To Hell with ... Hell!

If Hell is as hot as it is right now I won't have any problem acclimating.

Besides I've already been to Hell and it's not all that.

I know ... I know ... my conservative friends are saying, "Oh you just wait till you die and really go to Hell! Then you'll know what it's really all about?"

Whatev's ...

It's funny when I write about religion because while lots of people read it, no one's really got much to say ... except ... that I'm going to Hell.

Nobody ever holds up a finger and yells, "GO TO HEAVEN!"

They stick up a particular finger yelling "GO TO HELL!"

When did Hell become so popular?

"Go to Heaven for the climate," Mark Twain quips. "Hell for the company."

"I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the Saints," Bill Joel adds.

I resonate with both sentiments.

Besides I don't have to go to Hell.

It comes to me.

"Hell is portable," Guy Sayles once told me. "You don't have to go to it. It comes to you."

I think most people, even the conservative ones, can agree on that.

If others aren't putting us through Hell ... we're perfectly capable of doing it ourselves.

And the sad fact is ... WE DO!

Satan's got to have the easiest job in the world!

Well, I'm not having anything to do with it and as far as I'm concerned, Satan can go straight to Hell ... though I'm not sure that makes any sense.

The point is we're all pretty hard on ourselves ... and that makes no sense either!

Why in the Hell do we beat ourselves up when we'll really just doing the best we can?

So ... to Hell with Hell!

I'm going to enjoy the Hell out of today!

I'm not going to give myself Hell and, to the best of my ability, I'm not going to give anybody else Hell either.

I am just going to enjoy myself ... who I'm with ... where I'm at ... what I'm doing ... the temperature ... the absence of shoes ... or clothes ... the conviction God loves me ... flowers are blooming ... my friends are doing okay ... and I feel pretty good.

You know ... without Hell ... it's pretty heavenly.

Religious Abuse Survivor

"I come at religion from the dark sides," I say to Joey Finch on a hot, sunny Key West afternoon.

Bill had wandered to the finish line waiting on Sarah to finish the 5K race so Joey and I had time to talk alone as good friends do.

"I know you do," he answers very quickly.

As a survivor of religious abuse he can say any damn thing he wants on the matter ... but he's sincere wondering how I believe after living through so many ... dark things.

Faith takes hold in the dark places is how Celtic Christianity puts it ... roots grow in the wet dirt and blooms above ground ... but you can't have a resurrection without a death.

I've seen lots of deaths.

The first I personally touched was Florence Bryson, an old mean ass, not-quite-homeless woman who wore several coats even in the summer and had a son named Elvis, who looked nothing like the King.

Elvis made money taking cigarette packages and elaborately folding them into picture frames he sold on the street.

Florence smoked all the cigarettes.

They lived together in a one room walk-up around the corner of the church I was inexplicably the 24 year old "Professional Christian" in charge of.

I didn't know anything, except we're all supposed to love each other ... and that's hard as Hell with so many unlovely people in the world ... like Florence and Elvis.

Florence would see me on the street, start cussing, throw cans at me, kick and punch ... all because I was the nice Christian guy ... like the ones who'd lied to her before.

Homeless guys seeing her attack me, rushed to my defense, pulling her away as she viciously bit them, always leaving her mark, before snarling, cussing and walking away.

Then one day she grabs me on the street, sobbing, pulling me towards their walk-up room where Elvis lay crumped on the floor.

Tears flood down Florence's leather face as I face a dead person for the first time.

Homeless men watch it unfold and fly into the room asking, "Rev! What is it?"

Florence buries her head in my chest, sobbing like I've never heard before.

After that, she was different as any Mother would be having lost her son.

"Hey Mr. Mike," she said in a little girl voice and we hugged.

She never allowed anyone to touch her before but now ... Florence taught me the power of hugs.

A few months later, on an early Sunday morning as I cooked breakfast for homeless people, I was summoned to the one room walk-up because something was wrong.

Storming the stairs three at a time, I found Florence laying on the bed, dressed in three overcoats and a skull cap on a hot summer day ... her feet still on the floor and both arms reaching towards Heaven.

Bursting into tears, I laid her head in my lap and asking God "Why?"

There's nothing just, right or Holy about a mentally ill, poverty stricken woman who'd lost her only begotten son ... dying alone in a rat infested one room walk-up on a hot summer day.

