Sugar Pie, Honey Bunch

At the end of last year, I decided to take time off from live gigs. My band was feeling old and worn out to all of us and the spark had left us. My stated intention was to begin playing live again in the fall. It was closer to the truth to say I had no intention of gigging with the Mark Archambault Combo again. I had gone from singing the blues with passion and conviction to halfheartedly "whining" the blues. A few months ago my friend Rob Curcio volunteered to play bass if I wanted to play out. Drummer Mike Brennan completed the package and we were ready to rehearse.

What was still missing was a spark of inspiration. "What kind of music do you guys want to play?" was my question to them. "It's your band, you figure it out", was their answer.

It is up to me to pick the music that is played before and after church at Aldea. One Sunday I threw on a Motown's greatest hits CD and watched as the room lit up. People of all ages were tapping their feet and singing along to these wonderful songs. Rob said this was the music we should be performing. I already have several original tunes that fit the style. Now with the inspiration firmly in place, we are off and running.

Our first gig is in two weeks and we are excited about the music. It feels great to be singing songs by The Temptations, The Four Tops, Supremes, Aretha Franklin, Sam & Dave, Harold Melvin & The Blue Notes, Marvin Gaye, Wilson Picket, Jackie Wilson, Ben E King, Ray Charles... I LOVE PLAYING MUSIC AGAIN!!!!

Please do me the favor of visiting our ReverbNation account and seeing us live. I promise you will have a great time shaking your booty and singing along.

May the Lord bless and keep you,

Mark

Grace + Power

My wife and daughter are sick of hearing me talk about it. Yesterday Micquette asked me "What are you?" I dodged the question. "well, what are you?" she continued. I had just finished making her a grilled cheese & Spam sandwich. I started singing the Spam song from Monty Python. "Spam, spam, spam, spam, lovely spam, wonderful spam..." She looked at me like I had two heads. I am pretty sure she does not know about Zaphod Beeblebrox, so I took it to mean she doesn't get it. Before she can ask again, I YouTube the Spam Song to enlighten her. That is the problem with her being ten years younger than I am, she lacks the cultural upbringing my generation had.

"I have not forgotten the question. What are you?" She smiles, I smile, we smile. "I don't know", I finally reply. "I no longer know what to call myself. I have spent countless hours reading about beliefs, dogma, ideas, etc. I have been watching Christian television and listening to my own old sermons. Late at night, while the house is asleep, I am up reading the bible, Strongs Concordance, books by Dan Millman, Robin Sharma, Thomas Merton, William P. Young, Richard Bach and anyone else that may shed new light. Micquette and Kleigh have heard my wonderings and ramblings for years, but the last few months have been more intense, I NEED to break through to this new place, to see it come alive. A new idea is formed in my head. Maybe others have caught on well ahead of me, but it is new to me.

Grace
"For the grace of God that brings salvation has appeared to all men." Titus 2:11

After years of thought, study and prayer, I believe that the Bible is correct when it says that Jesus was successful in paying the price for the sins of the world. It seams a simple enough statement for a Christian pastor to make. This idea of God being able to do what He says He does is simple, but not popular. The standard church position has shifted away from the Bible teaching that God is light and there is no darkness in Him. Our Heavenly Father has been replaced by something hideous and unspeakably cruel. Instead of unconditional love for all mankind, our God is reported from pulpits around the world to condemn the vast majority of our parents, sisters, brothers and neighbors to an unending torment of separation and pain. Make the wrong choice in the short blip of time we live in and spend eternity in agony. The God I love and the Bible I read have been misrepresented in a most sick way. All this emotional torture may be handy to build man made kingdoms, but it is a false God and a gross twisting of the most beautiful relationship we can have.

"You shall know the truth and the truth will make you free." If the above teaching is the truth, it makes us a mess of conflicting emotions, not free. My relationship with God is based on love, security, mercy, safety and grace.

