Halo 3 and the Mother of Obsessions: Dead Sons Walking

OBSESSION, according to Wiktionary:   A compulsive or irrational preoccupation.  An unhealthy fixation.

I used to think of obsessions as categoric childhood folly.  I had put them away much like 1 Corinthians 13:11, “When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child, but when I became a man, I put away childish things.”  

Thinking myself an enlightened parent, I leaned towards everything in moderation, boundaries, and studying Biblical disciplines during my children’s feverish obsessive seasons.  I may have escaped with pride/deception intact had it not worked so magically on all but one of my eldest children.  My son spent his childhood swinging from one gung-ho season to the next.  No child chewed more wildly or deeply through vapored passions.  Pokemon.  Troy Aikman football cards.  Firebelly newts.  Football itself.  The first three Harry Potter books.  Paintballing.  MXPX.   Camping out for Halo 3. 

More distressing is that my passionate son passed from childhood to puberty and emerged a self-proclaimed unbeliever.  Currently without a spiritual pulse, “…dead in {his} trespasses and sins” (Eph. 2:1).  Or, as John Wesley pens in his commentary: 

“Not only diseased, but dead; absolutely void of all spiritual life; and incapable of quickening yourselves, as persons literally dead.”

This is a tough pill for any Christian mother to swallow.  As such, I have done a lionesses’ share of copious ferretting in vast libraries of theological books and sermons and tapes (”Lions and tigers and bears, Oh My!”)…into the wee hours of the morning I traverse to Disturbia ~ corners of my mind where I have regular round table discussions with me, myself and I…round & around like hands on a wall clock … election … salvation … predestination … grace … waiting and praying, praying and waiting…confessions and repentance for sins of  parental negligence … omission, commission … crescendoed relief and thanksgiving when I hear his size-13 Etnies shuffling for curfew check-in.

Through the mirror of my son’s obsessions, I face my own obsessive reflection: 

 Dead Son Walking. 

I have poured over the writings of many famous prodigals and their mothers.  Mary and Jesus’ brother James; Ruth Graham and Franklin; and perhaps the most famed combination, Monica and Augustine of Hippo, said by many to be the father of Reformed Theology.

Despite my obsessions, Jesus is my Rock, my Hope, my Savior, rescuing my thoughts even today through the words of Isaiah and my ragged Baptist Hymnal (Beloved Friend!):

“Say to those who have an anxious heart, Be strong; fear not! Behold, your God will come with vengeance, with the recompense of God.  He will come and save you.”   

Rescue the perishing,

Care for the dying,

Jesus is merciful,

Jesus will save.

I love best these post-mortem friends.  Unconventional perhaps, dead authors and hymn writers.   And yet, a part of me knows that earthly time is the only boundary in which our friendship is shackled.  Some day that will be broken. 

Recently I met another nothing-but-the-Blood relative.  A post-mordem friend to add to my roster of heavenly hook-ups.  A precious mother with familiar heartaches and dreams.  Our paths crossed on the way to my son’s obsessions.

Tool released their 4th cd, 10,000 Days, last year.  My son had to have it.  He really, really had to have it.   Tool’s lead vocalist is Maynard James Keenan.  From what I’ve read about him, Maynard was probably brilliant, driven, and just a little arrogant from an early age.  He reminds me a lot of Mozart.  A clever image bearer, Maynard went on to co-found the alternative metal band Tool in 1990.  Millions of fans, albums, and 3 Grammys later, the rest, as they say, is music history. 

What’s particularly interesting to me is that Maynard was raised by a Christian mother.  Judith Keenan was Baptist, and all theological jargon aside, this means Maynard was raised side by side with Jesus.  Oh, I’m sure the Gospel wasn’t conveyed perfectly in her parenting (is it ever?), but he grew up knowing the Truth.  Listening to Maynard’s lyrics, it’s profoundly obvious.  His lyrics are filled with vicious attacks on his mother’s spiritual fidelity, some grossly offensive.  And yet, it is interesting that he can’t seem to exorcise himself from a focus on, “so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you.” (”Judith”,  from A Perfect Circle, 2000).  Somewhere along the line, Maynard clearly lost his way.  Maynard became his mother’s heartache.  A self-proclaimed, self-righteous, highly outspoken, caustic critic of both his mother and her Jesus.  An undeniable Dead Son Walking.  

This bothered me greatly.  To think that Judith most likely read, over and over, her famous son’s lyrics.  How many nights did she lie awake, visiting Disturbia, caught in a tensioned obsession between motherly joy in his talent, and despair over his spiritual pulse?

Obsessions at rest, along with Judith.  She died during the making of Maynard’s 10,000 Days release, ending a 27+ year struggle with paralysis caused by a stroke.

Still, Heaven is waiting.  And in the aftermath of her death, it appears Maynard may have softened.  Lyrics from his “Wings for Marie“release:    

It was you who prayed for me so

What have I done

To be a son to an angel?

What have I done

To be worthy?

This little light of mine, the gift you passed on to me; I’m going to let it shine to guide you safely on your way, Your way home…

You are the light and the way, they’ll only read about…

God Bless your testimony, Judith Keenan.  It sings on.  I rejoice in your own release.  May there be an extra ruby in your crown.  Because unlike Mary and Ruth and Monica, who saw their sons bow down to Jesus Christ in their lifetime, your grievous obsession never ended.  I feel your pain.  A lifetime of watching our Dead Sons Walking. 

And God bless you, Maynard James.  My heart is for you.  Occasionally on visits to Disturbia, my fears are interrupted.  Dreams for your mother.  She is with a great multitude which no one can number, white robes, standing before a Throne and before the Lamb, crying out lyrics of her own: 

“Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!”  (Rev. 7:9-10).

In my dream, you are shouting next to her, and her joy is complete.

Life, Life! 

Hear our cries,

Oh My Adonai.