I remember God didn't have anything to say in response.

All these years later, I still haven't stopped asking.

And Florence was the first of many who taught me that love can happen anywhere ... in any circumstance ... and with the unlikeliest of people.

And if God is love ... well maybe that's the answer.

My Stained Life

"He wears that on a plane?" she asks in a thick New York accent.

Sitting in the lobby of the vacation rental in Key West, I'm staring out of the window not paying attention and assume she's talking to Sarah.

"He dresses like that all of the time," I hear my wife explain.

Looking down,  I'm wearing a stained, white, "Full Moon Party" tee shirt from "Latitude 32", black running shorts and flip flops.

"And they let him on the plane?"

She has dyed flaming red hair, an orange and black Safari outfit and lots of jewelry that rattles when she talks.

Sarah nods, admitting her disbelief and says, "They do."

Shaking her head, the woman shifts her focus to the clerk explaining they'll need assistance unpacking all of the things packed for her dog.

Having my sense of fashion accosted doesn't phase me.

Men wearing bathing suits that fall past their knees are obviously projecting they've overcome other ... deficiencies.

Women wearing outlandish designs or tons of gaudy jewelry are too.

I'm okay projecting stains.

It's not like my life hasn't had them so I may as well wear them well.

Divorce ... getting mad in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong person ... occasional lies that always make things worse ... failing to do what I'd said I would ...

Yeah, I got stains.

But ... my "Full Moon Party Latitude 32 tee shirt" remains mostly white.

Like me.

I do far more good than bad ... have pretty good timing saying the right things ... am almost always honest ... and carry through on whatever I say I'm going to do.

I've got to live with it all so I may as well wear my life with as much dignity and pride as possible.

It's better than pretending everything's perfect, great or awesome when the next person has as many stains as I do.

"Even the righteous of God," wrote the crusty old Saint, they got stains too, "for all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God."

We may as well be honest about it with each other.

Then we get another shot at the glory of God. 

I wish I spoke "Frog"

I'm listening to a choir of frogs.

It's an overcast morning, hinting of rain with a breezy blast of salty air from the ocean.

Sitting on the Beloved Back Deck with Winston, The Little Gay Dog, who desperately wants me to let him inside so he can snuggle with the sleeping Sarah ... the chorus of frogs are deafening ... harmoniously so.

I've got lots to do but I'm not doing any of it.

It's been a crazy week ... the exhausting kind ... and I'm determine Sarah sleeps as long as she damn well pleases ... which is why Winston, TLGD, sits in exile with me.

Plus the frogs have obviously put a lot of practice into this performance.

I'm not overthinking things but sit here appreciating the moment ... and the choir's performance.

"Stress makes you believe everything has to happen right now," is something our friend Chuck Courtenay posted on Facebook, "Faith reassures you that everything will happen in God's time."

I'm not one of those who believe that God sits in the sky pulling strings to make things happen according to some plan but ... I believe Chuck's quote is right.

Sarah and I have been struggling with God's timing.

We get the stress part ... things need to be happening now! ... and we know what they are ... how can God not know what they are and when they need to happen?

But they're not.

So what do you do?

We have faith things are going to happen ... we just wish it was now.

But it's not.

This choir of frogs have me wondering if God's trying to me something.

Why else would they be bursting in song this morning as I sit here pondering things, protecting my wife and trying to figure out Divine Plans that obviously conflict with ours?

Oh well ... what do you do?

I let Winston, TLGD, inside and he darts to snuggle with the sleeping Sarah while I tiptoe back to the choir of frogs.

I wish I spoke frog.

I'm pretty sure they're telling me something.

I hope it's ... when.

Today's Miracle

Well!

Thank God that weekend's over!

It started out poorly on Friday ... grew progressively worse on Saturday ... Sunday landed with a splat ... and the whole affair ended with thud.

Everyone was in a bad mood and try as we collectively did to improve things ... nothing worked.

To radically alter everything I proposed ... er, I  mean mandated ... that we go out to dinner at a favorite restaurant. 

Everyone dressed up ... looked great ... and we drove into town ... to celebrate each other surviving the weekend ...  only to have the worst waiter every hired.

To say "he sucked" doesn't begin to describe his demeanor, pushiness, avoidance of detail and complete lack of understanding of the concept of time.

He was handsome though.

