So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
Friday, July 16, 2010
What is Wrong with the World
So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
What is Wrong with the World
So there is a woman that I know with long blond hair and the ability to catch your eye for a moment but little more. She has a crooked nose so that the right nostril is perfect but the left one crumbles like a tissue when she smiles or cries. She cries a lot because her life is a wreck but she pretends that everything is perfect, like she is perfect on the outside. On the inside, she is shallow. Externally she is reserved, meaning she hides who she really is. She takes more than she gives. Much more!
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
When you confront her or catch her off guard, she takes her thumb and places it against her temple and her forefinger rests on the side of her face pointing to the top of her head, forming an L --- Loser.
And she is.
We have all met a thousand of her in our lives. External beauty overcompensates for internal shallowness. She only cares about herself. So she manipulates and schemes and looks beautiful and gets by. She is the subject of many television shows and it is shocking to learn that cartoon characters really exist. But they do.
I’ve come to believe that this is a lot of professions. Politicians for sure who sell their soul for the vote and the reelection. Bureaucrats who wait out whoever is elected so that they can simply continue doing what they have always done because they really don’t care about the purpose but themselves. Ministers who pretend to speak for God because they have no clue where she is. Columnists and reporters who speak for everyone else because they have no ability to listen to others or themselves. And just people, who show up every day and instead of trying to make it all better, align themselves with the smallest common denominator because…they are small.
They care more about themselves than they do others. They survive at the expense of others. And this is the core of sin. And it abounds.
So in spite of whatever you have done or are doing, regardless of how many people you have helped or how many people you are helping. God asks that we rise above such actions. She wants us to rise above such people. Because that is holiness and it is good.
You’ll be outnumbered because there are so many like her all around.
And that is why there is homelessness. And discrimination. And racism. And envy. And hate. And poverty. And most everything else wrong with the world.
But I know her. And you do too.
And I know hundreds like her. And you do too.
My LIfe's Purpose
My son Jeremy, or J-Luv as he is known on the island, and I went out last night after a killer dinner of bar-b-que chicken (which cures a lot of things), al gratin potatoes from scratch (I'm gonna make someone a hell of a wife one day!) and cole slaw (KFC...some things cannot be improved on).
Anyway Jeremy has relocated his bike from his home in Madison, Georgia to Tybee Island so that we don't have to get into the car. So we breezed down to Bearnie's to listen to Sam Adams and Gordon. The courtyard is filled with tourists and we sit on stools and just talk.
Well, we talk when I am not texting a dear friend who is making cupcakes or Keller Deal isn't calling me with orders. I am not certain how this happened. Keller Deal and I used to work together. We don't anymore. Nevertheless, she still calls and tells me what to do.
Even J-Luv says, "Dad, it's Keller Deal. You better take it." So I do. And Keller Deal proceeds to tell me what to do. And I make mental notes and will do my best to do it but I normally only get about three-forths of what Keller Deal tells me. But that just gives her another excuse to call me and order me around. I think that she has discovered her life's purpose.
But I digress.
Sam Adams and Gordon take a break and work the crowd for a while. After they finish with the tourists, they stop by to say hello. Sam and I make plans to get together soon. Then Gordon comes over to let me know that he does not look like the Wolfman, talk like Sling Blade, or frighten children. He does give them harmoincas.
Which is true. Any child who enters the place gets a harmonica from Gordon. He believes that it makes you a better person. Who cannot be impressed with this?
So Gordon is talking to J-Luv and me when I ask him how he got started with the harmonica. And the Wolfman answers in his Sling Blade voice, "I was 27 and had hurt my back in the Navy. I'd joined the Navy to take care of my family. But I was hurt and couldn't work. So I bought a Jimmy Buffett album and a harmonica. Four wife's later I could play pretty good."
Now he tells me this as I am in transition mode in my own life. I believe that I want to be a beach bum when I grow up but have this knack of trying to catch people who are going to hell and sending them in a different direction.
But Gordon and Sam have pulled it off.
There is hope.
I just pray that I don't have to get through four wives to get to where I want to be.
I really just want the one true love.
Anyway Jeremy has relocated his bike from his home in Madison, Georgia to Tybee Island so that we don't have to get into the car. So we breezed down to Bearnie's to listen to Sam Adams and Gordon. The courtyard is filled with tourists and we sit on stools and just talk.
Well, we talk when I am not texting a dear friend who is making cupcakes or Keller Deal isn't calling me with orders. I am not certain how this happened. Keller Deal and I used to work together. We don't anymore. Nevertheless, she still calls and tells me what to do.
Even J-Luv says, "Dad, it's Keller Deal. You better take it." So I do. And Keller Deal proceeds to tell me what to do. And I make mental notes and will do my best to do it but I normally only get about three-forths of what Keller Deal tells me. But that just gives her another excuse to call me and order me around. I think that she has discovered her life's purpose.
But I digress.
Sam Adams and Gordon take a break and work the crowd for a while. After they finish with the tourists, they stop by to say hello. Sam and I make plans to get together soon. Then Gordon comes over to let me know that he does not look like the Wolfman, talk like Sling Blade, or frighten children. He does give them harmoincas.
