Over the weekend, one of those pop culture stories about those devoid of culture crossed the wires. Seems at an Insane Clown Posse show, when reality show personality Tila Tequila (no, I don't believe that's the given name on her birth certificate, but whatever) took the stage, more than a few members of the audience took umbrage. This was expressed by an exercise in target practice, with Ms. Tequila as the target.

Which isn't funny, really.

It's tempting to look at those whose lives are dedicated to a desperate reach for fame, any fame, at any price as rather pathetic human detritus. Why not? They are living embodiments of the truism that the most heinous stereotypes aren't the ones people assign to others based on overrated differentiators such as race, gender and the like. It's the ones we adopt as our persona. So why not laugh, mock and scorn? They can cry about it all the way to the bank.

Or they can cry as they bury their face in the folds of Jesus' blood-stained garment.

Which they will never do unless they are shown the Way.

Which will never happen unless we do so.

Is the risen Lord, who conquered hell and death, emasculated by our inability to perceive His love for the shallow and unsubstantial, seeing past this and into the heart?

Are the Tila Tequilas of this world somehow cut off from the touch of God's grace and the loving caress of Christ's nail-scarred hands?

The prayer ought to be for one or more who know the embrace of His love, people who can speak with authority to those engulfed by flames regardless of whether they are aware of this, for they have been through the fire themselves, to enter into the lives of the Tila Tequilas of this world with a clear witness and unabridged, unashamed call: come, kneel with me at the foot of the Cross.

Anything less dishonors Christ's sacrifice for us.

I'd just as soon leave that to the crowd at an Insane Clown Posse show, thanks.