. And you’re right about all Christians thinking and believing exactly alike. We do. We’ve all been thoroughly indoctrinated into the machine of  Organized Religion, and are at least once a week brainwashed by our craven, egomaniacal Pastor Overlords into directly correlating our self-worth with how much money and allegiance we pledge to The Church. We’re like helpless children desperately eager to hand over responsibility for our lives to Our Leaders, in whom we unquestionably believe. We’re absolutely incapable of independent or rational thought. That’s why the mere sight of a chart of elements or a microscope makes us react like chimps being poked at with lit torches. The simple fact is that science terrifies us.

We fear knowledge.

There. I said it. And I feel so much better!

I suppose by now it’s obvious, atheists, that the sole reason I ever pretended to care or be interested in anything you said is because I was trying to lure you into becoming part of the Christian Borg. How else could I tolerate your soulless prattle? Besides relinquishing our money and time to The Church, we Christians are programmed for one thing, and one thing only: the recruitment of fresh blood into our ranks. Each Sunday every pastor tells every Christian in his congregation how many people they’re responsible for recruiting that week. If by the following Sunday a Christian has failed to meet that week’s conversion quota, he or she must do penance by washing and detailing the pastor’s car right after the service. That’s why pastors’ cars always look so great. It’s amazing what a little Turtle Wax and guilt can do.

I want to thank you, atheists, for finally breaking down my barriers, and allowing me to admit that you’ve been right all along. None of we Christians are intellectually curious, genuinely compassionate, congenitally independent, or more interested in truth than doctrine. You were right to insist that all Christians are exactly alike, despite all the fake evidence that we take pains to everywhere provide you to the contrary. Some people say that bigotry and blindly stereotyping people is shamefully stupid. But I think it’s safe to say that, time and time again, you atheists have proven that theory to be as wrong as wrong gets.

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After I posted yesterday’s Why Won’t the U.S. Christian Community Return My Phone Calls?, my phone rang. It was them! Here’s how my conversation with the U.S. Christian Community went:

My phone: Ring. Ring. Ri—

Me: Hello?

U.S. Christian Community: Is this John Shore?

Me: Who wants to know?

USCC: My, my. That sounds like the response of a guilty person.

Me: Who is this?

USCC: This is the U.S. Christian community, John.

Me: No. Way.

USCC: Way.

Me: I’ve been calling you guys forever.

USCC: Yes, we read that on your blog.

Me: You guys read my blog?

USCC: Yes. And we’d like to apologize for not returning your calls sooner. As you can imagine, we get a lot of phone calls.

Me: No worries. So you guys read my blog, ‘eh? That’s great, because I—

USCC: Your blog is actually one of the things we wanted to talk to you about. John, do you think your blog is pleasing to God?

Me: Why? Did he say something about it?

USCC: Ah, there’s that sense of humor. You do understand, don’t you, John, that when you write something to be read by the public, you’re doing so as a representative of God?

Me: I am? I mean … okay.

USCC: And that’s why it’s so important, John, that what you write is genuinely pleasing to God.

Me: Okay, seriously: Did God say something about my blog? Because I try to use a good picture with every post, and I always run the spell check, and …

USCC: It’s more your content that we’re concerned about, John. For instance, we’ve noticed that you do a lot of blogging about homosexuals. Now, why do you think that is?

Me: Well, the reason I sometimes write about the relationship between Christians and homosexuality is because I’m profoundly uncomfortable with the state of that relationship today. I think too many Christians are a little too interested in keeping gays and lesbians out of their church. I think it’s critical that, as loving people of a loving God, we—

USCC: And you also do a lot of writing discouraging Christians from evangelizing to non-believers, do you not?

Me: I do not. What I do write about is the relationship between The Great Commission and The Great Commandment. Because, again, as a loving—

USCC: John, do you believe in the Bible?

Me: I don’t know what that question means. I believe the story of Jesus is absolutely true, if that’s what you’re asking me. The virgin birth of Jesus, his miracles, his resurrection, his atoning sacrifice on the cross … I believe all of it.

USCC: So you do believe the Bible is the word of God?

Me: Well now, see, that’s a different—and, as you must know, an extremely loaded—question. And it’s one that doesn’t actually make sense. It’s like asking if I believe in water. I believe the Bible is a book. Can we start with that? It has a cover; it comes with pages. I definitely believe the Bible is a book.