Which is true. Any child who enters the place gets a harmonica from Gordon. He believes that it makes you a better person. Who cannot be impressed with this?
So Gordon is talking to J-Luv and me when I ask him how he got started with the harmonica. And the Wolfman answers in his Sling Blade voice, "I was 27 and had hurt my back in the Navy. I'd joined the Navy to take care of my family. But I was hurt and couldn't work. So I bought a Jimmy Buffett album and a harmonica. Four wife's later I could play pretty good."
Now he tells me this as I am in transition mode in my own life. I believe that I want to be a beach bum when I grow up but have this knack of trying to catch people who are going to hell and sending them in a different direction.
But Gordon and Sam have pulled it off.
There is hope.
I just pray that I don't have to get through four wives to get to where I want to be.
I really just want the one true love.
Trolling for Mermaids
It was 100 degrees at 4:00 yesterday but I was sitting on my beloved back deck, more or less dressed...well, less really...on my cell phone talking to Robert who lives in Prescott, Arizona.
Gary, my next door neighbor began yelling my name, so I strategically stood up while continuing the phone conversation. (I can multi-task!)
"Is your power on?" he asked with his hands cupped around his mouth. Gary is a retired hippy. I am not certain how he was able to pull this off but I respect the hell out of him because he did. Though he is a yankee and power is evidently very important to him. I strategically opened the sliding glass door and learned that I had no power either. Who knew?
So I nodded that I didn't and he thanked me and went away. I returned to my phone conversation with Robert. "So," he continued, " vital, challenging, passionate activity is good for you. It is good for your health. It is good for your mental health. It is good for your life. When you do things that you are passionate about, you are doing what God created you to do."
And it was one of those statements that is so simply true that the world stops spinning for a second when you hear it. And it did.
My life has never been convintional, as a former Board Chairman who choses to remain anonymous, once told me.
But I am not convinced that there is much passion in convintionality. Or anything is vital about it. Or challenging. Or that it is especially good for you. Nor am I certain that convintionaility accomplishes much. I mean it gets you by but who wants to merely get by?
"You got no reason to believe it," Robert continued, "other than you got no reason not to believe it." Robert does have the ability to reduce the entire argument for the existance of God into a 17 word sentance.
Congressman Jack Kingston once told me in his Washington D.C. office, "Elliott, the thing about you is that you have figured out a way to finance the things that you are passionate about. All of these people come to me wanting me to finance what they are passionate about. But you have done that so I just make investments in what you are doing because it is already financed."
I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, I want to be a beach bum. Something's gone wrong here."
Then through the miracle of Face Book, my friend David Harmon-Vaught whom I haven't seen or talked to in 25 years, wrote me. He had been thinking about me when he heard a quote on an audio book. "Some want to live within the sound of church and chapel bell. I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell."
And Johnny O immediately popped into my head. I know, I know...what in the hell does he have to do with any of this? Other than hell is probably in both of our futures because we've both raised so much of it in our lives. And he is as unconventional as I've ever been.
And I've hung around hell a lot more than I've hung around church or chapel bell. I'm pretty sure that this is true for Johnny O too.
As a matter of fact, I am talking to a friend as I write this who is in the middle of a hell time, and she is letting it out and I am listening to her. And I think to myself as I tell her that she is loved, "Been there. Done that. Threw the tee-shirt away."
So it's Friday. And I have vague ideas about what I want to do next but it will be something or someone that is vital, challenging, passionate activity for me. Everything else will take care of itself. So.
I'm going trolling for mermaids.
What are you doing today?
Gary, my next door neighbor began yelling my name, so I strategically stood up while continuing the phone conversation. (I can multi-task!)
"Is your power on?" he asked with his hands cupped around his mouth. Gary is a retired hippy. I am not certain how he was able to pull this off but I respect the hell out of him because he did. Though he is a yankee and power is evidently very important to him. I strategically opened the sliding glass door and learned that I had no power either. Who knew?
So I nodded that I didn't and he thanked me and went away. I returned to my phone conversation with Robert. "So," he continued, " vital, challenging, passionate activity is good for you. It is good for your health. It is good for your mental health. It is good for your life. When you do things that you are passionate about, you are doing what God created you to do."
And it was one of those statements that is so simply true that the world stops spinning for a second when you hear it. And it did.
My life has never been convintional, as a former Board Chairman who choses to remain anonymous, once told me.
But I am not convinced that there is much passion in convintionality. Or anything is vital about it. Or challenging. Or that it is especially good for you. Nor am I certain that convintionaility accomplishes much. I mean it gets you by but who wants to merely get by?
"You got no reason to believe it," Robert continued, "other than you got no reason not to believe it." Robert does have the ability to reduce the entire argument for the existance of God into a 17 word sentance.
Congressman Jack Kingston once told me in his Washington D.C. office, "Elliott, the thing about you is that you have figured out a way to finance the things that you are passionate about. All of these people come to me wanting me to finance what they are passionate about. But you have done that so I just make investments in what you are doing because it is already financed."
I remember thinking to myself, "Damn, I want to be a beach bum. Something's gone wrong here."
