Saturday, October 1, 2011

I Don't Miss High School

Went to my high school's homecoming game last night.  I remember when I was freshman through junior, Salem's football team never won.  However, the band was amazing and I usually only came for that.  Senior year until now, Salem is actually really good and has gone to State playoffs.  That's good. 

We played the oldest school in town last night, Rockdale, that used to always win but now is more equally matched to Salem.  Their band was amazing.  They played pre-game when people had not quite arrived yet.  They played an end of the world theme: Final Countdown, that song by REM, and last, you will not believe this, they played the Revelation Song.  Yes, that Revelation Song.  The one Kari Jobe sings.  The one Jenny Riddle wrote.  That Revelation Song that I love and that we sing in church.  I could not believe it.  It made me happy.

Also, a men's choir sang the National Anthem.  Solid, young male voices.  I was so impressed.  And jealous.  When I was in high school and sang in choir we really had a terrible teacher.  A sweet lady, but a terrible teacher.  All three choirs sang the same songs even though they were supposed to be different levels of advanced.  There was rarely any art music, not even at Christmas, especially the sophomore through senior year when we did the Disney candlelight singing.  If it was not for festival or All-State Chorus, I'd never get to sing good music.  Now, Salem's choir teacher is really good and those guys last night reflected it.

I take this moment to reflect on Salem's constituency these days.  In my days, we were a fine, suburban school with respectful students.  We had our wild ones, but it was average teenage fare.  By the time I graduated, some of Atlanta began to move into Conyers and got zoned for Salem.  Now the students are hugely ghetto.  They all amassed by the end of the second quarter.  They would not shut up.  They were loud, profane, disrespectful, and even obscene.  I could not hear the theme of Salem's band music.  I barely heard the band, which played two good songs that I didn't recognize and then ended with that Black-Eyed Peas song (another sign we've gone downhill: pop songs?  really?).  When the homecoming court came on the field, there were three names called before I realized there were girls standing on the field with their parents.  They didn't even really dress up.  One girl even wore jeans.  After half-time, Mary, Andrew, and I decided to go before we got swallowed in a mob.  I'm ashamed of my old school.

The whole time I sat there wondering if I had any Refuge clients there or if they'd recognize me.  There were certainly potentials out there.  It's a shame because from my generation down, our kids have been so sexually molested by the media, their parents don't monitor their music, and their stars aren't even subtle about their sexuality anymore.  And our girls are starved for true definitions of love, male attention, and Scripture that they rub up on all kinds of wormy looking boys who obviously see them as the campus bicycle and not a valuable girl that they will respect and honor.

And some girls get pregnant, and some girls feel cornered into having abortions, and none of them really know the truth.  And I'm so happy that this video has done so well this week.  Thank you so much Ray Comfort.  I hope you turn the tide for America and the world, and if not, I hope Christ comes back soon.

One last thing: one girl finally commented on facebook that she's tired of seeing the dead babies and it's making her feel horrible?  Seriously?  Isn't that the point?  These hellish atrocities are still going to people of all ages, and people don't see life as sacred anymore, and you just want to go into your safe bubble and do nothing about it?  And let me tell you, I've seen many anti-abortion campaigns, and the one dead baby in this video is mild compared to what I've seen.  I've seen Myspace bulletins that had me disturbed for weeks.  We need to start uniting to stop the legal murders that go on in our own backyards. 

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