Archives For Clint Archer

brideLinda Lou Taylor only got married once…for love.

It was in 1957. Linda was sixteen and she married 31 year old George Scott, whom she loved deeply. The marriage lasted seven years, ending in a regrettable divorce. After that Linda gave up on the idea of marrying for love, and instead began to marry, it seems, for sport. She wed and divorced with a dizzying frequency.

She tied the slip-knot in rapid succession, collecting a string of ex-husbands form all walks of life, including a plumber, a preacher, a bartender, a musician. To add valuable rare items to her collection of erstwhile hubbies, she married a one-eyed convict, two homeless guys, and two gay men.

She creatively upped her matrimonial stats by “committing” to one fellow, Jack Gourly, on three separate occasions. Her shortest marriage lasted a mere 36 hours.  It seems her goal was to immortalize her hubby-hobby with a dubious entry in the Guinness Book of World Records as the “most married woman.”

She accomplished this notoriety by wedding Mr. Glynn Wolfe in her 23rd wedding. The marriage was unabashedly performed solely for the publicity of getting into Guinness. You may ask yourself, what kind of man would marry a woman just to help her get into a record book? Good question. The motive was hardly difficult to discern, as that wedding happened to secure for 87 year old Mr Wolfe his own record as “most married man,” when Linda became his 29th bride.

He died a year later, and Linda, age 63, has been single for ten years now, but she told a journalist that she’s on the prowl for husband #24.

Personally, I rankle at the recurring spectacle of those who degrade the sanctity of marriage with such reckless abandon. But it does remind me of another far-fetched story of serial marriages. One that was not trying to mock the sanctity of marriage, but rather to mock—of all things— the doctrine resurrection.

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April 14, 2014

Facts on Tax

by Clint Archer

capone

Alphonse Gabriel Capone was born in Brooklyn New York in 1899. He was one of nine children of an Italian barber. By all accounts Al Capone was a naughty kid. He was expelled from his Catholic school at age fourteen for punching a nun in the face. He then joined a gang. At age nineteen married his pregnant girlfriend (to make an honest woman out of her?) and in search of gainful employment moved to gangsters paradise: Chicago. To describe his career as gainful would be to describe the ocean as moist.

Capone wrested control a vast racketeering syndicate that generated $100 million a year, mostly by smuggling voluminous quantities of booze past the Prohibition police, and then having ladies (the type not hired primarily for their education or personality) serve said liquor to other authorities in his lucrative speakeasy empire.

Al Capone’s crimes were legion. The checkered list includes:

-Bootlegging, i.e. smuggling and selling alcohol.

-Bribery, blackmail, extortion, intimidation, assault & battery, i.e. making people an offer they couldn’t refuse.

-Racketeering, i.e. a catch-all description of the vicissitudinous world of organized crime.

-Conspiracy to commit murder, attempted murder, and when he got it right—murder.

And yet he was never arrested for any of it! He was so legally wriggly, so resiliently rich, and so perniciously powerful that he simply buried any accusation; often literally. Witnesses mysteriously developed amnesia, or decided to try walking on water in concrete shoes. Cops clumsily misplaced evidence, though in the search for it fortuitously stumbled upon loads of extra cash they had forgotten they had. Judges made technical errors on arrest warrants, which put a debilitating cramp in the long arm of the law.

But all that was before the incorruptible agent Elliot Ness and his cohort of Untouchables got on the case.

Evade This

In 1931, Ness co-ordinated the arrested of the slippery kingpin, and charged him with the one crime Capone considered so small (in comparison with his murders and bootlegging operations), that he hadn’t even bothered to cover his tracks: the crime of tax evasion.

Capone had been making $100 million a year illegally, but the only thing they could prove for certain was that he didn’t pay taxes on those earnings. Capone was convicted of three counts of tax evasion and two counts of failing to file tax returns. This was enough for the courts to put him away for eleven years.

Christians who know their Bibles are already aware that there is only one person who takes death and taxes more seriously than the government, and that is God.

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night skyReverend Robert Evans is a retired pastor who lives in Australia. Many ministers these days claim to have various supernatural gifts. But unlike the usual suspects of contemporary charismania, the Rev Evans actually does posses an ability that is closer to supernatural than any claim I’ve seen on TBN. It’s practically a superpower–though Evans neither acts nor (thankfully) dresses, anything like a superhero. As far as superpowers go, it’s not the most flashy one would pick; nevertheless it has proven very useful to cosmologists and astronomers. You see, if Rev Evans fixes his gaze on an array of particles (of any magnitude), then the next time he looks at them he can instantly tell if one is missing, or has been added.

Like I said, it’s not exactly leaping over tall buildings in a single bound.

But to impress you with how remarkable this gift really is, I want you to imagine a pool table with a fistful of salt grains causally strewn over its surface. These ruinous white specks on the felt backdrop represent stars. Now imagine 1,500 more such tables arranged in the world’s biggest pool hall, each displaying thousands of salt grains randomly spread over them. After Rev Evans has walked around and inspected each table, you could then surreptitiously sneak one grain of salt off any table and toss it on any other table. Upon his next stroll through the dining hall, Evans would be able to pinpoint exactly which spot the ambulant grain used to occupy, and where it now resides.

It might not help curtailing crime in Gotham, but it’s more impressive than Benny Hinn’s ability to make old ladies fall over with a wave of his Armani-clad arm, or banishing back pain for long enough to pass a collection plate.