Then through the miracle of Face Book, my friend David Harmon-Vaught whom I haven't seen or talked to in 25 years, wrote me. He had been thinking about me when he heard a quote on an audio book. "Some want to live within the sound of church and chapel bell. I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell."
And Johnny O immediately popped into my head. I know, I know...what in the hell does he have to do with any of this? Other than hell is probably in both of our futures because we've both raised so much of it in our lives. And he is as unconventional as I've ever been.
And I've hung around hell a lot more than I've hung around church or chapel bell. I'm pretty sure that this is true for Johnny O too.
As a matter of fact, I am talking to a friend as I write this who is in the middle of a hell time, and she is letting it out and I am listening to her. And I think to myself as I tell her that she is loved, "Been there. Done that. Threw the tee-shirt away."
So it's Friday. And I have vague ideas about what I want to do next but it will be something or someone that is vital, challenging, passionate activity for me. Everything else will take care of itself. So.
I'm going trolling for mermaids.
What are you doing today?
Escape
This morning, Val, who is under the illusion that she actually manages the people who work at the Breakfast Club, was in an accusatory mood with me. As soon as she walked in she bellows, "Mr. Elliott! What are you doing getting one of my employees drunk so that they are late for work?"
"I don't know Val," I calmly reply in my Chaplains voice, "what happened the last time that you got me drunk with Johnny O and Judy?"
"That's different," she exclaimed before changing the subject.
"And what are you doing having a breakfast meeting at some place other than the Breakfast Club?" she demands.
Who knew that Val can read?
She obviously saw yesterday's blog and, now that I think about it, probably got Nick to read it to her. Nevertheless she was aware that I had a meeting at Larry's Restaurant in Savannah.
"Well," I reply as she sits next to me waiting on the answer, "do you remember the last time that I had a meeting here?"
She has a blank look on her face.
"I sat right there in 24," I said. There are six booths in the front part of the Breakfast Club, but for some reason they all number in the twenties. I suppose it is part of the Club's Master Plan.
"I was meeting with the Chairman of my Board, who was an intense little fellow back then, and the two of us really didn't gell. But we were trying to find some common ground. Anyway, the moment I walked in and he got intense, you started throwing toast and bacon at us whlie he ate. Do you remember that?"
"Oh yeah," she sleepishly replied. "Sometimes when I get started I can't stop."
"Tell me about it," I answer. "And you are amature compared to the things that Bruce used to do, but my Board Chair never got over it. He's never been back."
"I was looking after you," she said with a smile.
And it had been true for years that the Breakfast Club has looked after me. Especially when it came to work. If people got too intense or serious with me, toast would fly. At me and whoever I was with!
Or coffee would miss the cup and be poured on the counter in front of whoever was intruding into my private time. "I am so sorry, I've never missed the cup before."
Or Franklin, who is brown, will come over and pick up my glasses and stick them in his pants and do a little dance in place before placing them back down. He does all this without saying a word.
Or Jalapenos would secretly be inserted in the ham and cheese omlet that the person had ordered so that the first taste would lead to screams at the counter and demands for water.
Or Johnny O would suddenly jump up from his seat across from me and exclaim, "I ain't listening to this shit!" and storm out of the place.
I could go on.
The point is, I guess, is that we all need places where we can escape from the demands of our life. Safe places. Where people take care of you because you've run out of gas in your ability to take care of yourself. Holy places.
They can be most anywhere and they don't necessarily have to look or act all that holy, but they are. And we need them as much as we need air to breath and water to drink and food to eat.
Because they get us through.
Unless you ask Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club. Then the place is falling apart.
"I don't know Val," I calmly reply in my Chaplains voice, "what happened the last time that you got me drunk with Johnny O and Judy?"
"That's different," she exclaimed before changing the subject.
"And what are you doing having a breakfast meeting at some place other than the Breakfast Club?" she demands.
Who knew that Val can read?
She obviously saw yesterday's blog and, now that I think about it, probably got Nick to read it to her. Nevertheless she was aware that I had a meeting at Larry's Restaurant in Savannah.
"Well," I reply as she sits next to me waiting on the answer, "do you remember the last time that I had a meeting here?"
She has a blank look on her face.
"I sat right there in 24," I said. There are six booths in the front part of the Breakfast Club, but for some reason they all number in the twenties. I suppose it is part of the Club's Master Plan.
"I was meeting with the Chairman of my Board, who was an intense little fellow back then, and the two of us really didn't gell. But we were trying to find some common ground. Anyway, the moment I walked in and he got intense, you started throwing toast and bacon at us whlie he ate. Do you remember that?"
"Oh yeah," she sleepishly replied. "Sometimes when I get started I can't stop."
"Tell me about it," I answer. "And you are amature compared to the things that Bruce used to do, but my Board Chair never got over it. He's never been back."
"I was looking after you," she said with a smile.
And it had been true for years that the Breakfast Club has looked after me. Especially when it came to work. If people got too intense or serious with me, toast would fly. At me and whoever I was with!
Or coffee would miss the cup and be poured on the counter in front of whoever was intruding into my private time. "I am so sorry, I've never missed the cup before."