Drinks and dinner eventually came and the setting was right for everyone to enjoy each other ... except we didn't.

Everyone took turns being mad about something ... there was a little yelling ... and at least one punch was thrown.

In the hour we were there, one went to the bathroom three times ... and though I didn't keep track ... she was likely in there longer than she sat at the table.

When dinner mercifully ended, we dropped the girls off at their Dad's house.

"Well that was terrible," Sarah sighs.

"Yep," I concur. "Thank God it's over."

We drive home in silence individually contemplating the existence of God.

Then a miracle happens!

Home alone, Sarah and I grab hold of each other and call upon the name of the Lord.

When we woke up ... everything's better.

Snorting Holy Water

I had a friend who snorted BC Headache Powder.

"What in the Hell are you doing?" I demand the first time I witness him empty the wax paper onto the desk, straighten the white powder into a thin line, roll up a dollar bill and snort it up his nose.

"I think you're suppose to swallow the stuff," I offer.

"Why?" he asks wiping his nose with his sleeve, "I don't have a stomach ache."

I don't know how to respond.

"I got a headache," he continues. "This is the fastest way to get rid of it."

I found it hard to not love Rodger Pack.

It made such an impression I included the whole scene in my book "Tour of Homes" though, honestly, I haven't thought about it in years.

Until last night.

Sarah's oldest, Maddie's been on a four week trip with her grandmother, the Virgin Mary.

The Virgin Mary is a very devote, opinionated and dictatorial Catholic and as she and her husband drove Maddie across the country they stopped for Church a lot.

The Virgin Mary and her husband prayed and genuflected while 12 year old Maddie checked out the boys.

Anyway ... Maddie returned home last night bearing presents for Sarah, her sisters and me!

I got a bottle of Holy Water.

A white cap carved into a rose adorns the top of a glass vial with an elaborate metal engraving of Jesus touching his scared heart and a Celtic Cross behind his head.

For some reason ... the number "69" is on the bottom.

"Is this from you or the Virgin Mary?" I ask as she laughs when handing it to me though it quickly turns to horror when I unscrew the top and take swig.

"Oh My God," Maddie exclaims covering her mouth as her sisters burst out laughing.

"What?" I ask before taking a snort up both nostrils, "I want to be filled with Jesus."

"I'm going to tell my Grandmother," Maddie threatens.

"Go for it," I reply.

Cassidy, Sarah's 7 year old, asks, "Can I have some?"

"No precious child," I explain, "this is all mine."

Laurel, the 10 year old and by far the most religious of the girls, tells us she's going to her room.

"It's only eight o'clock," Sarah says. "It's too early to go to bed."

"I'm not going to bed," Laurel explains walking down the stair. "I'm going to pray for Mike."

"Aw thanks Laurel," I beam. "That can only help."

If I were President

So much is happening in the world today that it's hard to keep up so I've fallen behind in sharing my opinions on current events.

Not that anyone asks me for my opinion.

I used to get asked my opinion all of the time but not so much these days.

My favorite is when I was speaking at Christ Church in historic downtown Savannah, Georgia.

Savannah's Christ Church is what would have happened if Jesus had gone to Peyton Place ... ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE!

But those crazy Episcopalians know how to throw a schism!

Anyway I gave a speech and it must have been good because during the Q and A (that's questions and answers for the non-doctrinated ... though Unitarians have mastered all the questions but none of the answers while Southern Baptist have all the answers with no clue of the questions) ... people asked my opinion of things.

"If you were President, what would you do first?" the beautiful and gentile Mrs. Sprague asked.

I burst into uncontrollable laughter.

When I finally stopped she stood in front of the congregation expecting an answer.

I can't recall if I was being paid for this speech as a "Professional Christian" or if I was actually being a Christian in my spare time but ... I felt obligated to answer.

"Well," I cleverly began remembering Clarence Jordan, "if I was President ..."

Mrs. Sprague and the entire congregation burst into uncontrollable laughter at such a prospect.

When they finally stopped I continued.

"If I was President I would reinstate a mandatory draft ... EXCEPT we'd only draft people 62 or older. That way we'll wipe out all Social Security/Medicaid/Medicare expenses because they'll be in the Military. The budget will immediately be balanced and nursing homes will go out of business."

Mrs. Sprague and the congregation seemed confused but were pondering what I'd said.

