"Well I just hope that you're not making a mockery of church," my Mother said in a scolding way.

"It's Church Mom," I explained. "It just happens to be in a bar. And our music is really good."

"It sounds like a mockery," she said again.

"It's like Jeff Street was," I quickly countered.

"Oh!" she exclaimed.

Then everything got quiet.

I could hear her breathing into the phone as she contemplated this. She could hear me breathing into the receiver. But I knew that she knew what I'd just said.

Jeff Street was ... and remains ... something very special. Holy.

A broken down little inner city church in a big building owned by the Southern Baptist (who love buildings far more than they love people) was kidnapped by God. The most specific example I remember is Chester Fallbush and Micki Davis. He was a homeless alcoholic. She was a broke Seminary student. He was old beyond his years. She was young and beautiful.

At the end, when he was dying, he lived with me. I was figuring out government at the time and Chester ended up with a large social security payout when he died (I held his hand when he did). He'd worked for many years before falling into his addiction.

Then Jeff Street, a church that followed no rules ... made up of people who loved God and the idea of loving others as we love God ... did crazy stuff. The Baptismal Pool was the bathtub. Sunday School rooms became apartments. Music was an integral part and the dance from "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was a cornerstone of Sunday Services (we all acted out our favorite parts). We closed once a year to go on retreats ... because we needed a break from it all.

It was this jumbled mix of homeless men, hookers, little old ladies, kids from the projects, Seminary students who believed in God way more than they believed in Seminary, prisoners who were escorted to worship by a guard with a gun ... it was crazy.

I was the pastor.

When Chester died a few months after receiving the money, he left it all to Micki ... who had nothing.

I remember sitting in my office, giving it to her.

And how she cried.

Which of course, made me cry.

But Chester died sober and beloved. Mickie had the money to get through. It was about as holy as it gets.

Fast forwarding 30 years, my Mom is struggling to comprehend Bar Church. There were 131 one of us there yesterday according to the Counters of Sheep (though they Bible says we're supposed to Feed them and not count them). We've almost outgrown our second Bar. Success is coming fast.

I lived it at Jeff Street.

At Union Mission too.

Now I see it at Bar Church.

Sitting here, I think about Jeff Street. It's still there doing the things that it did to make it special (though the leadership of the Southern Baptist Convention kicked them out because of the leadership of Dr. Russell Bennett and other Pharisees).

Union Mission is split asunder but it's still there too ... doing a mixture of good and bad (because of a Board Chair who chooses to remain anonymous, meaning Jerry Rainy and assholes who think they're leaders). And now Bar Church is doing it all again.

When you hit stride with God though ... it's a roller coaster of a ride! At some point you shake your head asking, "What the hell was that?"

Later ... maybe seconds later, hours, days, years, decades ... it all the same in God's time ... you realize that holiness is exploding around you. Hopefully you're not too preoccupied with the details to notice.

Three times in my life I been a part of it and never really comprehended it as it was happening.

The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky.

Union Mission in Savannah, Georgia.

And now ... Bar Church on Tybee Island ... where everybody is either running to ... or from ... something.

But I can see it. Taste it. Know it.

God is here.

Things are exploding.

Praise be to God.

It's been a while ... but it's time to ride a bullet.

One more time.