Or Franklin, who is brown, will come over and pick up my glasses and stick them in his pants and do a little dance in place before placing them back down. He does all this without saying a word.
Or Jalapenos would secretly be inserted in the ham and cheese omlet that the person had ordered so that the first taste would lead to screams at the counter and demands for water.
Or Johnny O would suddenly jump up from his seat across from me and exclaim, "I ain't listening to this shit!" and storm out of the place.
I could go on.
The point is, I guess, is that we all need places where we can escape from the demands of our life. Safe places. Where people take care of you because you've run out of gas in your ability to take care of yourself. Holy places.
They can be most anywhere and they don't necessarily have to look or act all that holy, but they are. And we need them as much as we need air to breath and water to drink and food to eat.
Because they get us through.
Unless you ask Jodee, the owner of the Breakfast Club. Then the place is falling apart.
Everybody Hurts
"Welcome to the Tybee Church!" proclaimed the sign that was taped over the door to the Wind Rose Cafe in the middle of the combat zone full of bars and tee shirt shops, a half a block from the sea.
"Mayberry By the Sea" it read underneath, through when I wrote "Running With the Dolphins" I called it Mayberry on Acid.
"Flip Flops and Smokers Wecome" it finished with a flurry.
The Church is the brain child of Sam Adams and Gordon who are musical staples on the island. Sam had been badgering me for months to come and "bring the word" so yesterday, I did. The dark bar had somehow been tranformed into a church with votive candles everywhere. Sam was on an electronic keyboard. Beside him was a large screen with the words to praise music on it.
(A Confession: I am not a fan of Praise Music, or Happy Jack as I call it. The music may be ok but the theology of most is simply horrible. "My husband beats me, my kids hate me, I've lost everything but Jesus loves me and it's OK!")
Anyway long haired Sam is about as cool as they come on the island and the smile never leaves his face and I was greeted warmly.
Gordon, who resembles an older version of Wolfman Jack was seated on a bar stool, blowing into his harmonica. It was surreal.
At five minutes after 11 about 35 people filled the bar and Sam and Gordon played and sang. All of my friends from the Breakfast Club wanted to attend but they had to work except Patti who showed up. It was an ecclectic crowd most of whom I recognized from the island.
Then I was introduced and talked about the time Jesus met a crazed mentally ill person in a graveyard after taking a boat ride. I mean this is exactly the kind of thing that happens on Tybee every day. Everybody there seemed to understand everything that I was saying as they drank coffee, orange juice or smoked.
And I talked about how everybody hurts (to steal a line from R.E.M.). We just choose to deal with it in different ways. Some are honest and speak it out loud while most cover it up. The miracle in the Biblical story (Luke 8:26-39 if you want to read it for yourself) is that after this dirty, naked, broken hand-cuffs, mentally ill person screams at him, Jesus sticks out his hand and says "Hey! My name's Jesus. What's yours?"
Most of us would have run.
Or called the police.
But the point is that we are all we have to get one another through hurt and disappointment. And we either help one another or we don't. And we either take advantage of the help that is offered or we don't.
When I finished they clapped and the bartender started getting ready for the 12:30 opening of the bar and there was a lot of hugging and such but church was over and the party was about to begin.
Afterwards Patti, who is from Texas where the religion is really screwed up, wanted to discuss theology. So we did on the pier. Johnny O and Trolley Joe fled over the subject matter. Sam Adams on the other hand, showed up with a band and put on a concert for free.
Then the beach was crowded and I was tired so I rode my bike home for the refuge of my beloved back deck. I talked to a few folks and some dear friends dropped by and I wrote a little.
The Breakfast Club was celebrating the birth of one of their own at Huck-A-Poo's and I made the decision to attend. So I drove my car to the far side of the island, a whole 1.3 miles away, noting that I never really come to this side of the world. My geography has become very small.
Huck-A-Poo's was packed and everyone there seemed to be from Savannah and they all knew me. "Hey Micheal! Tell me about your retirement!
" Hey, can you get my son in the Health Center?"
"Micheal! Can I ask you a confidential question?"
Suddenly, I was exhausted. In the past, I would have worked the crowd and answered every question. I would have made notes and followed up on everything first thing this morning.
But this is not the past.
I left after only a couple of minutes.
And I went to the beach and watched the full moon rise over an ocean filled with phosphorus, meaning that the water reflects it back and the moon appears to be rising from above the ocean and below it at the same time.
It is a most incredible sight.
I prayed that I was forgiven for whatever it was I did when I left the party tonight or for whatever it was that I had not done. Even Jesus turned his back on the mobs wanting healing to flee on a boat for some peace and quiet.
I concentrated on the moon and the water and the holiness of it all. In the background I could hear the police cars racing down Butler Avenue to handle whatever mess was happening back there. I heard yelling and laughing and cursing from somewhere else.
But I wasn't there. I was with the moon and the sea and the phosphorus and the still small place where God sometimes makes house calls.
I am where I need to be.
"Mayberry By the Sea" it read underneath, through when I wrote "Running With the Dolphins" I called it Mayberry on Acid.
"Flip Flops and Smokers Wecome" it finished with a flurry.
