Way back when you were less likely to get stabbed in the face or see a fully grown human defecate in Times Square, I took my wife to a Broadway show for our anniversary. She’d always wanted to see a real honest-to-goodness show on Broadway, and since circumstances allowed, I was more than happy to facilitate her desire.
But why not the Gaithers? They put on a barn burner of a show. In my defense, I thought you had to be an AARP member to purchase tickets for the Gaithers. Is it still a prerequisite? I kid, of course, but you can’t expect people in their twenties to get down and boogie to something that septuagenarians find trend-setting.
That’s it, Martha, I’ve had it with this young whipper snapper’s insolence. He’s poking fun at the Gaithers; that’s where I draw the line.
I’m 47, no longer a young whipper snapper, and smiling won’t hurt, I promise. Sometimes we have to make allowances because not everyone likes what we like as far as entertainment is concerned.
Since I had no clue what the other shows were, I settled on Phantom of the Opera, and it was everything a night out with the one you love ought to be. The sets were beautiful, the singing was spot-on, and we left the theater not feeling like we’d wasted our time or money.
I later found out that there are also Off-Broadway shows, and Off-Off-Broadway shows, the latter being some lady with unkempt hair and smeared lipstick screaming to three empty folding chairs in her building’s laundry about her mummified womb and the evils of patriarchy. Just so we’re clear, the patriarchy didn’t force you to sacrifice love, motherhood, vibrancy, and youth for a mid-level career. That was all you, all so you could tell the folks back home in flyover country that you worked in Corporate America. To clarify, you got coffee for the people who work in Corporate America, but I digress.
Everyone wants to be a star, but not everyone has the chops for it. The good shows are worth your time, the bad ones, not so much, but whichever show you go to, you must never forget that it’s a show.
If you can afford it, see a good show. It will be more entertaining. There’s something to be said for Benny Hinn’s showmanship with the coat-throwing and bombastic iterations. The lady that finds a long-forgotten dried-up booger in a Kleenex and thinks it to be a sign from the Lord, not so entertaining.
Brother Mike, you sound like you’re mocking this sort of manifestation. Indeed, I am. As long as you can manifest glitter, oil, hand sanitizer, hair gel, or whatever other thing is being passed off as the authentic work of the Holy Spirit, but you can’t cast out an evil spirit, feel the presence of the Holy Ghost, or possess enough discernment to know something’s off, then all you’re doing is putting on a show.
As I said, some men are better at putting on a show than others, some have bigger budgets, and they can get fog machines and seizure-inducing flashing lights, but in the end, it’s just a show—man-made, man-fueled, man-performed, and man-centered.
But what about the gold dust, you doubter? The moment I see someone walk into a pawn shop with a bag of gold dust and trade it in for legal tender, we can talk. If God really did manifest the gold dust, why wouldn’t it be real gold dust? Surely, if He owns the cattle on a thousand hills, He can spare a few bucks worth of gold dust.
We say we’re hungry for the power and presence of God, but what we’re really hungry for is entertainment. We say we want to see the fire of God come down but only halfheartedly because we don’t know if it will consume us as well.
When the present-day church spends more time getting to know God than chasing after a sign, we may just make some headway. Until then, if you’re bored and have nothing to do, there are plenty of shows around, some better than others, but be forewarned, all are lacking the dunamis of God. Yes, I threw in a Greek word; it means power, get over it.
The painful truth for the show me generation is that God doesn’t have to prove Himself to me, to you, or to anyone else. If perchance, He chose to, he wouldn’t use something as hacky and cringe-worthy as gold dust or hand sanitizer. We’re not talking about the amazing Bob’s one-man show extravaganza here; we’re talking about the God who spoke the universe into being. Give Him some credit, at least.
With love in Christ,
Michael Boldea, Jr.