Power
I seek to live like Jesus. The Jesus I read about in the New Testament healed the sick, made blind eyes see, walked on water, fed thousands of people from a small list of groceries, raised the dead, had conversation with God, lived a supernatural life. Jesus demonstrated the very power of God in everyday situations. I want THAT! I not only want that, but am tired of hearing all the well made arguments as to why I cannot have it. I have seen too many supernatural things in my life to except living a mediocre and spiritually limp faith. I have seen healing, seen miracles, talked to God, known things that only heaven knew. This has been my past and it will continue to be my future.

Grace + Power
All this brings me back to the question: what am I? I have never been in a church that embraced both grace fully and demonstrated the power of God in any real way. I cannot call myself this label or that label, because none of the available labels combine these two elements. If I have missed something in my search, forgive me and send me information. Help me on my journey. In the mean time, I have started a gathering of like minded people on Monday evenings to explore these ideas. If you would like to join me on this journey, I will post the information on my facebook page each week.

Blessings to you,

Mark

Five Things I Do Not Want For Christmas

I am sitting in a hotel in Alabama waiting for a meeting to begin. My brain cannot handle another thought about the meeting, so…

Five Things I Do Not Want For Christmas

1. Gifts for adults, from adults and by adults.
I probably do need new socks and underwear. Pricey pens and handsome ties are nice. These are all well and good, but it’s Christmas and not a trip through the SkyMall Catalog.

When I was a kid I used to give my pipe smoking father a ceramic ashtray and pipe cleaners for the big day. The ceramic ashtray is a thing of the past. Back then it was the perfect gift for my dad, even if it was kind of cheating. You see, my parents owned a series of retail art stores specializing in ceramics. My life was filled with ashtrays, large vases, 18” high German Shepherds with pink painted tongues, dirty turtles*, etc. The ashtrays were great big, curvy objects of art, not unlike the cars of the 1950’s. Each one weighed five pounds and took up an entire end table. Some even had big lighters or lamps popping out of them. They looked so groovy with the green shag carpet in the living room. This was the 70’s at my house.

Ceramic ashtrays made perfect hills and battlements for my small army men. As soon as dad was gone, I cleaned them (sometimes) and they went into their proper use in the military. No one expected me to get him anything useful or grown up: I was a kid. He was happy: I was happy.

If I had had the money for one of those nifty 23 channel CB radios, that would have been a good gift too. I remember at 19 years of age a buddy of mine and I used an old CB base unit to transmit The Clash and Elvis Costello to the truckers on Rt 14 outside Woodstock Illinois. We had two turntables and a microphone. That’s right: we were rebels with a pirate radio station. At 10 or 11, my dad would have grounded me for such foolishness. The way I looked at it, any Christmas gift had to do double duty: first my dad had to have some use for it, and then I would figure out its proper function in this world. As for the pipe cleaners, if you are under the age of thirty you probably have no idea what I am talking about. Dad and I would spend countless minutes making animals and people out of them, posing our creations on his proud, shiny, new ashtray. He could always unbend them later and use them.

My son is nine and in Cub Scouts. The day he joined was a cause for dancing in the streets. Now, in my late forties, I can re-live all the things I probably didn’t get around to when I was in Scouts. I bought an extra copy of his book and have read it cover to cover once a week for a month. We take time to play together like never before. I have a great excuse: he needs badges! He needs badges and I am just the man to make sure he does it by the book. His being in Scouts is like Christmas for me.

Next time you have the urge to get me something for Christmas, make it fun.