The Church is the brain child of Sam Adams and Gordon who are musical staples on the island. Sam had been badgering me for months to come and "bring the word" so yesterday, I did. The dark bar had somehow been tranformed into a church with votive candles everywhere. Sam was on an electronic keyboard. Beside him was a large screen with the words to praise music on it.
(A Confession: I am not a fan of Praise Music, or Happy Jack as I call it. The music may be ok but the theology of most is simply horrible. "My husband beats me, my kids hate me, I've lost everything but Jesus loves me and it's OK!")
Anyway long haired Sam is about as cool as they come on the island and the smile never leaves his face and I was greeted warmly.
Gordon, who resembles an older version of Wolfman Jack was seated on a bar stool, blowing into his harmonica. It was surreal.
At five minutes after 11 about 35 people filled the bar and Sam and Gordon played and sang. All of my friends from the Breakfast Club wanted to attend but they had to work except Patti who showed up. It was an ecclectic crowd most of whom I recognized from the island.
Then I was introduced and talked about the time Jesus met a crazed mentally ill person in a graveyard after taking a boat ride. I mean this is exactly the kind of thing that happens on Tybee every day. Everybody there seemed to understand everything that I was saying as they drank coffee, orange juice or smoked.
And I talked about how everybody hurts (to steal a line from R.E.M.). We just choose to deal with it in different ways. Some are honest and speak it out loud while most cover it up. The miracle in the Biblical story (Luke 8:26-39 if you want to read it for yourself) is that after this dirty, naked, broken hand-cuffs, mentally ill person screams at him, Jesus sticks out his hand and says "Hey! My name's Jesus. What's yours?"
Most of us would have run.
Or called the police.
But the point is that we are all we have to get one another through hurt and disappointment. And we either help one another or we don't. And we either take advantage of the help that is offered or we don't.
When I finished they clapped and the bartender started getting ready for the 12:30 opening of the bar and there was a lot of hugging and such but church was over and the party was about to begin.
Afterwards Patti, who is from Texas where the religion is really screwed up, wanted to discuss theology. So we did on the pier. Johnny O and Trolley Joe fled over the subject matter. Sam Adams on the other hand, showed up with a band and put on a concert for free.
Then the beach was crowded and I was tired so I rode my bike home for the refuge of my beloved back deck. I talked to a few folks and some dear friends dropped by and I wrote a little.
The Breakfast Club was celebrating the birth of one of their own at Huck-A-Poo's and I made the decision to attend. So I drove my car to the far side of the island, a whole 1.3 miles away, noting that I never really come to this side of the world. My geography has become very small.
Huck-A-Poo's was packed and everyone there seemed to be from Savannah and they all knew me. "Hey Micheal! Tell me about your retirement!
" Hey, can you get my son in the Health Center?"
"Micheal! Can I ask you a confidential question?"
Suddenly, I was exhausted. In the past, I would have worked the crowd and answered every question. I would have made notes and followed up on everything first thing this morning.
But this is not the past.
I left after only a couple of minutes.
And I went to the beach and watched the full moon rise over an ocean filled with phosphorus, meaning that the water reflects it back and the moon appears to be rising from above the ocean and below it at the same time.
It is a most incredible sight.
I prayed that I was forgiven for whatever it was I did when I left the party tonight or for whatever it was that I had not done. Even Jesus turned his back on the mobs wanting healing to flee on a boat for some peace and quiet.
I concentrated on the moon and the water and the holiness of it all. In the background I could hear the police cars racing down Butler Avenue to handle whatever mess was happening back there. I heard yelling and laughing and cursing from somewhere else.
But I wasn't there. I was with the moon and the sea and the phosphorus and the still small place where God sometimes makes house calls.
I am where I need to be.
The Bar Church
Friday night, I hopped on my bike and rode to the middle of the Tybee island combat zone because I wanted to listed to Sam Adams and Godon play live music at Bearnies. I strolled through the bar into the courtyard in the back and sure enough Sam was playing and singing...to himself. There wasn't a soul there.
"Hey Rev!" he said with an angelic smile, "if you can't play for yourself you can't play for other people."
I smiled and nodded and found a stool. Sam personifies "beach bum"... Shouder length hair, tanned, tank-topped, shorts and flip-flops... all of time! Guitar, sunglasses and laid back, the guy is the epitome of island character.
Within seconds, I was recognized by this guy from Atlanta. "You're Micheal, right?" he asked.
I said that I was, wondering who he was, but he went and got his wife, sister-in-law and mother and brought them to join me.
They were talkers and as I tried to listen to Sam and Godon, Walt just wouldn't shut up. And the sister-in-law was a competitive talker too. They shot words out of their mounths as though from a machine gun, one after another after another.
Then Sam used his microphone to quiet them for a second when he called my name.
"Hey Rev!" he yelled while playing his guitar in the background. Gordon softyl blew into his mouth harp.
"Why don't you come give the word on Sunday?"
Sam and Gordon are not normal musicians (I know, I know...has there ever been a normal one?) because one of the things that they do is conduct a Sunday worship service at 11:00 in the Windrose Cafe, which is a bar that serves food so that they can serve alcohol on Sundays. There is no dress code (there is really no such thing on Tybee anyway), smoking is encouraged and the music is acoustic.
