Jesus: The Rolling Stone Interview

Recently we caught up with Jesus Christ on his way to save a troubled soul that he asked we not divulge though he did agree to answer several questions. This is the first published interview with Jesus since Thomas the Apostle (aka, Doubting Thomas) conducted one and I'm honored to be the first in over 2000 years to do it again.

He wanted to meet on the Pier before he walked on water to his appointment dressed in a white robe with a red sash. Blond hair was neatly coiffed, as was his beard, and his steely blue eyes carefully considered every question before answering.

Jesus, thank you for making time for this. Everyone knows how busy you are so let's right to the questions. Beatles or Stones?

"I love 'Sympathy for the Devil' by the Stones. That song always kills me! And 'The Girl with Far Away Eyes' makes me laugh out loud. But ... it's The Beatles! They bring a Hymn like quality to most everything. So ... yeah it's Beatles all the way."

So were the Beatles really more popular that you?

"Oh sure! For a while anyway."

Speaking of Hymns, what's your fav?

"Wow! That's a good question. Well ... I know it's not 'The Old Rugged Cross' ... cause that thing hurt like Hell! ... 'Jesus loves me' is really a manipulative request to get me to always look the other way ... but I'd have to say 'To God be the Glory' because it really is all about God ... oh! ... and 'Let it Be'."

Thanks for opening that door. We all know that God is the Father but who the heck is the Holy Ghost? Your brother? Some long lost uncle?

{Jesus laughs}. "We do have an unorthodox family tree. The answer to your questions are ... 'Yes.'"

Fair enough. Okay, next question ... How do you feel when people thank you at the Grammys?

"I don't really like much of the new stuff these days. It's mostly just MUZAC! The last time I really cared was when Helen Reddy won for 'I am Woman, hear me roar.' That was some good stuff! I suppose it's nice that people thank me but honestly, I think it's mostly crap."

Praise music is very popular in today's church services. Do you like it?

"It's kind of like Mick Jagger isn't it? Holding up hands and dancing around ... it's a lot like church ... if it makes people feel better I'm all for it ... but it's nothing I especially care about."

We've run out of time and I know you have to go but ... one more question?

"Sure but make it quick."

Thank you.

"Who wins the next Survivor?"

Undercover for Jesus

"What do you do?" she asks with a twang in her a voice from south Alabama or Texas.

"About what?" I reply sipping coffee at the counter of "The Breakfast Club" where she's taken the stool beside mine.

On her other side sits a man who waited in line beside her for the world famous restaurant to open and he's suddenly intrigued by our conversation.

"What do you mean about what?" she demands in a very high pitch Soprano on steroids voice that can shatter stained glass.

Simultaneously the staff stops cooking, waitressing, bussing and washing dishes because her voice is that grating.

"I dunno," I continue. "You talking about achieving world peace? Ending homelessness? Getting Harry Reid and Nancy Pelosi to sleep together? How to prevent a last second score in a soccer game?"

"Did y'all watch?" she suddenly squeals.

The man on the other side admits he did not stuffing a fork full of over easy eggs and hash browns in his mouth.

"I was out on a date with my wife," I explain.

"It was so exciting," she claps and I swear her Dolly Parton hair moves.

Taking a sip of coffee she stares at me intensely with deadly eyes that betray the sweetness of her voice.

"I want to know what you do for a living Silly," she explains with a politician's smile.

Not wanting to talk, I give my stock answer that always shuts people up who want to know what I do for a living.

"I'm a Southern Baptist Minister," I confidently announce dropping my voice two octaves.

"Ooh," she claps again. "I'm Baptist ... Pastor."

"Shit," I mutter as Jessie the cook and Denise the waitress stifle giggles.

Darkness returns to her eyes as she stares at me again while taking another sip of coffee and she dubiously says, "You don't look like a Baptist Minister."

"Thanks," I say taking a sip of my own coffee.

The man on her other side laughs and if looks could kill she would have sent him straight to Hell in that instant.

"Alright," I say standing up. "I'm going to go proselytize or something."

Confusion fills her face.

"Save the heathens," I explain.

"Oh," she nods. "Is that why you dress wear black running shorts, a vulgar tee shirt and flip flops?"

"Yes man. I'm undercover for Jesus."

