Unfinished Stories

I was in Johnson City, Tennessee staying at a Holiday Inn overlooking the city and the mountains. After driving down from Louisville, I sipped a beer while checking out the view. I was struck by the city's simplicity and charm. It was a Saturday afternoon and I was scheduled to be the guest preacher at the Baptist Church the next day. In my mid twenties, I'd gained a reputation as a good speaker, Home Missionary and radical inner city minister of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel. Monthly I'd be somewhere in the Southern Baptist Convention bringing the word of a homeless Gospel to the sanitized believers who supported the work through their tithes. After speaking in Churches from New York City to Kansas City, I had the presentation down pat though a cynicism had crept into my beliefs. Wearing a gray corduroy blazer, shirt and tie, blue jeans and tennis shoes ... I looked different from most Southern Baptist Ministers. I also had long hair, a beard, and wore shaded glasses. In addition to drinking beer, I chewed tobacco and played the guitar. Earlier I'd driven by the Baptist Church so that I'd know what to expect. Then I found a store to buy beer and checked into the hotel. Deacons from the church had invited me for supper but I'd turned them down as was my custom. I preferred to alone ... away from the never ending demands of the poor, the dirtiness of an inner city, the unrealistic facades of the Seminary and a whitewashed theology scrubbed clean of unpleasant things. I found a Pup to have dinner and met the city's unchurched. To this day this remains my custom. Searching out local haunts and dives, I watch and listen. More often than not, I'm included in fellowships that are far more powerful than those hiding under steeples. The Minister-of-Music and his wife picked me up the next morning. "We didn't recognize you," he explained with a laugh. "You don't look like a minister." I laughed a fake laugh at the very old joke. He was pretty with short cropped hair, a crisp suit and shinny black shoes. She had light brown hair that curled up at her shoulders, an light orange dress with white flowers on it and held a Bible in her lap. He did most of the talking telling me how wonderful the church is and how much I was going to enjoy the fellowship. It was a big box with pews and a Baptismal Pool. The congregation all looked the same. I suspect they were mostly in the same income bracket, voted the same and had sex in the dark. I told stories about homeless men doing their best to kick habits and believing in Jesus in ways that leave me humble, hookers dancing in Louisville's large porno district who came to church on Sundays, and this crazy group of kids who really believed they could change things and make the Kingdom come on earth as it is in heaven. The fellowship applauded when I finished. I sat in the preacher's chair looking forward to the beer I'd have when they let me go. The Minister-of-Music stood up to bring the service to an end when his wife stand up on the third row. She was crying which left him speechless. Almost 300 pairs of eyes watched. "It just is as he says," she sobbed clutching her Bible. "We just pretend to love but we really don't. We'll leave here and go to lunch while people go hungry ..." and her voice cracked and she cried from somewhere deep inside of her Bible. The church was full of embarrassment as the Minister-of-Music left the pulpit to hug his wife. Wiping tears from my eyes, I walked down and hugged the both of them. Then I left and made my way back to the Holiday Inn. Kicking off my tennis shoes and throwing the jacket on the bed, I opened a beer and stared out of the window. That was my only visit to Johnson City, Tennessee. The church never invited me back. All of these years later I wonder what happened to the Minister-of-Music and his wife. It's another unfinished story. I've collected thousands of them over the decades. It's funny. The only reason I'm thinking about them at all is because of Mitch Wesley and Mark Wood. We've been joking with each other on Face Book, claiming that God had given us songs to give to each other. My son Jeremy gave me a song which I gave to them and it references Johnson City, Tennessee. Angles arrived took me back to that day reminding me of what it was like back then. Reminding me of how hard it is to really believe in anything.