I've never been though Sam has been after me forever to do so. Part of me has wanted to go but I listen to the "Acoustic Cafe" on Sunday mornings and have my routine so have never gotten around to it. Then the Bored meeting starts at 11-something (or whenever Johnny O says it does) and I attend every Sunday because Trolly Joe is there.
"Will you come deliver the word?" Sam asked again.
I delilver words most every day. It didn't seem like much of a stretch and its been awhile since I've gone to Church and a worship service in a bar going on at the same time as every other worship service in the world is funny. Why not?
So I yelled, "OK Sam, I'll do it."
"You will?" he genuinely seemed surprised.
Gordon sounds like the guy from Slingblade when he talks so when he dropped his harmonica and grabbled the microphone, mothers grabbed their children.
"Ladies and gentlemens," he announced, "we have a little service on Sundays at the Windrose, which is next door. Everyone is welcome as they are. Leave your pretence at the door. You can smoke," and he took a drag off his cigarette as he explained this, "and the Rev is coming this Sunday."
So.
That is what I'm doing today.
I explained to my friend John Tatum the other day that Tybee is an entirely different universe. And this is just another example of that. And why would anyone want to be anywhere else.
"Hey Rev!" he said with an angelic smile, "if you can't play for yourself you can't play for other people."
I smiled and nodded and found a stool. Sam personifies "beach bum"... Shouder length hair, tanned, tank-topped, shorts and flip-flops... all of time! Guitar, sunglasses and laid back, the guy is the epitome of island character.
Within seconds, I was recognized by this guy from Atlanta. "You're Micheal, right?" he asked.
I said that I was, wondering who he was, but he went and got his wife, sister-in-law and mother and brought them to join me.
They were talkers and as I tried to listen to Sam and Godon, Walt just wouldn't shut up. And the sister-in-law was a competitive talker too. They shot words out of their mounths as though from a machine gun, one after another after another.
Then Sam used his microphone to quiet them for a second when he called my name.
"Hey Rev!" he yelled while playing his guitar in the background. Gordon softyl blew into his mouth harp.
"Why don't you come give the word on Sunday?"
Sam and Gordon are not normal musicians (I know, I know...has there ever been a normal one?) because one of the things that they do is conduct a Sunday worship service at 11:00 in the Windrose Cafe, which is a bar that serves food so that they can serve alcohol on Sundays. There is no dress code (there is really no such thing on Tybee anyway), smoking is encouraged and the music is acoustic.
I've never been though Sam has been after me forever to do so. Part of me has wanted to go but I listen to the "Acoustic Cafe" on Sunday mornings and have my routine so have never gotten around to it. Then the Bored meeting starts at 11-something (or whenever Johnny O says it does) and I attend every Sunday because Trolly Joe is there.
"Will you come deliver the word?" Sam asked again.
I delilver words most every day. It didn't seem like much of a stretch and its been awhile since I've gone to Church and a worship service in a bar going on at the same time as every other worship service in the world is funny. Why not?
So I yelled, "OK Sam, I'll do it."
"You will?" he genuinely seemed surprised.
Gordon sounds like the guy from Slingblade when he talks so when he dropped his harmonica and grabbled the microphone, mothers grabbed their children.
"Ladies and gentlemens," he announced, "we have a little service on Sundays at the Windrose, which is next door. Everyone is welcome as they are. Leave your pretence at the door. You can smoke," and he took a drag off his cigarette as he explained this, "and the Rev is coming this Sunday."
So.
That is what I'm doing today.
I explained to my friend John Tatum the other day that Tybee is an entirely different universe. And this is just another example of that. And why would anyone want to be anywhere else.
Saving the World One Ronald at a time
I have a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when it comes to my writing.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
Saving the World One Ronald at a time
I have a friend who wishes to remain anonymous when it comes to my writing.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
So when Mitch Wesley had the incredible misfortion to attend both college and seminary with me he waivered his rights to anonymity. He can actually vouch that this story is mostly true.
We were in seminary and I recall that we were pretty far along when we had to take a class on world missions which we would have avoided like the plague because of the boredom of the subject matter. But the Baptist require such things so there we sat.
I should confess before I go further than I was a founding member of the subversive group B.A.T. or Baptist as Terrorists.
We once found ourselves alone in the Billy Graham museum in the library where there was a mannequin of Billy dressed in a suit with his hand sticking out like he wanted to shake yours. He had been stuck like this for a long time and there was a film of dust on his suit and hand. So the Spirit called some of the members of B.A.T. to reposition him so that his backside would be to the crowd and a moon could descend on the museum. It must not have been the Spirit afterall who led them to do this because who knew? Mannequins come apart. Billy was left scattered about the museum.
But I digress.
The assignment in missions class was to develop a visual presentation of missions in action. Talk about boring! I don't recall what I did or what Mitch did that day (though I did take a rum and coke to class) but we both vividly recall this presentation.
The room was darkened. A voice came across the speaker. "There are lost people in this world. Very lost people."