USCC: The Bible is the word of God, John.

Me: Well, there’s certainly no question but that it was written by men who were deeply inspired by the Holy Spirit. No one but God could possibly have written such a book. But the simple, unarguable fact remains that over thousands of years the books of the Bible were actually, physically written by men, in whatever language those men happen to speak or write at the time. So ultimately the Bible is a cooperative venture between God and man. But I don’t think that lessens the Bible at all. In fact, I think it allows us to—

USCC: John, do you fear going to hell?

Me: Boy, you’re not afraid to ask the tough questions, are you, U.S. Christian community?

USCC: We fear for your soul, John.

Me: Oh, thanks! But I’m okay. Seriously. I am. But I appreciate your concern.

USCC: We love you, brother.

Me: And I love you. It’s an important point to make. I do love you, no matter what you think you might have read on my blog.

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“Hey John,” wrote Latoya, one of what I’m sure are my many readers in Jamaica. “Could you do a post on how the Christian community in the U.S. views Halloween?”

I’d love to, Latoya! I feel I should tell you, though, that the U.S. Christian community hardly ever returns my phone calls.

“Oh, we meant to call you,” they’ll say when I run into them later. “But we just got so busy with our Up With Teens! fundraiser.” Or, “We were going to call you, but had to finish putting the roof on the orphanage in Mexico we’re building.”

It’s always one lame excuse or another. Some people just don’t know how to establish priorities.

Anyway, my many years of eavesdropping on Christians and reading their church bulletins allows me to say, with a fair degree of confidence, that when it comes to U.S. Christians and Halloween, the following is true:

In general, U.S. Christians are not particularly keen on the idea of children dressing up in fantastical outfits and running around getting free candy from strangers. I’m not sure exactly why that is. My guess is that Christian parents are afraid, what with all the mask-wearing going on, that they’ll end up taking back home with them at least one kid who isn’t theirs. And then of course they’ll end up raising that kid, because who wants to admit they took someone else’s child home with them on Halloween? But they’ll always wonder whatever happened to their own little princess or pirate. And Christians don’t like wondering about things; they like knowing things. So forcing them to wonder is one major strike against Halloween, right there.

Here are the opinions that I believe U.S. Christians hold about some of the more specific features commonly associated with Halloween:

Jack ‘o lanterns: Christians like pumpkins—they love pumpkin pie—but they don’t like the idea of a fat person with a fire burning inside of them, because it makes them think about the heartburn they’re going to get from eating all that pumpkin pie. So it’s thumbs-down for jack o’ lanterns.

Black cats: Christians don’t generally like cats, because they know cats couldn’t care less about what they or any other humans think or believe. So it’s hard to imagine converting a cat. Any dog seems like it’s one tap on the forehead away from falling to its knees and confessing where it hides all its bones; they’re already so close to talking in tongues. But cats act like even if you’ve forgotten that in ancient Egypt they were worshiped as gods, they haven’t. And a black cat, which acts haughty and looks cool? Forget it.

Witches on flying brooms: Generally Christians believe that it’s a bad idea for cleaning implements to take flight. They like angels to fly, not mops and dustpans. Also, a flying broom implies that magic is happening—and, as everyone knows, Christians despise magic, because they can never figure out how the tricks are done, which (see above) drives them crazy. Christians also like safety, and there’s nothing safe about a grown woman zipping through the air on a stick.

Haunted houses: The first thing Christians think when they hear the words “haunted house” is “decreasing property values.” Enough said.

Goblins: The main reason Christians don’t like goblins is because they’re not sure what exactly a goblin is. A gnome without the pedigree? A leprechaun with an eating disorder? A troll on steroids? Whatever goblins are, Christians are pretty sure they can be killed with a can of insecticide. So they’re not too worried.

And there you have it, Latoya. Thank you for giving me this chance to share with you and the rest of the world my insights into the mind of the American Christian.

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Ah, Halloween. The name is derived from the Latin word “hollow”— meaning temporary, fleeting—and “ween,” as in, “How are we gonna ween our kids off all that sugar?” So we combine “fleeting sensations” with “must eventually stop,” and what do we have?

That’s right: Life.

