Friday, May 3, 2013

My Robe and me

It was an uncommonly hot day in Louisville and even the large cavernous Cathedral I was sitting in was stagnant with heat. Fans blew from on high but the cool air quickly evaporated before it reached the worshippers. Mostly little old ladies, sleeping homeless men and a few fervent young business types, they genuflected, sleepily saying the words of the Liturgy. Sweat dripped from the nose of the old lady praying on the front row.

It was Wednesday's Noon Day Mass and, as the Southern Baptist Minister in the inner city neighborhood, I was of course present to deliver the readings before the homily. Then the old Priest would arise in his black robe, say a few words, launch into the Mass and end by placing the body of Christ in the hands or the tongues of the believers.

Afterwards, the old Priest and I would go to lunch.

Strolling into the sacristy, Father Vernon Robertson took off his vestments and underneath he wore a red Polo cotton pull over, plaid  Bermuda shorts and black shoes.

And the word of the Lord descended upon me as though God slapped me on the side of the head.

And I said the words out loud, "I Gotta Get Me One Of Those!"

Baptist Ministers, especially of the Southern variety, wear suits.

Suits suck!

I swear to God in Seminary there was a professor who lectured on the importance of keeping your socks pulled up while you're sitting in front of your congregation. (Back me up Michael Ruffin)!

As soon as lunch was over I went back to the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was employed as the "Professional Christian" and tore into the choir room. We didn't have a choir but we had a room. In the closet were twenty black robes hanging there just in case we ever did.

I stole one.

For the last thirty years it has served me well. I conducted weddings, funerals, baptized babies, presided over civil unions and illegal gay marriages WAY BEFORE they were popular.

Underneath my robe, I wore whatever I wanted. Sometimes this meant nothing at all.

My beautiful daughter Chelsea is getting married soon and I'm blessed to perform the ceremony. Knowing how much I love my robe, she came to see us the other day and let Sarah know there was a dress code and I was to adhere to it. Damn the robe!


To make things more complicated, my former roommate Rocky Moore stole the robe that I'd stolen from the Church and made the mistake of washing it. After thirty years of tremendous usage it was paper thin from the salt air, ocean water and pee stains that she spent the better part of the afternoon picking it out of the washer piece by holy piece.

Feeling naked without it, Sarah jumped on the Internet and did a search for "Used Black clerical robe, Out of Business Ministers and People who have been kicked out of Church choirs."

BINGO!

A person kicked out of a Church choir sold us a robe that had only been worn once for $19.

I am back in business!

I'm using it tomorrow for the wedding of a daughter of a friend of a friend.

Just me and my robe.

Ministers should never do weddings of daughters of friends of a friend.