And there was an image of Ronald McDonald standing in front of a McDonalds. It was a life size statue and his white face was smiling and his white gloved hand was waiving.
The class giggled.
"But then good Christian missionaries appeared to bring salvation to these lost people," the voice continued.
An image of two black robed missionaries holding big black Scoffield reference Bibles appeared. They were preaching at Ronald, meaning they were screaming at him and pointing fingers and casting stones.
"And the lost hear the message of salvation."
A close up of Ronald's face appeared and tears were streaming down it. His mascara was running down his white powdered face.
We were hallowing!
"Then," the voice continued, "sometimes the lost become the vehicle of salvation themselves!"
And there was Ronald, with a Bible ducked taped to his waving hand bringing the message salvation to all lovers of Big Macs, Quarter Pounders with Cheese, and Chicken Mcnuggets!
"And that is how the world is saved. One Ronald at a time," the narrator concluded.
We burst into applause though the professor just leaned down and pulled up his falling socks.
And to think. I paid a lot of money to learn stuff like this in seminary.
Feeling Myself Being Born
It started with Mary Ann Beil at brunch yesterday. It had been a couple of months since we had seen one another so we rushed to catch each other up as good friends do. Or Anam Cara, which is galic for "soul friend. Mary Ann has become a devotee of John O'Donahue, an Irish poet and philosopher.
She also came bearing gifts as she is prone to do. I have a lot of stuff that Mary Ann has given me over the years. A giant iron cross hangs downstairs in the apartment. Dozens of books. An ornate knitted cross of gold that hangs from the Bible that my grandfather gave me.
This time she reaches into her oversized bag that is full of books, her pocket book, notepads, pens and letters...probably a type writer and a sewing machine too. She rumbles around in it for a moment then pulls out two small pages, tied together with a ribbon with an Eagle's feather affixed to it. Mary Ann believes that her symbol is the Eagle and who can argue with her? The woman soars.
"Promise me this," she said as she handed it to me. "This is to be read aloud, with your first glass of wine. Read it slow and thoughtfully. Then pour another glass and think about what you have read."
I nodded my head as I took the gift.
"Micheal!" she scolded, snatching it back, "Promise me."
Good friends know one another. I have a tendency to rush. My Type-A mind works quickly and I gobble it in and rarely savor.
"I promise," I said. And for once I didn't lie to her.
After a long and grueling day, I got home and poured myself a glass and went to my beloved back deck propping my bare feet on the rail, and read it aloud.
The Prayer for the Interim Time.
"You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld."
It got my attention. I took a sip and kept reading. Aloud.
"As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow your confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might become free
From all that you have outgrown."
"Shit," I say to myself out loud, "how does Mary Ann know how to do this?" I kept reading. Aloud.
"What is being tranfigured here is your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new..."
I pondered the words for a long time. Then Goddess was licking my thigh and I had promised to toast my cousin Rick whose funeral I had conducted earlier in the day. So we made our way to Shirely's and this epiphany appeared. It was actually Shirely!
So we drug chairs to the end of the sad little holy dock in the middle of the majestic marsh and we talked about a lot of things.
"You are different you know," she mused at one point. "Over the past couple of years you were wrapped tight and you drug yourself around. You fidgeted. Now your eyes are bluer. You face is softer. Your laugh has meaning. You seem to be enjoying what is around you. You seem to be enjoying you."
How does one answer?
I looked at the beauty of the marsh and wiped the moisture from my eyes. And I thought of the prayer that I had just prayed aloud.
"What is being transfigured here is your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn."
And as Goddess and I walked back home, I could feel myself being born.
She also came bearing gifts as she is prone to do. I have a lot of stuff that Mary Ann has given me over the years. A giant iron cross hangs downstairs in the apartment. Dozens of books. An ornate knitted cross of gold that hangs from the Bible that my grandfather gave me.
This time she reaches into her oversized bag that is full of books, her pocket book, notepads, pens and letters...probably a type writer and a sewing machine too. She rumbles around in it for a moment then pulls out two small pages, tied together with a ribbon with an Eagle's feather affixed to it. Mary Ann believes that her symbol is the Eagle and who can argue with her? The woman soars.
"Promise me this," she said as she handed it to me. "This is to be read aloud, with your first glass of wine. Read it slow and thoughtfully. Then pour another glass and think about what you have read."
I nodded my head as I took the gift.
"Micheal!" she scolded, snatching it back, "Promise me."
Good friends know one another. I have a tendency to rush. My Type-A mind works quickly and I gobble it in and rarely savor.
"I promise," I said. And for once I didn't lie to her.
After a long and grueling day, I got home and poured myself a glass and went to my beloved back deck propping my bare feet on the rail, and read it aloud.
The Prayer for the Interim Time.
"You are in this time of the interim
Where everything seems withheld."
It got my attention. I took a sip and kept reading. Aloud.
"As far as you can, hold your confidence.
Do not allow your confusion to squander
This call which is loosening
Your roots in false ground,
That you might become free
From all that you have outgrown."
"Shit," I say to myself out loud, "how does Mary Ann know how to do this?" I kept reading. Aloud.
"What is being tranfigured here is your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new..."