"God Bless you," she says as I leave and the entire staff bursts into glorious laughter.

Faith Based Politics

T.D. Jakes ... Pat Roberson ... James Roberson ... W. A. Criswell ... Ernest Angley ... Kenneth Copeland ... Charles Stanley ... Joel Osteen ...

I've been in the same room with each of these ... "Professional Christians" who make ungodly amounts of money promoting God.

They all looked nice with perfect hair, really white teeth and their socks never ... EVER ... slipped below their calves when they sat in the pulpit.

Aside from W. A. Criswell, who I was forced to listen butcher the Bible at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, a once great institution which now regularly butchers the Bible, I saw or met the rest at President George W. Bush's "Faith Based Summit" which I was inexpiably invited.

Held in the Library of Congress, the food was really good though no alcohol was served, all of the famous preachers shook one another's hands exclaiming, "I think we finally have our boy in the White House," and Phil Driscoll played both "Amazing Grace" and "God Bless America" on the trumpet.

I had a hard time fitting in.

I wore blue jeans, a white shirt with a blue tie and a grey corduroy coat ... "The Kroger Bag Boy" look ... and had really long hair.

Congressman Jack Kingston invited me to "represent" his district and Natalie Jayroe was so pissed off she wasn't invited she launched a campaign with Jack's office which finally relented and got her a pass too.

She was as appalled as I was at the blatant ass kissing in which the Republicans and the Preachers were engaging.

"You're a volunteer," I told her. "Not a victim."

She rolls her eyes with no defense.

When it was finally over, I wandered out into the parking lot where James Robertson and T.D. Jakes stood between their Limos talking passionately about the President and how God's time is finally unveiling itself and how happy they are to be part of the Kingdom coming on earth as it is in Heaven.

Making my way to the Washington Hotel, I rode the elevator to the outdoor bar on top with it's incredible views of the Capitol and ordered a glass of wine.

"Religions in the hands of crazy ass people," I sang along with Jimmy Buffett in my head. "Television preachers with bad hair and dimples,  the God's honest truth is it's not that simple ..."

Yep.

I'm glad I got to go though.

It was fascinating and I wouldn't wish the pompousness on anybody.

When I went I'd already quit being a "Professional Christian", now a volunteer for love and the only thing I get in return is ... occasionally love's given back.

But that's all Jesus promised in the first place.

The first thing Gail does after opening the south end convenient store is feed the cats.

They jump on the back of her red pick up truck or on the bench in front to eat and Gail sits with them, tenderly wishing the feral cats a good morning while scratching their backs.

Most mornings she opens early because she knows customers will be desperate for coffee, cigarettes or beer so they can face another day.

They stumble inside pouring themselves a cup or ordering at the counter before stumbling out to the bench or the plastic table and chairs set up on the sidewalk where she joins them to chat or sit in silence staring at cigarette smoke.

Most look as though they slept outside or haven't made it home yet though Michael Bart sits in the middle looking dapper and cheerful greeting all who join this fractured community.

Rick, the surfer dude, glides in on his skate board with his dog for orange juice as the sun bubbles out of the sea.

Tourists load up on Twinkies and powdered doughnuts to cart back to their hotel rooms.

Rosco rides his bike up the street for the morning newspaper before rushing to the ocean to snap a morning photograph to post on Facebook, his morning greeting from the Beach.

"Hey Rev," Gail mutters as I wander inside.

"Val and Ryno," I say in reply and she reaches up for two Salem Lights and a box of Parliaments.

"They busy yet," she asks.

"The Breakfast Club's always busy," I shrug.

"You been sick," she says.

"I was," I smile at her concern "but I'm better now."

"It can kill you," she says handing me the cigarettes and taping an index finger on my hand, "you sure you okay?"

"I'm good," I affirm and she nods without smiling.

"Morning Micheal," Michael Bart cheerfully wishes.

"Hey Mike," I smile as I make my way outside to make deliveries to the Breakfast Club hearing the others hack and spit as they sip coffee or beer.

It's very Church like, I think to myself. A rag tag collection of people trying to survive into another day and holding on to one another for dear life to get started.

And Gail's the High Priestess ... the Christ figure caring for cats and feral people ... and at least for a moment giving each of them a place to find their footing ...  as the sun climbs into the sky ... and the world will do what it will to us all.

