I hate Wednesday night Bible study but the five little old ladies who are the "congregation" of the inner city church love it!
I understand their love.
Two live in a senior citizen high rise, one in a run down shotgun house, while the other two share a small home in a slightly better neighborhood. The midweek service breaks them away from the loneliness they call home to be together again at the Church they refuse to let die.
As Pastor, I'm a full time student at the Seminary, part-time as their minister and live in the Church.
The building is a monstrosity, three floors of Sunday School rooms, a social Hall, kitchen, three apartments and a Sanctuary with a baptismal pool that seats 200 but on Wednesday nights perhaps ten gather in a nicely furnished space with sofas and coffee tables.
Making my way from the second floor down to the bottom floor, I hear noises stopping me dead in my tracks.
Located across the street from the projects, surrounded by homeless people sleeping outside, the porno district is only three blocks away and prostitutes are on every corner, the church has bars on the windows to keep people out!
Kids from the projects are forever breaking in because it beats the City park where the basketball rims are missing, the swings have been stolen and gangs gather to fight.
The stairwell is open so I stick my head underneath to find Bruce ... a homeless alcoholic who is my favorite!
From North Carolina, he once worked for Jimmy Swaggart driving a truck, loves country music and tells the story of how third wife tried to kill him with a butcher knife, concluding with, "God, sometimes I sure miss that woman!"
The longest I've ever seen him sober is 72 days.
Quite proud of this accomplishment, he opts to celebrate and has been drunk since.
Under the stairs he sits cross legged cradling a bottle of wine, weeping as he sings, "Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling me home."
When he sings the word "home" he sounds like a wounded wolf far off in the woods ... "Hoooooom."
"Hey Bruce," I say, crawling under the staircase with him. "What you doing?"
He jumps and glazed red eyes look me over before he snickers, "Jesus Christ Rev! You scared the living Hell out of me."
"Apparently not," I laugh.
Bruce starts to cry.
"It's all so fucked up Rev."
"Yeah ..." I agree. "It is."
We're silent for a while before I put my arm around him to say, "Hey listen, Church starts in a minute. The ladies would love to see you. Why don't you come on?"
"Awww," he cries harder, "I can't let them see me like this."
We're silent again.
"Well, we're having Communion tonight," I lie, "but we're out of wine. Can we use yours?
"What?" he asks, clutching the bottle.
"It's for the ladies" I explain.
"Aw, I love the ladies," he sniffles. "Yeah, Hell ... they can have it," and he hands it over.
"Thanks Bruce," I say getting up. "You sure you don't want to come?"
"Naw, I'm just gonna go to sleep," he answers laying down on the floor.
"Alright, I'll check on you later."
Strolling into the Wednesday evening service with the half empty bottle, the ladies are distraught ... "We didn't know it was Communion!"
Now I come from a fine family of drinkers, am one myself and it was simply part of life growing up.
Growing up, if you were pulled over for underage drinking the cops, who knew you and you knew them, would tell you to get your butt home before anything bad happened.
At the same time, I grew up in a Baptist Church that preached if you drank alcohol, you'd go straight to Hell, especially if girls were involved.
There was a creative tension where I grew up.
Drinking was fine as long as you didn't do anything stupid.
In time, I learned what the disease can do to people, spent years helping people enter recovery or opting not to, witnessing incredibly ruthlessness and unfathomable kindness, miraculous resurrections and bittersweet tragedy.
Just last week my friend Jimmie Chambers died.
Some of you may remember Jimmie as he lived on Tybee for a while, often looking like a passed out, white whale washed up under the Pier.
A true miracle of a man, Jimmie outlived himself for decades.
The stories he leaves are many.
An EMS worker tells me he has a delivery so I follow him to the ambulance, the door opens and Jimmie waves from the stretcher.
"Medically, he's dead," I'm told.
"He doesn't look dead," I answer shaking my head.
"Well, he should be," he explains unbuckling Jimmie.
"What are you doing?" I ask.
"Releasing him to you," he tells me.
