Interview:

I worked as a manager of a music store for roughly six years. While working six days a week and attempting to reconcile just how I could sell Marilyn Manson CDs to the glory of God, I came into very close and repetitive contact with every angry political zealot, every branch of mental disorder, every confused experiment of sexual debauchery, every “gangsta-in-training”, and everyone in between. Music stores seem to serve as a magnet for these people.

However, early one morning as I pulled into the parking lot, a young kid about sixteen was sitting on the sidewalk in front of my store. He was wearing a torn white t-shirt with large armpit stains. I went in past him, turned on the “OPEN” neon sign and turned around to see him standing at the counter requesting to listen to a Danzig CD. His body odour was so pungent that I wondered how later I’d explain without embarrassing him why I just vomited all over him and the counter. I quickly found the CD and gave it to him. He left to listen, and yet from across the room, easily 15 to 20 feet away, his cloud of stink just lingered and began to permeate the store.

I opened the front door. Still there. I sprayed half a can of air freshener. Still there. Customers walked in, but then after the first sniff, looked at me with an absolutely offended expression and left instantly. I just stood there dumbfounded, motioning and mouthing as best I could, “It isn’t me… I BATHE!!” And still, four hours later, he was there…listening to the same CD, grunting along to the lyrics like some participant at a Neanderthal karaoke bar. Eventually, he left. But his smell remained.

The next morning the exact same thing happened, and again the next morning, and the next morning, and the next morning. This continued for three weeks. I was losing weight, unable to eat food in a room that was overwhelmed by his stench. This was crazy, even amongst the miscellaneous masses of sub-culture there exists a code of hygiene. I thought, “Lord, if this smelly beast drives everyone off, then who can I possibly witness to while I’m at work?” I was oblivious to the LOUD resounding “Duh!” from the heavens at that moment.

I resolved to make the environment so uncomfortable that he’d leave. I would turn off the overhead speakers so that those brave souls who weathered the nasal onslaught could hear him grunting along to Danzig. I’d refuse to let him listen to anything behind the counter, only to have him roam the CD racks until he found an appropriate grunting collection of songs. Eventually, I simply stood behind him the entire time spraying air freshener, the can always giving up long before he left.

At the end of the third week I resorted to my last defence, I prayed. “Lord, why is he here? At this point if I never hear a Danzig tune ever again, then thank you. Why won’t he leave? How can one human being produce so much stink?” Then, it dawned on me: “If my own sin produced an aroma, I wouldn’t even notice him”. God’s hammer of conviction hit me hard. I was broken. I was ashamed of the perspective I had toward this kid. Had I forgotten already what it felt like?

Years before when I had confessed Christ, I found myself joining a very conservative church in downtown Fort Worth. They had family pews that they had sat in for twenty-five years. I, on the other hand, had a foot-high Mohawk with bangs past my chin and a trench coat covered in buttons by The 77’s, Daniel Amos, The Choir, The Altar Boys, Undercover, and Steve Taylor.

The very first Scripture I memorized was ingrained in my mind by osmosis. People would repeatedly remind me of what the Good Book said in 1 Corinthians 11:14, “Does not even nature itself teach you that if a man has long hair, it is a dishonor to him.” I would always smile and thank them for their concern. In spite of this, I was very excited about church and was involved in ministry seven days a week for almost two years. My Dad thought I’d joined a cult. All I knew was that I wasn’t going to Hell, and that a man named Jesus loved me unconditionally just as I was. HOW COULD I NOT BE EXCITED?!?!

I was out on the streets of Dallas, witnessing alongside other Christians. As they say, like attracts like and, eventually, the Thursday night youth group had three rows of about thirty kids that looked like me, like we all left a Dead Kennedys’ concert. That was who was drawn to me, and most of them just wanted to be around a happy guy. Then it happened. One Thursday night, in mid-sermon, the youth pastor pointed at me in front of all two-hundred kids and screamed from the platform, “You can look that way for the world; you CANNOT look that way for God!”

I was devastated. How could I have possibly thought that I was really loved by this God, when I was so incapable of ever being truly accepted by Him? All the signs were there. Anytime a guest was being televised, the ushers asked me to sit as far back in the sanctuary as possible. I always happily obliged. The women in the bookstore were told NOT to stamp the church information on the back of the tracks that were given to me to hand out on weekends. Yeah, I finally got it. Christ didn’t want to be affiliated with a kid with a Mohawk. I just stood up and left and didn’t step back into a church for another three years, all because of the judgment of others. And now, I’d become them.

I’d fallen prey to this mindset once before, months earlier. A young woman had come in holding hands with a guy with waist-length hair. Her tube top was tied in back by a small single strand, and covered virtually nothing of a huge tattoo spanning from shoulder to shoulder, neck to waist. Funny thing was, she was looking at CDs in our Christian section. I thought, “Oh poor girl. She is obviously looking for new anthems to play tonight while she undresses and disgraces herself to complete strangers, one dollar at a time, I’ll just go help her find the white trash topless dancer hits.” So I approached her.

“Can I help you find something? Nine Inch Nails, Type O Negative or Pantera perhaps?” She looked at me, smiled, and said,” I’m looking for the newest CDs by Michael W. Smith and The Newsboys, their music ministers to me so powerfully.” I was completely blindsided. I found the CDs quickly, and then, in front of her boyfriend, she asked for suggestions that he’d enjoy listening to since “he isn’t saved yet; but the Lord has a plan for him!” The three of us talked for two hours. After they left, I wanted to repeatedly punch myself in the face until my brain registered a compassionate thought.

I mean, what did I know about every stranger I’ll ever meet?
1. They are created in the very image of God.
2. The Truth of God is written on their hearts.
3. Without Christ they will spend Eternity in Hell.

And now, today, right here, although I was offended by his hygiene, this kid deserved love and respect, no less would be acceptable. I repented, right there at the counter, his grunting wafting through the background as I prayed. I decided to buy this guy his highly coveted Danzig CD. I suddenly had a joy about his being here. I was looking forward to him coming to the counter. The smell seemed to be decreasing. Several hours later he stepped toward the counter and put the CD down.

“Hey, guess what?” (No verbal response… just a stare). “Um, I bought this CD for you; it is yours now!” “No thanks, I already got it.” And just like that, he left and never returned. The next day after thinking over the weeks of missed opportunity, I wrote a lyric about the mysterious “stinky” kid: “Are there any among my enemies that Your Son did not die for? Not one.”

“Are there any among my enemies that Your Son did not die for? Not one.”
– Ezra Boggs, vocalist in Not Called Common