With characteristic modesty, Evans explained to one interviewer, “I just seem to have a knack for memorizing star fields. I’m not particularly good at other things. I don’t remember names well.”

—“Or where he’s put things,” added his wife Elaine.

How is this party trick helpful in the real world?

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It was dark in the wee morning hours of Feb 4, 1999. Amadou Diallo, an immigrant from Guinea, was standing outside his low-income apartment building on Wheeler Avenue in the South Bronx. The neighborhood was ear-marked for surveillance by a special police unit in an effort to curb drug related crime.

smoking gunDiallo was not typically considered to have a threatening presence. He was a short, light-weight man with an unassuming demeanor, and a shyness stemming from a severe stutter. But on that fateful night, his loitering attracted the suspicion of four police officers in an unmarked car. Spotting the halted car, Diallo’s curiosity was piqued enough to look around for what might be holding their attention. When he realized he was the object of their scrutiny, he became nervous and quickly retreated into the shadows. The cops interpreted this as the skittishness of a lookout abetting a crime.

Two of them, wearing civilian clothes, concealed bullet-proof vests, and not-so-concealed sidearms, ominously approached him. They asked if they could have a word. Apparently the fearful guy’s stutter prevented him from answering. Diallo freaked out and instinctively darted to his apartment door. He grabbed the doorknob with his left hand and started digging frantically in his pocket with his right. One policeman shouted “Show me your hands!” but Diallo turned his body and crouched low in what appeared to be a classic close-combat tactical stance—one the police were familiar with from their own training. Suddenly he presented a black, rectangular object and proffered it to his presumed assailants.

“Gun!” shouted one officer and drew his weapon. A shot rang out.

Startled, the other cop retreated, clumsily falling backward and in panic also discharged his weapon. Instantaneously the other two policemen appeared in the mêlée of crackling gunfire. Seeing one colleague on the floor and the other shooting, they joined the fray.

The whole incident was over in a few seconds. In that time 41 shots were fired. When the smoke cleared they found bullet-ridden Amadou Diallo’s body, with an outstretched hand, clutching a black wallet.

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swashbucklersWith the publication date of Things that Go Bump in the Church only eight days away, the marketing machine is in full swing. I’m not as well-connected as the other authors, Mike Abendroth, and Byron Yawn, but int he tradition of the little drummer boy, I have this blog’s Monday slot to give…

The book deals with intimidating and misunderstood doctrines, poking some fun at the Amityville Horror genre. Here is an excerpt from my chapter on demons, called “Spiritual Swashbuckling.” 

       *  *  *

It was a dark night. Raining. I awoke to frantic knocking on my cabin door. Youth camps often come with various genres of drama, from relationship angst to teary confession sessions. As a camp counselor I had encountered my diverse array of spiritual emergencies on my watch, ranging from the need to rebuke a bevy of mean girls, to confiscating contraband magazines from the guys’ dorm. But the look in this kid’s eyes was one of genuine terror. Something was wrong. I grabbed my Bible and charged through the pouring rain in pursuit of the young man who had been sent to summon me. When I got to the dorm room, all twelve teenage boys were standing outside, shivering wet.

They sheepishly confessed that they had been experimenting with an occult game, glassy-glassy. This is where people supposedly channel spirits, which move a glass over a lettered board to eerily spell out instructions from the netherworld. The boys breathlessly recounted what they had witnessed. Shortly after they had turned out the lights and sealed the door, they heard an intense crying sound in the room like a baby had been pinched. This was followed by hissing noises and more high-pitched cries. The stunned boys all looked thoroughly traumatized. This was no prank being played on the camp counselor. I wanted to ask which one of them was disturbed enough to bring Satanic paraphernalia to a Christian camp, and why none of the others were man enough to put a stop to it. Instead, I clutched my Bible, boldly kicked open the door, and flipped on the light switch.

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The book, Things that go Bump in the Church (Harvest House) is being released on April 1st (no, really).Bump Cover

The work deals with intimidating doctrines that Christians sometimes fear. I was privileged to co-author the work with Mike Abendroth and Byron Yawn. Our goal was to provide accessible, biblical presentations of teachings that are often misunderstood, and to do so in an engaging style (we at times lapse into satirizing the Amityville horror genre). The subjects we cover include demonology, elder rule, election, homosexuality, controversial liberties, among several others.

You can pre-order the paperback or Kindle version by clicking here.

To get a taste, here is an excerpt of the introduction to my chapter on church membership, titled…

“Anuptaphobia and Church Membership”

He was new to the creepy little town, but not a visitor. This dot on an Appalachian map was now home. His Christian upbringing had left his conscience averse to the “Solo Lobo Syndrome”— a lone wolf is a dead wolf was Grandma’s sagacious mantra. So that first Sunday he dutifully visited the only church in town. Its shabby, unkempt exterior didn’t put him off. It matched the ageing appearance of all the local buildings, and their occupants. He wasn’t expecting much from the service that morning, but still there was something slightly off-kilter about the experience, like when a painting has been hung askew, just enough to pique one’s awareness but not enough to be called crooked.

The bald greeter at the door seemed genuinely happy to meet the stranger. And although he never removed his right hand from the pocket of his suit pants, he warmly gripped the visitor by the shoulder and led him toward the sparse, seated congregation. The evidently tight-knit cohort of a dozen or so regulars greeted him enthusiastically. Everyone was friendly, though one or two could not mask their bemusement that this stranger had chosen to worship with them.

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