"I don't want him" I say.
"We don't either," he responds releasing the patient.
Jimmie stands on wobbly knees, reeking of God knows what, puts his arm around me, burps and asks, "Hey Rev. You got a Bible I can borrow? I could use one about right now."
As the ambulance peels out, Jimmie follows me inside.
Last year, I'm pushing our baby Che in her stroller across the Pier making our way to the bait shop to hang out with Tennessee and Evelyn and watch the sun rise.
"Rev," I hear. "Slow down!"
It's Jimmie, sitting at a picnic table drinking a beer.
"No," I answer, pushing Che faster.
"Fine," he grins, "I'll walk with y'all," and he catches up but, out of breath, puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me to a bench.
"Did you ever find my Bible?" I ask.
"Naw," he laughs. "You should have never lent me your personal Bible. Why'd you do that?"
I shake my head and give Che her bottle.
"Anyway, I just want to say thanks," he says seriously. "You've saved me a thousand times ... wait a minute! ... is that a baby?"
Jimmie was a master carpenter but, like a lot of not very observant person, unless he needs a drink then he knew where and how to find one.
"Meet my daughter Che," I say.
Jimmie burps in disbelief.
Che giggles.
I could go on. I've been blessed with lots of people in my life who drank too much and some, though by no means all, died too young.
In that respect, I'm also blessed with those who didn't drink at all, or barely at all, who died too early or are still around.
Medically, there may be rhyme or reason to it, but not theologically, which is the point of Ecclesiastes in the Bible.
You can't figure out good and bad in life, Koholeth (the Preacher) argues. Stupid people are rich and the wisest live in poverty ... mean men live forever it seems while good women die young ... and no matter what you do, everybody dies.
So, "as you make your way in life, eat your food with joy, and drink wine with a good heart, for God accepts who you are" (Ecclesiastes 9:7).
That's the Good News of the Gospel!
Your life may be good or it may be so damn bad you can't help but cry, but either way you're going to die but that's not the point!
It's just the reality of living ... it comes to an end.
So, God says, eat ... drink ... and be merry ... or have fun in your life!
Enjoy it as best you can because it's a gift from God ... you life ... and there's going to be good and bad in it ... but do your very best to enjoy everything as best you can!
Don't get too smug when things are going great ... and don't beat yourself up when things are terrible ... it's life ... and it's the most incredible gift from God ... so the key is to enjoy it the very best you can!
Don't go too crazy enjoying things, the Bible goes on to say ... remember to be nice to others while you're being nice to yourself ... and God so loves you he gave his only son that if you remember you won't die while you're living but have this crazy, wonderful life that's celebrated.
So ... I'd like to take a moment to raise a toast.
Here's to you Bruce ... thank you for the wine that night ... the ladies loved it after I told them what had happened ... and I never did see you sober again after those 72 days ... but I heard you were happy walking across the bridge that night you fell into the Ohio River and ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven working part time as the wine steward every time they have the Lord's Supper.
Here's to you Jimmie Chambers ... thank you for letting me be one of the many witnesses who watched you raise himself from the dead ... again and again AND AGAIN ... if cats do indeed have nine lives you put every one to shame and leave them envious as Hell and, again ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven fixing things that break when you're sober and singing off key with choirs of Angels when you're not.
And here's to each of you today ... thank you for taking some time to worship with me ... in a way that works for us though it may not for others ... I know lots of your stories, the good and the bad that's happened ... and you know mine too ... and here we are making a congregation in a bar ... and, I don't know but I believe ... we're the kind of church you meant when it began all those years ago and because of it, Heaven comes on earth for a little bit at least on Sunday mornings here.
Finally, here's to you God ... thank you for this gift of life! ... These gifts of life! ... thank you for coming down from Heaven to hang out in the back room during Church and in our hearts during the week ... and, I don't know but I believe ... you're just getting us ready for the next gift after we're done celebrating this one.
The end of it all is this last raising of the glass and to say, in the words of our dear Saint Gordo, SALUTE!
Amen!