No Not One

"You've offended Tony Compolo," Richard tells me on the phone.

Richard is the publisher of my latest book, "A Non-Church Goer's Guide to God" is what it's being called at the moment.

Tony Compolo is the famous "speaker, author, sociologist, pastor, social activist and passionate follower of Jesus."

"What did I do? I ask.

"Well," Richard gravely replies, "When you say 'No Savior will ever sleep in the White House' Dr. Compolo didn't care for it because he's slept in the White House."

"No way," I exclaim like Garth did on "Wayne's World."

"Way," Richard perfectly replies.

"Well," I sigh.

"Yeah we can't get anybody to endorse your book. That's never happened before."

"No way," I say again channeling my inner Garth.

"Way," Richard laughs. "We're putting a positive spin on it. If nobody will endorse your book, it must be good. They're scared of it ... so that's what we going to say."

"You mean none of my Seminary Professors will give me a blurb for the cover?"

"None of them remember you," Richard reports.

"What about Guy Sayles or Bill Berry?" I asks.

"They never returned our calls."

"You know Bill's not the drummer for ..."

"I know," Richard cuts me off. "You've told me."

Tapping my finger tips against my teeth I ponder before asking, "You mean there's not one single person in the world who'll vouch for my book."

"No not one," Richard says laughingly, quoting the old Christian Hymn.

"But you're publishing it anyway?" I say a little determined.

"Yeah, it's the alternative view written by a Baptist Minister about a Baptist Church and how screwed up Baptists are ... and it's funny."

"Alrighty then," I say filled with renewed confidence. "To Hell with Tony Compolo."

"That's the same thing he said about you," Richard says and hangs up.

Then the book was released with my favorite introduction of all my books with an explanation of why nobody in the universe supports anything I have to say.

The opening of the windows

As important as Christmas and Easter ...

Rosh Hashanah or Passover ...

Ramadan ...

is the annual opening of the windows.

After being cooped inside because of cold weather, spring finally overthrew the tyranny of Winter and bitter northeast winds become balmy southern breezes.

The heater is turned off.

Shoes are put away.

Landry is lost.

In complete holy happiness, I dance to each of the 22 windows in  our house and open them in ecstasy.

Hymns from Bob Marley, Jimmy Buffett, the Beach Boys and Jim Morris are sung in the background.

Sunshine baptizes our home and the salt air of a sea breeze kisses everything.

Finally in the kitchen, the glass doors slide open and the Beloved Back Deck becomes one with the house bringing fresh scents of blooming flowers, choirs of birds and the playfulness of squirrels.

 "Righteous" I say out loud.

In the distance the ocean roars in approval.

Grabbing Sarah I kiss her salty bare skin in celebration of this high holy day!

Others are worshipping in other ways today but we've invited the Grand Cathedral that God built inside!

Who needs a musty old building to celebrate God?

They can have their stained glass windows!

We'll take our open ones.

Visiting with my Grandma

On a bitterly cold day my Grandma Carver and I are zipping in a Golf cart through the marsh near the sea.

She's bundled so tightly I can only see the water dripping out her eyes beneath her glasses.

We wanted some time alone and there were too many people at my folks house so we just disappeared.

I was in Seminary then, working as a "Professional Christian" at the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel in Louisville, Kentucky and was home for the holidays.

My Grandmother had the incredible of laser focusing love so that you knew without a shadow of a doubt you were the most special person ever born.

She unleashed her focused love on nine children, 37 grandchildren and several thousand great-grandchildren and beyond.

Granddaddy and Grandma took the Bible seriously and then they read "go forth and multiply" ... they did!

If you asked each of us individually we'd all say they loved us the most.

They really knew how to love.

When Jesus said it's more blessed to give than receive, I think what he meant is the more love you give away ... the more you become.

I've always tried to follow my Grandparents example by giving a lot away.

I'm often told I shouldn't, at least for free, and I suppose its true though I fear I might be letting my Granddaddy and Grandma down somehow if I stopped.

Aside from tee shirts, I'm not much of a hoarder though I will stick things in the storage room and forget about them.

I don't know.

Grandma Carver's been talking to me a lot lately and, just like in that Golf cart on a brutal cold day with water streaming out of her eyes, she pats me on the leg and tells me she loves me.

