Bomb Throwing Pacifist

 I was going to come up with my usually witty and brilliant line of snark for the introduction but then it occurred to me that when you actually encounter a piece of Evangelical apologia with a title like “Mystery Goo,” well, why reinvent the wheel? Especially when the author in question is none other than Kirk Cameron, the grown-up version of the adorable, moody Mike Seaver on the hit 1980’s TV show Growing Pains (which I’m sure was responsible for more that it’s fair share of mystery goo back in the day). Take it away Mike!

Mystery Goo

Kirk Cameron

Posted: 10/16/2006

Chelsea and the kids and I had been out to dinner. I returned home and was walking down the hall toward my bedroom, when I almost stepped in it. I looked further down the hall and saw another small pile of "don't step in that". How many more might there be? 

Whereas a sane, logical person might be driven to such self-reflective questions as “what the fuck is that?” and “how did it get here?” Kirk’s first response was to ponder how much more there might be cleverly secreted in all corners of the house. Ah Kirk, please know that the rest of humanity draws comfort from the knowledge that you will always be there for us, always ready to ask the tough questions.

I found more on the kitchen stove. Another one on the top of the living room chair. Like Sherlock Holmes, I searched for clues and followed the trail and found more on my bedroom rug.

Well call me a crazy, paranoid, overly cautious city slicker type, but I think this alone provides sufficient grounds for entire Cameron household to be quarantined and the building condemned and razed to the ground. Or at least provide me with sufficient cause to politely decline any future dinner invitations on the part of Mrs. Cameron.

I turned toward my daughter's bedroom and noticed things were a little more disheveled than usual. As I tiptoed into a dimly lit bathroom, I found lotions, papers, and other various things strewn all over the floor with more mystery goo in both sinks. Whoever the intruder was, I was closing in on him.

I’m not sure if my views are representative of those of the general public, however, I think it’s fairly safe to say that Mr. Cameron seems strangely unconcerned with the dishevelment of his daughter’s bedroom, as well as the presence of “lotions, papers, and other various things” complete with a glazing of mystery goo in all the right spots. Just a thought.

I flipped on the lights. Suddenly, from behind me, I heard a sheepish "Braaaaaaaaaak, brak, brak, brak..." I turned around. It was "Whitey"- one of our pet chickens! She sat perched upon the edge of the tub, blinking her eyes as she adjusted to the bright lights, and had an incredulous look on her face[…]

Well, for a chicken. I guess.

I laughed, picked her up, and carried her out to the rest of the family, and demonstrated my macho, manliness by declaring that Dad had "solved the mystery once again, and the Cameron family could safely return to their rooms."

Whew! Thank God that crisis was finally resolved! Now that the case of the mystery goo has finally been closed and Encyclopedia Brown has collared the suspect, I guess life in the Cameron household can return to normal. A very feathery, chicken-shit-splattered KIND of normal, but nevertheless well within the margin of error of what constitutes an acceptable semblance of domestic life in the house of Mike Seaver. Regardless, I hear their chicken pot pie is delicious.

I know what happened. Whitey, not content to peck and scratch in the backyard with the other chickens, ventured up to the house, saw an open door, and made her bold move. She entered the forbidden territory. No sooner were her feet in the door when a savage beast (our dog Sadie) lunged at her with teeth barred! Fearing for her life, she let out a squawk and flew to the top of the stove! Then to the chair, down the hall, into my bedroom, into the bathroom, up on the sinks, kicking everything off the counters, trying to find a safe place from the vicious enemy. (Obviously, the reason she left so many piles of converted grass and bugs in my house was because she literally had them scared out of her as she fled for her life.) 

Fifteen minutes listening to Inspector Cameron and I swear, it’s like Jack Webb and Dragnet loses all its appeal. “The story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. Honest. You think we could make this kind of shit up?”

There are times, as a Christian, I've felt a lot like Whitey.

You trespass onto other people’s property, and then flap your arms, shit yourself, and hide in their bathroom whenever someone has a problem with it?

I'm often discontent with the typical Christian lifestyle and instead look for an adventurous life lived on the edge of faith. Specifically, I want to step out of my comfort zone to seek and save the lost. So I rub shoulders with sinners.

Interacting with the remaining 90% of humanity. Damn Kirk, that’s taking your faith to the extreme.

Every time I do this, I enter forbidden territory--the enemy's domain. All of a sudden, out of nowhere I'm attacked by the savage beast of fear.

So…you do trespass on other people’s property and end up shitting yourself? Damn, it takes a real man to admit that. Mad props, homes.

It lunges at me, and I panic! In my mind

I chime in with a/“haven’t you people ever heard of/closing the God-damn door?”

For the love of Christ, just when you think this column can’t get any more blissfully unaware of its sexual undertones, it takes another nose dive. At least there hasn’t yet been a reference to what goes down in highway rest stop bathrooms.

Like an unrelenting hound, fear has even sent me running into the bathroom to pray.

Whoops. Spoke too soon.

In case you are wondering, Whitey is doing just fine. In fact, I think she's even bolder now because of the experience. I have no doubt that she will enter the forbidden territory again, because it's in her very nature to do so.

It might also be because chickens are without a doubt the single least intelligent species left on the planet since that gigantic asteroid wiped out the dinosaurs some 65 million years ago. To say that a chicken has half a brain is to overestimate the chicken’s intelligence by at least an order of magnitude. Fortunately for the rest of humanity, unlike the distant runners-up in the epoch-ending stupidity contest, chickens are not gifted with vocal cords and the capacity for speech. There is only enough room in this galaxy for one Fox News.

As a Christian, you have been given a new nature. You desire to enter enemy territory and sharing your faith, but perhaps in the past you have allowed fear to keep you from even getting your foot in the door. Take a lesson from my pet Whitey and just go for it. Make a bold move and fight the good fight of faith for the sake of the lost. Put it all on the line for someone you love. God is with you. You may feel like a chicken, but the experience will make you bolder in the end.

And if worse comes to worst, I am sure that your legs, thighs, and breast will be positively delicious deep-fried, sprinkled with Old Bay seasoning, and served in a bucket with a side of Cole Slaw and a buttermilk biscuit. You may have died pointlessly, but in the words of my good friend and associate Edmund Blackadder “He may have been a third-rate captain, but he was a first-rate second course.”

May it be said at our funerals and written on our tombstones, "Here lays a faithful servant of Jesus Christ, a truly courageous chicken."

“Life will never be as gooey without him!”