Tattoo Evangelism!

What an interesting phenomenon. I’ve thought about one, but at my age a tattoo and sagging, wrinkling skin don’t go very well together. The above are a few examples of those that can be found on the Facebook site: Salvation Army Tattoo’s.

This was created by Rob and seems to be drawing a lot of interest. Who knows, one day we may have a Territorial Tattoo Evangelism Secretary (TTES). Tattoos have always been important in the Hawaiian culture. For Rob’s Master’s thesis in Art at the University of Hawaii, he used tattoo art very creatively in his prints, each with a subtle spiritual theme. Subsequently, they were displayed in an art show and viewed by Hawaiian members of his beach ministry corps. Since they did the tattoos on each other, Rob was approached and asked if he would create a Jesus tattoo and use their skin as the canvas (I’m writing this from memory, so may not have the facts exactly right. If not, Rob will set me straight, but its close enough). Anyway, now I can proudly exclaim, “My son, the tattoo artist!” …For Jesus, that is.

I wonder, is there a Commissioner, active or retired, with a tattoo? Would I be the first? If so, I’m sorely tempted; that is if a wrinkle free patch of skin can be found. Maybe ArmyBarmy could run a competition in cyberspace to determine the design, followed by a podcast featuring the actual rendering? Wouldn’t that be a hoot? So long as God is glorified in it all, of course!

JN

Disgusting! ;-)

We’ve been home a week, feeling pretty groovy, nothing out of the ordinary, getting reacquainted with old friend routine. Same oh, same oh, exercise (dance) routine, devotions, writing with a break mid-morning down the street at Coffee Bean for a tall, non-fat, sugar-free vanilla latte, set your watch to it.

Sitting there sipping, up pulls a Harley Davidson, Neanderthal-like person in front with cave-woman on back, head-bands, leather jackets, tattoos with piercings on body parts seen and unseen, I’m sure. All heads turn and the reaction is one of disgust, revulsion and moral condemnation, yours truly included. You can feel it in the atmosphere, Hell’s Angels, literally – dealing drugs, murder-for-hire, prostitution rings, you name it, disgusting! Anyway, it added a little spice to the routine.

Then there’s our Sunday routine. Following The Salvation Army meeting, we often drop in at a little church up the street from our house, six services, five thousand worshipers and a partridge in a pear tree. Timing finds us in the 11:00 a.m. “Video Café’ Live” service – “Guitar-driven, rock-style music in a concert-like setting that you can FEEL!” reads the program description. And we can FEEL it! They also have “Classic” services at other times and “Celebrate Recovery” on Friday evenings.

Around the perimeter of the auditorium are tables with coffee, donuts and muffins. Half-circle tables are spread throughout the body, with regular seating rows in between, take your pick. We choose a table, coffee and muffin in hand. This is the way to worship, many of us attired in shorts and T-shirts, I love it!

The music starts and everyone stands, that is except for the old couple on the row behind, sitting stern-faced, arms firmly crossed, in an attempt to ward off the ever invading, God-awful music. To the right, front is a young couple, her hands raised in adoration, his left hand raised similarly, with right hand firmly planted low on the back of her lap. Glancing back, I see two heads shaking disgustingly and lip read a series of “Tsk, tsks.”

Across the way is a woman (or is it a man, not sure?), with a multi-colored Mohawk haircut, in church believe it or not, disgusting! Directly to the left is a Neanderthal looking man, jeans, bandana, scraggly beard, tattoos, piercings and a T-shirt with the words, “Bikers for Christ.” Standing next to him is a middle-aged woman, low cut blouse, no bra, ingredients hanging low, not a pretty sight, disgusting! I do a double-take, could this be the same couple we saw at Coffee Bean, uncertain because they all do tend to look alike?

The double-takes continue when, during the fellowship interlude period, another biker-type person comes up to my Neanderthal neighbor, exchanging fraternal handshakes. Following the interlude, they give each other a bear-hug and he, with a departing wave blurts out, “Love ya, man,” completely out of stereotypical character. I feel a slight nudge from old nemesis guilt, nothing too serious though.

The pastor comes on stage attired in aloha shirt, sock-less sandals, Bible in hand, and begins to teach expositorily. The dress doesn’t seem to impede the quality of his teaching, powerful, commanding and straight-forward - Go figure? I look around, everyone has their Bible open, except me (Doris always has hers). The sound of a thousand pages turning becomes guiltily noticeable with all deeply engaged, scribbling notes vociferously, including my new Neanderthal friend (We shook hands during the interlude). That kind of total emersion in worship is foreign to me.

Driving home, I couldn’t help but think back to the time my son, Guy, came home with an earring dangling from his left ear, the image of a cross no less. Disgusting! When I finally came down off the ceiling, he said, “Dad, you’ve always taught me that, it’s what’s in the heart that counts.”

Anyone who believes in the Son of God has this testimony in his heart (1 John 5:10 NIV).

I’m seriously considering a tattoo, the form of a cross right over the heart perhaps… wrinkles, sagging and all.