2. A $1000 Yak
Last week I was in the Wagon Wheel, Picture Rocks Arizona’s’ answer to Starbucks, when the gentleman to my right started swearing about his 19 year old, estranged son. It seems the young man lives in another state and is undeserving of a gift. I cannot tell you why, but I know it involves much use of the F-word to get the point across properly. Maybe the kid used his iPod and a 23 channel CB radio to broadcast Snoop Dogg and the Juno soundtrack to truckers on I10 in El Paso? My new friend has decided to give the gift that keeps on giving: a $1000 Yak. He ordered another round and explained, there is an organization he supports that takes your money, buys livestock, gives it to someone in a developing country and does it all in the name of the loved one of your choice. The virtual beasts run from a $25 chicken to the grand slam $1000 yak. I think this is a fine idea, I really do. Maybe you can donate a duck to Henry in France for me some year. After much thought, however, I do not want a $1000 yak in my name this year. What if your beneficence goes awry and it ends up at my house by mistake? My neighbors would be OK with it, I’m sure, but my daughter would want to keep it and we are out of spare animal room at the Arkabaulds.

3. Anything pertaining to Justin Bieber, Dancing With The Stars, Americas’ Got Talent, Star Search, Solid Gold, ect.
Nuff said.

4. Books on Religion.
I know I am a pastor, I love Spirit with all my heart. My reason for not wanting books on religion runs like this: imagine if you will, you know somebody: let’s say your spouse. You know this person really well. You talk to them daily. They talk to you. You have a sweet, loving relationship. Like all relationships, yours’ has its’ ups and downs. Now, someone writes a book about that person. They write it about how he/she was in high school. This book tells every bit of information the author could get their hands on about the way he/she acted then. There is even a section about the future. The writer states, based on the past actions of the subject, this is how they will act in the future… At the end of the book you know more facts, but do you know this person? Now I know my wife, she is able to express herself to me with no problem. She changes a little from day to day. She takes life on a case by case basis. In order to work with her on our life together, I have to communicate directly with her. I can learn a lot from Max Lucado or Dan Millman. They bring many things into a wonderful perspective. If they were writing books aboutmy wife, Micquette, I would probably read the first few. It is more important to me to deal directly with source. If you have a book you really want me to read, I will, but I am setting aside this year to get to know Spirit one on one. “Come, let us consider how we may spur one another on toward love and good deeds.” Hebrews 10:24. Just God and me, not Spirit and me and a duck and a yak.

5. World Peace
It would be a great gift, but the maintenance would break me.

Happy Christmas, Hanukkah , Kwanzaa, Boxing Day, New Years…

May you know Spirit- Breaker, breaker One-Nine, you got the Holy Hauler, come back.

Mark Archambault

*ceramic turtles with genitalia on the bottom. Innocent enough from the top, but turn them over and… SURPRISE!

The Secret Life of Hubcaps- A (re)Collection

This was the original intro to this book


The Secret Life of Hubcaps

A (re)Collection

I’m home, lost my job and I’m incurably ill. You think this is easy realism?*
I traveled 4600 miles in two weeks. If I had been pointed in one direction, I could be in Quito Ecuador by now, but instead I am back home in Tucson. Parts of me went with. Parts of me are all that ever go with. Some of me stayed in Tucson. I visited a large chunk of me in the Midwest. Some parts are scattered and move about in other peoples pockets. Pizzas get sliced and grabbed. Cards are cut and passed from hand to hand. A soul, my soul, would be better off in one piece. All the Kings horses, all the Kings me... The Kings me. The King is me? I don’t think so. If I really am the king, I will find a magic wand and hit myself in the head so hard that I wake up a week later. I will banish the fear, doubt and sadness from my kingdom. My thrown will be the front seat of a moving car, the sun shining in the window as I drive far from each heartbroken subject. I’ll gladly reign as an enlightened despot, fitting the bits of me back into a single soul, The soul: Mind, Will, Emotions. A set of molecules vibrating in unison at the correct speed to produce a single unified Mark Steven Archambault. At this time, however, I am not the King, not even A king. I am just pieces of a handsome man, looking for the rest of himself to catch up as I dance my Humpty dance. I am a DJ, I am what I play. I got believers, believing me.*

This is a collection of song lyrics, magazine articles, short writings, excerpts of two books and a tract I once paid to publish in a newspaper. I have added fresh writings to draw it together. The sole (pun intended) point of this assemblage is to bring me in focus to myself. I, like so many people at my age, would like to know how I got here. What choices led to this place and what choices lead away from here?