I pondered the words for a long time. Then Goddess was licking my thigh and I had promised to toast my cousin Rick whose funeral I had conducted earlier in the day. So we made our way to Shirely's and this epiphany appeared. It was actually Shirely!
So we drug chairs to the end of the sad little holy dock in the middle of the majestic marsh and we talked about a lot of things.
"You are different you know," she mused at one point. "Over the past couple of years you were wrapped tight and you drug yourself around. You fidgeted. Now your eyes are bluer. You face is softer. Your laugh has meaning. You seem to be enjoying what is around you. You seem to be enjoying you."
How does one answer?
I looked at the beauty of the marsh and wiped the moisture from my eyes. And I thought of the prayer that I had just prayed aloud.
"What is being transfigured here is your mind,
And it is difficult and slow to become new.
The more faithfully you can endure here,
The more refined your heart will become
For your arrival in the new dawn."
And as Goddess and I walked back home, I could feel myself being born.
God Came to My House Last Night
Sometimes I am taken aback by how little God is in the world.
Selfishness abounds. Grace is noticably lacking. Hurt is intentional. Enforcement of rules means more than helping someone. People lie. They take advantage without concern. There are wars and there are rumors of wars.
And these things happen everywhere. Congress for sure. State Capitols and City Halls. Academic institutions. Business' large and small. Churches and Synagogues. And inside of too many homes.
And we live our lives by either diving in and participating , justifiying it by often believing in a God that doesn't require anything of us save love that God.
Or we love God by loving others.
"Beloved if God so loved us, then we should love one another," is how St. John or whoever wrote those books put it. It is a great play on words! What is should read, and the way that most people define God, is "Beloved if God so loved us, then we should love God." And that is how most people go about their religion. Loving a God that only requires love allows us to do whatever the hell we want. And so the lying, intentional hurt, selfishness and the bad things of life are born.
What it actually says though turns everything upside down.
If God so loved us, then we should love one another. And in doing this we offer acts of kindness. Grace is lusted for. Honesty abounds. Love is all around, as the old song by the Troggs puts it.
In the Bible there is this reference that I have always liked, "the Remnant Community" meaning leftover, residue, the last of it. The term is used to describe those who are still at it while everybody else has moved on. I think that it is very applicable today. Most of the world seems to have moved on to loving a God that requires love.
But there are these pockets. These tiny groups sprinkled everywhere. And they are still at it. Playing it forward. Stopping their agenda because someone is hurting and needs them. Breaking the rules because it makes sense to break them. Looking above their own selfishness because they understand that you express love of God by loving other people.
It's not rocket science is it?
But we choose to make it so with theologies and practices and prayer closets and the thousands of things that we do in the name of God which she really doesn't give a damn about. The righteous become self-righteous. And that is the majority party these days.
So I spend my time looking for the remnant communities. I've been very fortunate to discover many of them. And we do stuff for one another. And we try to do things for those who are hurting or hungry or without. Last night a small group of us gathered at my house. We ate and drank and told a lot of stories. We embraced and thanked one another. We expressed our love.
And as we did so God descended from the heavens.
Selfishness abounds. Grace is noticably lacking. Hurt is intentional. Enforcement of rules means more than helping someone. People lie. They take advantage without concern. There are wars and there are rumors of wars.
And these things happen everywhere. Congress for sure. State Capitols and City Halls. Academic institutions. Business' large and small. Churches and Synagogues. And inside of too many homes.
And we live our lives by either diving in and participating , justifiying it by often believing in a God that doesn't require anything of us save love that God.
Or we love God by loving others.
"Beloved if God so loved us, then we should love one another," is how St. John or whoever wrote those books put it. It is a great play on words! What is should read, and the way that most people define God, is "Beloved if God so loved us, then we should love God." And that is how most people go about their religion. Loving a God that only requires love allows us to do whatever the hell we want. And so the lying, intentional hurt, selfishness and the bad things of life are born.
What it actually says though turns everything upside down.
If God so loved us, then we should love one another. And in doing this we offer acts of kindness. Grace is lusted for. Honesty abounds. Love is all around, as the old song by the Troggs puts it.
In the Bible there is this reference that I have always liked, "the Remnant Community" meaning leftover, residue, the last of it. The term is used to describe those who are still at it while everybody else has moved on. I think that it is very applicable today. Most of the world seems to have moved on to loving a God that requires love.
But there are these pockets. These tiny groups sprinkled everywhere. And they are still at it. Playing it forward. Stopping their agenda because someone is hurting and needs them. Breaking the rules because it makes sense to break them. Looking above their own selfishness because they understand that you express love of God by loving other people.
It's not rocket science is it?
But we choose to make it so with theologies and practices and prayer closets and the thousands of things that we do in the name of God which she really doesn't give a damn about. The righteous become self-righteous. And that is the majority party these days.
So I spend my time looking for the remnant communities. I've been very fortunate to discover many of them. And we do stuff for one another. And we try to do things for those who are hurting or hungry or without. Last night a small group of us gathered at my house. We ate and drank and told a lot of stories. We embraced and thanked one another. We expressed our love.
And as we did so God descended from the heavens.
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