Then she says how proud she and Granddaddy are of me.

"Keep doing what you're doing," I hear her plainly say sitting alone in the kitchen with Goddess fur rubbing my bare feet.

This is after she keep me up last night while I snuggled next to Sarah but Grandma's determined to tell me it's okay to stop being concerned about everybody else for a while.

"Love what you got," and I swear to God I feel her hand on top of mine resting on top of Sarah's.

"Stay focused on what you want," and I can see her eyes looking into mine.

"Give it your all," and then she takes her leave to visit my cousin Debbie, help Sheri clean a Chapel in Heaven, horseback with Ricky, fish with Uncle Fred or cut up with Uncle Bud and my Dad.

"Because that's how you get it all," and Grandma and Jesus and great crowd of others leave Sarah and I sleeping alone in what we got.

Kissing Paradise Goodbye

And you can see them there, on Sunday morning
They stand up and sing about, what it's like up there
They call it Paradise, I don't know why
Call someplace Paradise, kiss it goodbye

I'd listen to "the Eagles" every Sunday morning before leaving the Pastor's Office for the Sanctuary ready to deliver God's message to those who came.

We were a rag-tag congregation of little old ladies, homeless people, prisoners, idealistic Seminary Students, kids from the Projects and the occasional normal person.

The students were a talented and giving bunch bringing good music, enthusiasm, commitment and joy balancing the sadness of the homeless people and the prisoners. The kids brought a greedy lust for snacks and a better place to play. The little old ladies watched it all suspiciously believing the house of cards would fall at any moment.

I was their Minister, having taken the job because no else wanted it and I liked the little old ladies and they liked me.

My first sermon was a "fire and brimstone" affair extolling my flock that we were going to do great things together. Resembling a coach's halftime speech when his team's losing badly, I let faith fly in the face of facts. The ladies quietly smiled having heard it all before.

Over time the place was reborn. A tired old building became a sanctuary where Sunday School rooms turned into apartments and the Baptismal Pool a bathtub. The "Fellowship Hall" morphed into the neighborhood's living room and the institutional kitchen became a "Coffee Shop" that never closed. The roof became a gathering place where we'd sit under the stars breathing the smell of death from the nearby stockyards and listening to the city cry.

The only time we resembled an actual church was during the Sunday morning service when I delivered the message. I grew fond of telling stories rather than preach which seemed to go over well. And I learned how to pray because people were constantly asking me to and I didn't want to say "No."

I was there for eight years and for a while it was a magical, holy, place of joy in one of the seediest parts of the city.

Towards the end, I had a hard time holding it all together. While the little old ladies were in Sunday School, the homeless people and prisoners sadly heard the "Good News" from enthusiastic Seminarians and the kids stuffed their mouths and pockets with everything they could ... I'd sit in my office listening to "The Eagles."

For a while, it really was Paradise.

I'm preaching today for the first time in a long while and it's got me thinking about old things. Under a tent on an island surrounded by vacationing Pirates and real life Beach Bums, I'll deliver God's message. They'll be good music, enthusiastic believers and those recovering from last night's celebrations. It'll be Paradise, at least for a little while.
_______________________________________

There is still time to register for my Writing Workshop beginning in November! Let the stories you're holding inside come to the light of day and share them with the world. Register at http://www.meellc.com/wordpress/writingworkshop/

Holy Night

The Cat Lady left the light on so her carport is ablaze and I see feral cats darting around her car. Her television is flickering blue from the window and I see heads talking. There is no movement and I assume she's asleep on her sofa. A Tahoe is parked in her yard so she's hopefully cuddled. Perhaps she's even making quiet love.

God has sprinkled a million stars across a black moonless sky.

There is no breeze.

The sweet pungent aroma of the marsh hangs in the air.

A lone choir of cicada sing a soft hymn of praise.

All is calm. All is bright in the darkness of the night.

It's 3:40 and I'm sitting on the beloved back deck. Restlessness robbed my sleep and not wanting to wake Sarah, I made my way out here. She's been restless too and was up the last several nights working away. It's her turn to sleep.

Goddess scratches the door so I let her out with her tail wagging. She licks my hand, then plops down beside me with a heavy sigh.