Furries was a novel designed to get almost every twisted thought out of my head. I discovered I was kind of funny, At the time I had no way of knowing it would end a 22 year marriage. This would not have stopped me, but it is the case. A choice.

Manna: A Journey into Prophetic Song is a collection of true stories from my first great spiritual awaking. Life has been a blending of spirits, music, voices from another place, voices from a larger town. Whereas Furries is a series of real misadventures wrapped in a fictional story, every word of Manna happened. Supernatural events that shaped my life . I have chased the Spirit and It has captivated me. A choice.

Pastor, musician, writer, artist, husband, dad, hero and villain. All these things are choices. The choices that have torn my soul and left me wandering.

As for the title, The Secret Life of Hubcaps, I had a dream a few months ago. In it I wrote this book and this was the title in the dream. Being ever mindful of the need for speed, balanced with a confusing and often overwhelming schedule, I am working on it now. The names have been changed in all the stories, details blurred, for a more complete run down see the chapter titled Furries Introduction.

Angels, Demons, Queen Bees and coffee stains: welcome to my (re)Collection.
August 2009

*David Bowie "I Am A DJ"

Bourguet Home

Micquette and I spent this last weekend in Monticello New Mexico. Monticello is a semi-ghost town of 100 souls on a dead-end dirt road West of Truth or Consequences. We found the school her grandmother attended, her great-grandparents graves, a fire house dedicated to James Bourguet (her great-grandfather). Across from the fire house, we had a long conversation about the area with a member of the historical society. The village, nestled in a peaceful valley, is a time capsule of the 1880's.

Driving North-West out of town, we crossed a wash lined by large Cottonwood trees. The word "Idyllic" ran through my head as the trees swayed in the breeze. "That's it, that's my great-grandparents house." Micquette's smile lit up the car. Under the trees, sheltered by a hill, stood what was left of an adobe house, it's blocks returning to the earth through rain and wind. We crawled under a barbed wire fence and stepped back in time. Over 100 years ago, her family built this home and filled it with dreams, hope and lots of children. I walked around the broken walls, listening to the story of a couple creating something from nothing. Creating family. The house had been home to a lifetime of memories. I looked through every tree for the fort that all boys build. We saw glass jars and a long abandoned refrigerator.

After James died, his wife Guadalope moved away. The structure had done its job. The kids were all adults. Micquette's grandmother, Lucia became a teacher, a wife, mother, grandmother, great-grandmother... She lived in Silverbell Arizona: now a true ghost town. A week does not go by without someone telling Micquette a story of how Lucia impacted their life. Lucia's daughter/Micquette's mother, Lu became a teacher and, for thirty years, shaped countless minds and hearts with passion. The family of James and Guadalope Bourguet goes on and on, changing lives.

If you ever go to Monticello, drive out through the cottonwoods west of town. Just before the road dead-ends, lays the broken shell of a house on the right. The structure is empty: it's useful life over. Looking at the front door may see nothing special. Out of this doorway came a family that has changed their world. A legacy of honor, hope and faith walks from that door ever day.

It does not matter what your name is, where you come from or what you have had to overcome. You can make a decision to create something from nothing. You can send a dynasty out from your doorway. Jesus looked at them and said, "With man this is impossible, but with God all things are possible." Matt 19:26. Now it's our turn. As for me and my God, we will send out life, creativity, hope, healing, faith and love from our doorway.

May the Lord make His face shine on you,

Mark

Half An Hour

The Secret Life Of Hubcaps

Half an Hour

I have given myself 30 minutes to write something. OK, first thing that pops into my head… a guy in a goose suite, maybe it’s a duck, I’m not sure. The kind of farm animal with a white body and yellow bill. Walking on a green grassy hill. The sky is very blue and the clouds are very white and fluffy. There is a split rail fence and sheep milling about in the area.