"It gets better," I said sounding like every other President shoveling promises down throats, "all these AARP heroes aren't going to carry packs or guns making it difficult to engage in war. I believe we've had enough wars in America!"

Some members of the congregation clapped while others prayed for deliverance though one veteran stood and demanding to know how we'd protect the country against our enemies.

"We'll send our troops over to show the enemy pictures of their grandchildren! Who doesn't love grandchildren? The enemy will pull out their own photographs and before you know they're all planning some reunion."

The congregation applauded ... well except for the ones leaving in a hurry.

"Now isn't that the kind of war we want to fight in America?"

That was the last time I've been to Christ Church to speak.

But they've been busy at war with themselves ever since.

A Question of Faith

You know those stories of someone who finally retires only to die?

They finally hit the magic money number, feeling they can afford to "live" without work, but the shock is too much for their system so they shut down ...  way before they planned.

It's the ultimate irony.

Work hard to finally get what you want to not have it when you want it.

It's like Moses leading the people to the Promised Land only to die before he got there.

Honestly it all works out for many and while that doesn't seem fair you can't begrudge it when they have the happiest of lives.

The crazy thing is our body shuts down and wears out just as we hit the "golden years," so instead of traveling the world we hire home health to ensure we remain home or move into assisted care facilities.

And all the things we always meant to do ... remain things we always meant to do.

Life is a gift all of us share yet none of us asked for ... and it's not always fair.

I don't know why God made it this way but ... it is what it is.

I've known lots of people who had bad luck hit them way before their time ... cancer in their prime ... their child dies ... a parent needs constant caregiving ... jobs are lost ... the money runs out while friends run away.

What do you do?

The song "Living on a prayer" keeps running through my mind and I think the answer's along that train of thought.

Ultimately life is a big question of faith.

I believe things work out the way they're supposed to.

Even when cancer hits someone in their prime it forces life to appreciated like never before ... when a child dies we understand the incredible gift of a child ... caring for a parent no longer capable of tending for themselves enables us to pay them back ... lost jobs mean new opportunities ... no money in the bank leaves you with nothing but God to rely on ... lost friends leave you with an appreciation of who remains with you.

It's not always fair but it is always life.

"What to do? What to do?"

That's the only question.

And the only answer is ... enjoy this or not?

Believe it's supposed to happen this way or not.

Make the most of whatever it is you got or wish for a life that you don't have.

Because it is what it is.

Night Prayers

Scratching on the sliding glass doors wake me at 2:30.

Sighing, I stare at the silhouettes of Palm trees outside of our window, disentangle myself from a lovely sleeping position with Sarah and quietly pull myself out of bed.

Stumbling into the living room there's enough moonlight to easily make my way.

In the kitchen the silhouette of our dog Goddess jumps up and her tail wags as I slide the door open so she can go out.

Following her out, the heat of the night embraces me in sharp contrast to the coolness of the air-conditioning inside.

Goddess rushes down the stairs to the back yard as I lay my hands on the rail of the beloved back deck sleepily taking inventory.

Stars dance around a bright half moon to the song of a choir of cicada.

Every light is on in our neighbors house and her television throws off colorful hues as she sleeps passed out on her sofa.

Aside from the cicada choir, all is silent ... all is calm ... all is bright.

I stand naked in a Monastery built by God and on an oh so Holy night.

Prayers rush through my mind, first of Thanksgiving for Sarah and this life, then petitions to look over the ones we love and finally for interventions to guide us to the things we must do next.

I hear the scratches of Goddess' paws as she lumbers up the wooden stairs and takes her place beside me.

Yawning and scratching my head, I say "Amen" out loud before returning to the coolness of the sanctuary that is our home.

Goddess continues to wag her plume of a tail, breathing excitedly as I crawl back into the manger with Sarah grateful for night prayers and a dog who insists that I have them.

Amen.

Explaining the 70s to a child

"Mike what are you listening to?" Sarah's 7 year old asks having crashed my quiet time on the beloved back deck.

"70s music," I answer. "Just music from the 70s."

"It's weird," she tells me.

"You should have lived it," I retort.

Pondering this as she plays a game on the I-pad, she says without looking at me, "God wasn't alive in the 70s."

"Naw," I explain, "God was just on vacation in the 70s."

She stares at me.