Life is Halloween. We dress up (if things like a tie for men and pantyhose for women aren’t costume material, I’m a teenage werewolf); we go out into the world; without meaning to beg or anything we do everything we can to maximize getting as much of what we want as we can possibly get away with; with booty in hand we rush back home again; we try to not immediately tear through everything we secured for ourselves but to instead save at least some of it for later; we fail to do that; we feel regret and even a little shame; inexplicably, we want more.

Eventually we die.

See? Add a witch here and an angry zombie there, a bunch of full moons, some occasional screaming that scares you half to death, neighbors you’re forced to interact with but would rather not know—and there you have it. Life.

Last night a little kid of maybe six years old came to our house fully decked out as a cowboy–except instead of a cowboy hat he was wearing a spaceman’s helmet.

“Wow!” I said. “Cool!”

“I know!” he said. “I’m a space cowboy!”

So. Life is good.

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Here's a guy going out on Halloween dressed as a person with with extraordinary neck muscles

For those of you who don’t subscribe to my Twitter feed or visit me on Facebook, below is this … weird little burst of costume ideas I posted on Twitter this morning. I’m sure I’ll be adding to these throughout the day, since I can tell my brain has snapped into “This is fun! Let’s do this for the next four days!” mode (which is … well, a whole other problem I won’t bore you with).

Anyway, here are my Costume Idea tweets from this morning:

For Halloween I’m dressing as a shut-in writer who rarely goes outside. Then I’m gonna LIVE the part. It’s all about commitment.

Wait: For Halloween I’m now wearing black dress shoes with spats, a toga, and a Yankees cap. Going as a confused time-traveler.

Wait: For Halloween I’m gonna wear a nice suit and a big lapel button that says, “Vote for Me.” Going as a congenital liar.

On Halloween, I’ll wear normal clothes. Upon door opening, will scream, “Candy! Now!” Going as guy who just doesn’t get it.

When people open their doors on Halloween, they’ll find me standing with my back to them. Going as guy with commitment issues.

When people open their doors on Halloween I’ll yell, “Burn in hell, sinner!” Going as Fred Phelps.

On Halloween, I’ll act unable to grasp my goodie bag, or move my fingers at all. I’m going as a blogger.

On Halloween I’ll grab huge handfuls of the candy, then throw it all to the ground and stomp on it. Going as Joe Lieberman.

On Halloween I’ll knock on people’s doors, but then run away before they open them. Going as Osama bin Laden.

On Halloween, I’ll say “Trick or …” and then just freeze in mid-sentence, mouth open, dead silent. I’m going as AT&T.

Them: “Who are you?” Me: “Who are you?” Them: “What?” Me: “What?” Them: “Stop it!” Me: “Stop it!” Going as Arianna Huffington.

At each house on Halloween I’ll take ALL their candy, and then pee in their empty bowl. Going as Goldman Sachs.

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In yesterday’s The Moment of My Christian Conversion–And How Mistaken It Left Me, I left off wondering why God chose “to reveal of himself just enough to deeply inspire people, but not so much that they would actually agree upon the beliefs inspired by that inspiration.”

That’s right; that’s how I roll with my Rollerball.

No, but you know what I mean? You wouldn’t think that God, of all people majestic entities, would be as willing as he apparently is to leave so much of who and what he is so completely up to the interpretation of his individual adherents. I think it’s safe to say that if God wanted all of us to think and understand the exact same things about him—if he wanted to once and for all make perfectly clear exactly who he is—he would, and we would. But that hasn’t happened. And that leaves so many people who call themselves Christian with so many radically different ideas about what that does or should mean that it’s reasonable to wonder—and it’s certainly reasonable for someone outside the faith to wonder—whether or not we’re all really worshiping the same God.

One group believes in a God who holds that women should possess no authority in His church, and that when they die all homosexuals and people who don’t believe in him go straight to hell. Another group believes that women make excellent pastors and bishops, that unrepentant homosexuals are as welcomed in heaven as anyone else, and that heaven is available to all, Christian or not.

Can that really be the same God?

Of course it can. People might … get a little muddled, but God remains eternally God. (And in truth, who can blame any Christian for being at least a little confused about God? Have you tried to read the Bible?)

So for those of us who believe in his infinite wisdom and power, the question is why God has arranged it so that different people who believe in him believe such wildly different things about him.

