Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Confessions of a Semi-Professional Christian

I'm the Pastor at Bar Church.

I don't care for the title very much ... it means you're in charge of a Christian Church or congregation ... and I'm not in charge of shit!

In my past I was a "Professional Christian", paid good money to pretend I was in charge.

It took me a long time to realize I wasn't.

Oh back in the day ... I'd plan ... write sermons ... pick songs ... orchestrate who did what when ... script God to arrive at 11:47 so everyone could feel Holy ... while still beating the other Churches to the best restaurants.

And I got paid for such nonsense!

Two and a half decades pass and ... I'm a pastor who doesn't plan shit ... at a Church ... in a Bar.

(HEY BEN AFFLECK ... you're here on-island filming a movie ... I got your next one right here!)

I've learned a lot in my Holy Pilgrimage to this particular age of 59 ... I'm not in charge of shit.

At Bar Church, I try my best to get people who play better than me to play ... sing better than me to sing ... preach better than me to preach ... collect offerings better than me (I really suck at that part) ... make announcements (I REALLY SUCK MORE AT THAT PART) ... and somehow make it work so at God sticks Her head in at to say "Hey!":

I had an epiphany this past Sunday at Bar Church as I was singing and playing guitar ... a slow prayerful version of "We Will Build A Beautiful City" ... from the rock opera "GODSPELL" ... and it's supposed to be slow ... longing ... prayerful ... Hymn like.

But you know what?

Our drummer ... Davy Cahill ... actually runs Bar Church.

If he wants a Hymn ... he doesn't play ... he strolls over to the Potluck on the Pool Table and gets Banana Pudding which is always there like Manna from Heaven.

If he wants a "Spiritual" he beats the Hell out of the drums and the Bar ... and a really prayerful version off "Beautiful City" ... sounds like KISS is going to rock and roll all night and party every day!

Soaked with sweat, out of breath, and out of God when we finish ... I turn and stare at him.

"Hey," he says ... "C'mere."

So in the middle of disorganized religion (thank you Bob Fulton), I turn my back on Church to ask, "What?"

"Little KISS is playing this weekend but I ain't going. It's not worth the $5 to get in."

What does one say?

"Holy Jesus," are the words I recall coming out of my mouth.

Then ... I don't know how this happens ... but it does ... for a few minutes ... a Bar becomes the Promised Land ... and everybody present knows it's happening ... and for a second anyway ... the Kingdom Comes on Earth as it is in Heaven.

Afterwards, I turn and look at Davy again ... who is as stoic as Socrates ... and he hugs me saying, "We pulled another one off Rev" ... then he says ... "Oh I meant to throw these away before Church" ... and empty bottles of "Fireball" are tossed.

"That's the way God planned it," goes the old Hymn.

"That's the way God likes it."

I can't argue with that.