There is a soft beauty that I am keenly aware of witnessing.

It feels that Angels are hiding behind Palm Trees and the one with the oyster eyes is smiling at me.

The ocean sings in the distance, waves breaking rhythmically, keeping time with the cicada choir.

Rubbing my hand through my beard my fingertips explode with the sensation of the prickly stubble bowing to flesh.

All of the bad things in the world are somewhere else. For these moments, at least, there is peace on earth. There are no thoughts filling my head, no worries troubling me, because they've been pushed away on a night O so Holy and I sit quietly and still as though in church.

The slightest of breezes kisses my face as I sit in the night.

There is no rush.

So I sit contently in the darkness.

My leaps of faith

The congregation was a crazy collection of five little old ladies, homeless people, Seminary students, prisoners in a Transitional Center, families from the Projects and a steady flux of visitors. They had collectively lost their minds and had called me as their minister.

The truth is they forced me into it.

I didn't want to do it.

I'd gone to Seminary because Guy Sayles had asked me to come  but I never had any intentions of becoming a "Professional Christian." One day the five little old ladies cornered me demanding that I become their pastor.

"Hell No!" I said.

They pressed and one had a butcher knife in her apron. Even without the knife, five little old ladies turned themselves into a gang and threatened me with violence. So to save myself, I said yes.

Having no idea whatsoever what I was supposed to do, I just made shit up.

Sunday morning breakfast was my idea. All of Louisville's soup kitchens closed for the weekend. Homeless people flocked to Catholic Mass just to get a little something to eat. I decided an alternative was needed.

The Christian gang of little old ladies said they didn't care so long as we didn't disrupt their Sunday School class.

So at six a.m. I opened the doors to the Sanctuary with bars on the windows serving up coffee, sausage gravy and biscuits. A hundred homeless people showed up and a ministry was born!

Then the people in the projects wanted to eat too so they started coming.

The radical fringe of the three Seminaries in town heard about the funky church doing crazy work started coming too just to check it out.

The warden at the Prison Transitional Center saw a way to reduce his budget while serving God at the same time asked if his population could come, eat and stay for services. I said sure and a congregation was born.

Regular attendance went from the Christian gang of five little old ladies to almost 200 thugs and peace loving Hippies.

Not everybody liked it though.

The Southern Baptists, of which I am one, were outraged and summoned me to Corporate Headquarters. Apparently I had violated Article 17; Section 3-2 of the Bylaws of Faith which says, "Thou shalt love buildings more than people." It seems I was screwing up their building.

"What do you want me to do," I asked?

You could have heard a pin drop in Baptist Corporate Headquarters. They had no idea. Church attendance was through the roof. Literally ... some homeless people slept on the roof! Baptists love numbers ... especially big ones!

As a result I was allowed to continue drawing a paycheck as a "Professional Christian."

It didn't last though. Nothing ever does. Eight years later, I could no longer handle the constraints of Baptist rules and regulations. I loved the congregation though the church was becoming oppressive. I needed to get out from under the Rock and found a way to do so. It wasn't a graceful way but my time as a "Professional Christian" mercifully ended.

I went on to do bigger and better things morphing into a President/CEO of a multi-million company. "There's big money in homelessness," I used to say and there was. I gave it my all until, decades later, that mercifully came to an end too.

These days, we're working on the next great thing, still rooted in making things better for others.

Life has been the most interesting ride. I've no regrets because everything I've done and all that I've been through got me to this point. It's fascinating, and frightening, as the other things I've done. Every day I wake up thankful and feel blessed even when night time doubts keep me awake. My Guardian Angel tells me to not worry about it.

"You taken leaps of faith before," she says. "This is just the latest ... and the biggest!" Then she shrugs her shoulders and adds, "No worries."

The Way we like our religion!

"Don't let me down," begged the Major Prophet John Lennon.

But of course they do.

Jesus put a positive spin on it when he said, "Do unto others as you would have them do unto you."

But we don't.

We've been burned too many times, giving openly and honestly to others only to have them not give back to us in kind. The result is we are taken advantage of, hurt and left to clean up other people's messes.

Every time it happens, we add another brick to the wall we build to protect ourselves from such things. The number of people we trust grows very small. We hoard our feelings for ourselves. Our community is tiny. The love we do give away is questioned, guarded and reserved for only a few. Most can count the true loves they have on one hand.