My answer is that God is exquisitely orchestrating his relationship with every one of us in a way that exactly meshes with what each of us most needs. God knows our life, our heart, our mind, our history, our psychology. So, in the manner of a loving God, he melds into our consciousness in a way that respects us—that works with us, that ennobles us, that enhances not just who we are, but who he knows we can become.

God starts with us where we are, period. And then, within each of us, he begins working on that process by which we are all ultimately rendered the same.

Apart on earth; together in heaven.

Keeps things spicy, doesn’t it?

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I became a Christian when I was thirty-eight years old. Up until the moment of my sudden conversion I had no interest whatsoever in Christianity, and never had. I thought its doctrine moronic, its adherents willfully delusional, its role in history contemptible. I’d as soon have become a traveling circus geek as a Christian.

Then God thought I should change my mind about that. So he slammed me to my knees, and spoke in my ear. And in a single moment the truth was fully imprinted upon me that the historical story of Christ is true—that God, out of his love for people, decided to take human form, come to earth, say and do the things that Christ said and did, and then, having made his Big Point (which, for the record, is Everything is Okay), return from whence he came.

The feeling of learning that the story of God-as-Christ is true had much in common with the feeling of learning that, say, Jimmy Carter was the first American president born in a hospital, or that Mt. Everest is 29,029 feet. These are remarkable things, yes. But what they are mostly are facts. And facts exist independently of my or anyone else’s knowledge of them. Being composed primarily of gas means that, technically speaking, Jupiter has no surface. That fact was true before I knew it, and would remain true if I never learned it.

Upon the moment of my conversion I immediately quit crying (for I had been, as can happen when your life and conscious structure suddenly unravels.). I got up off my knees; I straightened my tie; I went back to work. (Of all places, my conversion happened in a supply closet at the law office where I worked as a photocopy/mail/fax guy. Thirteen years later, a stationery store still seems like a church to me.) Because what was there to really cry over, or feel dramatic about?

Jimmy Carter was the first president born in a  hospital.

Everest is 29,029 feet high.

Jupiter has no surface.

God came to earth as Christ.

If I didn’t return to my work area soon, I’d be in trouble with my supervisor.

The more things change, and all that.

At the time of my conversion I was ignorant about something that I still have trouble getting into my head. And that is the fact that saying a person is a Christian tells you no more about that person than does saying they’re an American, or that they have brown hair. It tells you nothing about how that person lives or acts. It barely tells you what they believe. In my thirteen years now of knowing and working with Christians, I doubt I’ve ever met three with identical beliefs. Conservatives, liberals, evangelicals, Catholics, Calvinists, Methodists, Orthodox, Baptists, Presbyterians … there are some four thousand Christian denominations.

Who goes to hell and why. Whether hell is real or metaphorical. When people should be baptized. The role of women in church and marriage. Homosexuality. Predestination. Sacraments. Abortion. The perpetual virginity of Mary.  Trinitarians versus non-trinitarians. Creationism. Universalism. Biblical inerrancy.

If you know anything about Christianity, you know I could fill page after page with issues such as these, over which vast numbers of Christians always have and always will fervently disagree.

What happened to me in that supply closet at my job seemed like the simplest, most easily understood thing in the world. That’s one of the things about it that most affected me.

How naive I was then! And when it comes to God and Christ how naive I resolutely remain—which, again, is a subject for another day. For now, I want to talk about why it might be that God, whom I assume is fully capable of communicating to humans precisely what he wants and means, chose to reveal of himself just enough to deeply inspire people, but not so much that they would actually agree upon the beliefs inspired by that inspiration. So that’s what I’ll get into next time (since this post has grown so long). Your own thoughts and ideas on this matter welcomed, as always.

(The follow-up to this post is We Get the God We Can Handle.)

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A friend I met through Facebook, Stuart Dobie, lives in Hong Kong, where he does wonderful work with a nonprofit organization, Mother’s Choice, that provides aid and services to unwed mothers.

Besides doing much to share God’s love with others, Stuart has a thing for old metro buses. He takes photos of them, and then posts them on his Facebook page.

For reasons beyond my comprehension, I am deeply charmed to a point just short of obsessed by these photos. See if you feel anything similar when you gaze upon these bad boys:

http://bit.ly/dgXYV

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