Given my druthers I wouldn't have gone but being the minister complicates things and I felt obligated ... which is a horrible motivation ... yet ... physically anyway ... I'm there.
Lots of clergy dread Sunday mornings but know they can't say it for fear of losing their job and, let's be honest, they're paid good money to stand in front of a crowd and speak on God's behalf.
Who else gets to be the center of the Universe for 20 minutes once a week?
Okay, musicians do ... but musicians have no idea how much they're getting paid whereas most Preachers know in advance.
Anyway, standing there leading Church, my mind's elsewhere.
It's cold as Hell outside and I'd rather be on a much warmer island in smaller latitudes ... I'm wearing way too many clothes ... it was tough leaving Che, our 10 week old baby after laying her down and even tougher not crawling back in bed with Sarah ... cold boat drinks on a hot Beach would nice ... why am I here?
The last musing's not cosmic as in "What is my purpose in the Universe?" but specifically local ... "What in God's name has kept me on this clump of sand for three decades when there are other islands where I'm dying to live?"
A small but friendly, almost excited, congregation stumble inside the Bar, bringing bags and baskets of food to spread on the Pool table and the hungry come followed by islanders and tourists unconcerned about time.
Guest musicians arrive and today's Band is born forcing me to understand who wants to play what, assemble some order, occasionally manage oversized egos and back into whatever my contribution will be in the service.
Many Sundays I stick whatever sermon I prepared back in my pocket because someone else has something they feel more important that day.
It's cool.
I don't try to plan the service ... I ride whatever wave it is that day ... sometimes it's a massive swell crashing holiness everywhere but it can also be the tiniest of barely discernable Ocean hiccups.
The only constant is every Sunday morning someone sees the lit neon Budweiser and Coors signs and rush into the middle of Church to order a round.
The look of disappointment on their faces is heartbreaking as they leave the service.
We begin and I fumble the first chords and mangle the lyrics cause I'm wondering who's going to show up next Sunday ... if anyone.
Worship unfolds.
Songs are sung ... people clap ... prayers mumbled ... stories told ... smiles flash ... and the hungry keep eating.
When it's over I'm tired and want to hurry home.
"Hey man," he says embracing me with moist eyes, "thank you for that! It's just what I needed today ... It's been so hard ... thank you" and his voice cracks ... and something in my heart does too.
How does Holy happen?
I have no idea.
But when it does, it's sure as Hell worth the headaches.
