It all started in Port Wentworth Baptist Church where my parents always took me twice on Sundays, once on Wednesdays and any other time God decided to host a function there. Church was the central part of social activity, where I sang Hymns loudly, met my first set of friends, learned God loves us above all else but I could still piss him off if I did the wrong thing thereby risking Hell for eternity.
It's where I played organized sports, first admired the legs of girls in short dresses, attended Vacation Bible School, joined the choir, sang my first solo, had a Deacon grab my long hair to ask when I was getting it cut and made out with a girl in the Baptismal Pool one night.
So I grew up in the Church but by College I was over it.
In a much bigger world I got on with life, working a full time job while attending classes, getting married because she was pregnant, having a son I adore while trying to be a singer in a band. There wasn't any time for Church anymore.
Then out of the blue, my best friend calls to ask what I'm doing with the rest of my life.
Guy Sayles had graduated early and now attended Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.
"I have no idea," I reply.
"I think you should come to Seminary," he quickly counters.
Over the objections of most everyone I know, that's what I do.
Sometime in that first year in a foreign land, Church found me again.
A fellow student, internally wrestling with the angst of being both gay and the minister of an inner city, mission sponsored congregation, invits me to play guitar in his Church because, while the Sanctuary had an organ and a piano, no one played either.
The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel is a very large building with a very tiny congregation, mostly little old ladies, delinquent kids from the Projects, homeless people trying to find warmth and some over zealous Seminarians.
I sand "I saw the Light" that first time and they were so appreciative of the music, the endearment overwhelms me so I keep doing it.
The weight of dogma crushes the gay minister forcing him to abruptly resign one Sunday morning, leaving no one in charge and because no one else wanted it, I'm asked to be the minister.
It was something I'd never considered.
God didn't call me to attend Seminary, Guy did.
Un-ordained, I was using Seminary to answer questions I had, never pondering a vocation, yet one's thrust into my lap, and more out of the endearment I had for the old ladies than anything God may intended, I took the job.
Over the next years, amazing things take place.
Embracing "the least of these," homeless people move inside empty Sunday School rooms, the Baptismal Pool is transformed into a communal bath, structure's brought to the kids and the radical fringe of the Seminary finds a home because "Church" in't supposed to do these things.
The congregation explodes from a handful to a couple of hundred.
Far better musicians than me enhance the music and I'm forced to learn to preach, another occupational hazard of the ministry.
Because of the novelty of what we're doing, I'm ask to speak at other Churches to explain our ministries and money from the mission minded pours in fostering more programs and growth.
Media coverage is followed by politicians wishing to associate themselves with "successful" transformation of blight.
At 25, I'm invited to Churches throughout the nation and begin to learn the darker sides of ministry.
Just as rock stars have groupies, successful ministers do too.
Given the numerous famous clergy who've taken bites of forbidden apples it should come as no surprise when it happens, as tantalizing now as when David first spies Bathsheba and, like him, I enter the dark side.
All secrets are eventually brought to light and his was no different.
What's funny though is what happens next.
The Church bureaucracy rush to judgement, blotting my name from the book of life and leaving me to start anew without them.
The congregation itself though, the little old ladies, homeless people and radical Seminarians, are horrified, rush to my aid with quick forgiveness, encouragement and beg me to stay though the powers that be make it impossible.
When it's over, the Church leaves me.
I quickly land in another job working with the city's power brokers to manage the homeless problem and the housing discrimination of the exploding HIV population.
God forgives me and then I forgive myself and find new ways to express my faith and gratitude.
Then again, out of the blue, Metro Baptist Church in New York City calls asking if I'm interested in becoming their pastor.
At the same time, Oakhurst Baptist Church in Atlanta also calls gauging my interest.
The last thing I want in my life at that time is ... church.
Who really needs it anyway?
"For where two or three gather in my name, I am there," Jesus says. (Matthew 18:19-20).
Notice everything Jesus never says is necessary.
Buildings, Hymnbooks, Sunday School, choirs, a finance committee, children's programs, even a minister aren't necessary to do Church.
A few years ago, Monty asks why Bar Church doesn't have a creed so I came up with one but quickly discard it.
He then asks for dogma which I'm not a big fan of so I said some words against one.
There was also some concern about how many come.
"There's more people in the Band today than there are in Church," he'd sometimes say.
"It doesn't matter," I'd answer.
I just prefer the idea of two or gathering in his name and trusting something Holy happens when that happens.
We're asked to feed his sheep, Jesus says elsewhere ... and not to count them.
Back in Seminary there was a required class, "Exit to Ministry" which was sort of final instructions before sending us out to save the world. It was a dogma filled brain dump of instructions for preserving Church as it is.
On the last day of this the last class, the Professor, a "successful" retired minister, asked if anyone has any final words of wisdom.
Michael Ethridge, who said a word the entire semester, raised his hand.
Mike was famous among a segment of students for making an A- in his "Marriage Enrichment" class while simultaneously getting a divorce.
"Mr. Enthridge," the surprised Professor calls.
"I think we've done something horribly wrong," Mike begins while standing and collecting his things, stuffing them in his backpack, "and that if Jesus were to come back right now ... right here ... the first thing he'd do is rent a bulldozer and knock the whole damn thing down. Then I believe he'd start over."
Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, he walks out leaving a speechless Professor and a stunned class of wild eyed idealists.
I think Mike was mostly right all these years later.
We don't need all that other stuff.
Only two, three or more need to gather, it doesn't matter where, for the right reasons and Jesus will join us, because from the very beginning of it all, that's all you really need to do Church.