What I have just written does not connect to anything else in my life. My computer and desk have taken over the dining room table again. My real desk is twenty feet away, clean and ready for action.

Five dogs, three turtles, two birds, a rabbit and a fish are all within the same twenty feet. Nobody moves. I understand the Mexican concept of siesta. It is 4pm and they have all been asleep for an hour. I would like to be asleep, but I have to go to a recording session and have no time for a nap.

Sleep, sLeep, slEep, sleEp, sleeP… sounds wonderful. My ride won’t be here for 25 minutes. Sleep. Maybe just a brief nap: a power nap. Edison did it and look how he turned out. My bed is within 20 feet of me. The rabbit doesn’t care if I nap. None of the dogs would tell. Hhhhmmmm. Sleep.

I guess I didn’t need all 30 minutes to write after all.

Micah Pt. 01 My Name Is Micah

The Secret Life of Hubcaps

Four- My Name Is Micah

Once upon a time, in a city not too far from here, in a large office, in a tall building, behind a bulky desk sat a man named Big. “Find me another one, a prophet, psychic, seer… I don’t give a damn what you call it, find one NOW!” Big is handsome. The kind of handsome that raises the serotonin levels in everyone he meets. He is smart, graceful, always on the edge of a smile. Today he is not smiling. He is, however shining. Today Big is glowing with a light bordering on flame. A single drop of sweat lands on the desk in front of him. Steam rises off his temple.

The air in the room is brittle. A wrong move can break us all to pieces. I have not taken a breath in minutes. Static electricity jumps from person to person. Outside the noise of the crowd is deafening. Here, in this perfect place of class and style, it is a low roar. Right now no one in this room admits the world exists. It has ceased to turn on its axis. Evaporated into nothingness, banished from the space occupied by Big.

My right hand shakes, just a little. There is no need to hide it, as I know no one can see me in his glow. His eyes are waves, pulling me along in the undertow and pushing me away as they crash onto my shore. Now he is all about me. “Tell me everything you know about your ‘so called’ prophet.” The others use this as a chance to escape. Before I feel sorry for myself, I remember that when this is over, I will go home. They all have to come back tomorrow for another red tide.

“A busker is a street musician: someone that works for tips. You can find them in front of the Art Institute or the hallways at O’Hare.” My voice squeaked; this is not a good start. He knows this part, I’m sure. Still, he says nothing, so I go on. “I heard about her on Craigslist; the discussion boards were full of hype. ‘Micah told me the future or Micah healed my dog…’ Nothing BY Micah, who would follow someone that posts their God like qualities online? There was certainly a lot about her.” I settle into my chair as the urge to pee dies down.

“I have never had the need to believe in anything. If I was going to follow an idea or a person, Craigslist would be a poor place to start. Guess I was looking for something to write about other than payoffs and politics.” Big shows his legendary ‘I care about what you have to say’ face. I become Hervé Villechaize to his Ricardo Montalban. He drops the intensity down a notch, but remains Khan, not Mr. Roarke.

“She was trying to play a song in a pizzeria on North Clark when I finally met her.It sounded like Smoke Stack Lightning as sung by KT Tunstall. In a few more months, she would have been somebody’s ‘Next Big Thing’, with or without me. I decided I would do it myself. No matter how many times I searched online, I could not find a photo of the already semi-famous singing prophet. I expected to find someone in white robes, swaying to a sitar and sitting in the Lotus position. I found her engaging and alert. She laughed easily then. As you know, that would change. How can this Holy Wonder Gyrl be playing an out of tune guitar in a faded summer dress? She needed a marketing firm to win the world. I was too happy to help.”

“I sat at a table in my own little world. …or should I say, ‘her own little world’. Her voice was a high alto as she sang.”

My name is Micah
I was born in 1982
In the city of dreams and the Lincoln Park Zoo
Sometimes I know things
A voice from nowhere talks to me
I see things that others do not see

I Will Not Close My Eyes