The "Golden Rule" is in every single one of the world's religions yet it remains the least practiced form of faith.

It ends up pissing everybody off so to hell with it. We take the rest of the world's religions except this part. It makes religion so much easier, leaving plenty of room for intolerance, bigotry, exclusion, hate and terrorism. Now that's how we like our religion!

If it weren't so then why is much of it in the world today.

Last night Sarah and I sat in the red room shell shocked for what others had done unto us that we hadn't done unto others.

After letting our anger out, continuing to say to one another "I'm not mad at you! I'm just mad and don't have anybody else to mad at right now!", we began to calm down. I grew contemplative as Sarah continued to process things that had been done leaving us with a great deal of unexpected things to do.

I had a hard time sleeping last night because of it all. Laying there staring at the ceiling fan, Goddess laid on my side of the bed licking my hand and John Lennon kept singing in my head.

"Don't let me down."

"Don't let me down."

It is a shame that we do let each other down as a daily practice of our faith.

It's more than a shame.

It's just another brick in the wall.

My Award Winning Church

The Church that employed me as its "Professional Christian" had won an award. Miraculously, the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel had morphed from a broken down, rag tag congregation of little old ladies into a vibrant, diverse, constantly-in-the-news group because we'd turned Sunday School rooms into apartments so homeless people would have a place to live and the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub so they would have a place to bath.

We reasoned that Church buildings are poor examples of stewardship. They sit vacate six days each week and we decided there was a better way to use a building to glorify God.

Having homeless people live in Sunday School rooms brought a life into the building that hadn't been there before. Before long, people who thought it was a cool idea began attending. Attendance went from 5 little old ladies to a couple of hundred.

Now as the Southern Baptist teach us, "Our Lord told us to count his sheep. Not feed them."

And someone in Baptist Corporate Headquarters in Nashville saw that our numbers were the roof!

Of course I was also counting every bath the homeless guys took as a Baptism and reporting that to sheep counters in Baptist Corporate Headquarters.

We'd received noticed that we were going to receive a trophy for shattering the Kentucky state record for Baptisms in a year AND it would be presented by the President of Kentucky Baptist Convention.

Obviously proud, we decided to spruce things up before they arrived on Sunday.

The building looked a little lived in and it needed painting. A group of church volunteers assembled and worked all Saturday to finish. Late in the day everyone was tired and ready to be finished. Besides we all wanted to be ready for Sunday morning trophy presentation.

So Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, "Brothers and sisters in Christ. Go home. There's only one wall left. I'll finish it."

We protested but he remained adamant. So we left.

Everything was perfect as I waited for the Baptist Ayatollah. The sanctuary was packed with proud members who I heard laughing and celebrating in anticipation of our award. When the Ayatollah arrived I proudly led him into the church.

His face went white.

In bold red letters on one wall of the sanctuary, Bill had painted the words "JESUS SHAVES!"

We never did get the award but we had one hell of a celebration.

What's wrong with the Church.

The purpose of church is so people can get together and remind themselves to think about something other than themselves.

Most churches fail miserably!

We take ourselves to church often knowing what we want to get out of it before we get there.

We want God to do this or that ... heal something we can't manage ourselves ... forgive us when we can't forgive ourselves and curse those we can't forgive ... we seek refuge from guilt, fear and loneliness.

Or we come for the entertainment!

We want good music ... funny sermons that can also make you cry ... great people watching ... wonderful gossip ... fervent political rhetoric ... opportunities to pass judgment ... to be part of a mob.

We go to church with so much agenda!

God help the clergy because most try to deliver on all of these things. They script the service with the precision of a Broadway musical or a military campaign. They ensure their people have the latest popular trend in worship ... excellent sound systems, large flat head television screens so everyone can see, elegant robes and mood lighting. They steal blindly from their peers for the best material. Some even orchestrate valet parking.

Often the result resembles an addiction. The junkies want their fixes and the minister is happy to serve them as the dealer.

Lenny Bruce, of all people, once quipped, "Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God."

It's little wonder.

Love God like you love yourself. And love others like you love yourself.

That's what it's suppose to be about.

It's a shame its about so many other things.