A Baptized Sunday Morning

Organic X is playing soft, acoustic tunes as I sit at the kitchen table staring out the open doors at a rain dripped day. The doors and windows are open so I can feel the wetness. A choir of birds are singing Hymns of praise and that's a close as I'm going to get to Church today. Fran's thousand shades of green dance in an ocean breeze. Brilliant colors bloom outside of every window. There are no lights on ... other than that of the computer screen and the low hanging clouds mean that its darker than most days. One candle is lit so there is a coziness about it. There are several things about this. My son Jeremy turned me on to Organic X on Sunday mornings years ago. We'd be driving home from Athens where we'd celebrated victory or cursed defeat of Beloved Dawgs of Georgia and the radio would give us a soundtrack for mellow reflectiveness. It has become a tradition for us and a family bond filled with good memories. The candle reminds me of my long dead friend Father Vernon Robertson. We were an odd pair, he in his 60s and I in my 20s ... a Catholic Priest and a Baptist Minister ... his family wealthy and mine lived with homeless people. We did cool things together though, like starting the Roman Catholic/Southern Baptist Coalition which was basically us having lunch on Wednesdays. We also started the St. Jude's Guild as a response to the outbreak of AIDS. He also got me in as a member of The Committee of Southern Churchmen where I met, and became friends with Will D. Campbell. Will wrote the preface of my first book. Vernon always had a candle lit in the rectory where he lived. Walking in, he would forever be listening to National Public Radio so I strolled to the receiver turning the knob to loud heavy metal rock-and-roll station on. It drove him nuts ... but with a smile. On mornings like this, Vernon's ghost leads me to light the candle and I find myself staring at it thinking of him when I'm not staring outside at a baptized Sunday morning. I love Sundays. I've always loved them. Back in Port Wentworth, we'd all go to Church in the morning and then stuff the truck to go to the Highway 80 Drive-In at night ... Sunday night sins are the best sins! In college we'd all be coming back from home and meet for dinner at the Western Sizzler and the 99 cent Hamburger Delux Special. In Seminary we'd skip Sunday night Church. As a Professional Christian I finally convinced the little old ladies to do away with the Sunday night gatherings so we could watch 60 Minutes. Now, here on island, I like grilling on the Beloved Back deck or strolls with Goddess to the sad little holy dock. "Church" is a relative term. When defined as a formalized period of communal worship, I opt for Bar Church which is pretty informal and we are forever screwing something up. But I don't even want that today. "The perfect church service would be one we were almost unaware of," wrote C. S. Lewis, {because} our attention would be on God" ... and not on what's next in the Bulletin or who's doing what. Good church is like a good shoe ... you don't even notice you're wearing it. So this morning, while Sarah sleeps, I find myself having church. A candle is lit in glory. Acoustic Hymns of praise stream from the computer that are steeped in tradition (a Catholic thing). I send prayers of love for the friends who are dead and who are living. I find myself very aware of the holiness of the moment. I am blessed. Truly .... Verily ... Amen.