"Nixon was President. Terrorism was born. OPEC was conceived. Kent State happened. Floppy Disks were invented. The Beatles broke up! God had to have been on vacation."

I can't tell if she's ignoring me or considering the whole "Death of God" controversy which also occurred in the 70s ... Elton John said so.

"The music's weird," she finally says.

Disco is streaming.

"Yeah well," I agree. "There was a lot of bad music in the 70s.

Actually I enjoyed the 70s a lot, starting High School at the dawn of the Decade and graduating from College when it ended.

"You couldn't have been alive in the 70s," Cassidy finally concludes.

"Why not?"

"Because you wouldn't be alive now," she explains putting her elbows on the table to look at me as if I'm an idiot.

"I'm pretty sure I was alive Cass," I reply.

"Well," she says reversing her opinion, "God was alive in the 70s."

"Alright then," I shrug, "God was alive in the 70s and I was too otherwise I wouldn't be here now."

"No," she says.

I count the decades my fingers which she ignores.

"The music's weird," she concludes as John Lennon sings "Imagine."

The Answer to Stuggling with your Faith

Living a life based on faith is hard as Hell.

It can kill you.

Just ask Jesus.

But then he'll go on to say it all works out in the end.

A friend of mine takes care of his elderly mother and his mentally ill brother. He lives on a fixed income so there's not a lot of wiggle room when it comes to cash flow. The problem is the price of everything ... groceries, gasoline, utilities and such ... keep getting higher. It frightens him that one day the math won't work and he'll forfeit the pledge he made to his dying father to take care of the family.

Like most, he expects the worst to happen, imaging it on sleepless nights ... the power's cut off and they have to cook the few remaining things on the grill ... until the gas runs out ... but by then the heartless bank will have foreclosed and he haul his tearful mother and confused brother to whoever has room in the Inn.

I understand.

I worry about such things too.

Many of us wonder why God keeps so quiet during such times.

It was with wonder then over the weekend we opened the fortune cookies after food delivered from Chef Wan.

Sarah's promises, "You will have many friends when you need them!"

As if that isn't good enough, on the other side of her fortune are her winning Lottery numbers ... 1, 13, 19, 35, 46 and 48.

Excited I tore my cookie open and was delighted to learn that my "dearest wish will come true within the month."
AND my winning Lottery numbers are 4, 6, 9, 18, 24 and 29!

Well ... that takes care of that.

And to my friend I say, keep believing and ... order Chinese.

A Holy Place

When I was in Seminary I spent a good bit of time in Catholic Monasteries which is funny because I attended Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.

But the great Catholic Monk Thomas Merton had lived only a hour's drive from Louisville so Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I would drive to Bardstown to spend afternoons at Gethsemane.

There's no interaction with the Monks but we would make our way to the balcony of the Chapel and watch them pray, which they do seven times a day.

It sits on wonderful lush hills permeated by a sense of holiness that's either manufactured by the Monks or we just believed it so it was true.

Later I discovered the much more opulent, but no less holy, St. Meinrad Monastery in Indiana and unlike Gethsemane, I had free reign of the place and wandered into Monk's rooms, the Chapel and the adjourning Seminary.

In terms of feeling holy, I enjoyed visits to Meinrad more.

There have been others though they don't stand up in memory test and I can conjure up only fleeting images of having visited.

What I do vividly recall is the search for holiness that I seldom experienced at the Baptist Seminary.

That was all a long time ago and I haven't visited a Monastery in decades but the search for holiness has never waivered.

There is a back deck affixed to our house filled with plants, a Chiminea my kids gave  me, a table under an umbrella, a wooden robot looking man who holds a potted plant and a ceramic frog with a silver ball on its head.

There are also signs proclaiming the site to be "Clothing Optional" and "Umbrella drinks served here" hanging underneath four wind chimes, each chosen by Sarah and one of her girls.

It's mostly bathed in brilliant sunshine during the day and blanketed by stars at night. The songs of the sea are easily heard from just on the other side of the Palm Tree with the oyster smile, coconut bra and grass skirt.

I have no idea why it's such a holy place but from the moment I step on it I can feel Divine things ... the way the leaves dance in the summer breeze ... the choirs of birds ... the shadows playing on the wall ... the feel of salt on my skin ... the pungent aroma of the marsh in the air ... a spot for drunken Angels to rest and collect themselves ... a spot where I collect myself.

God only knows why this is such a holy place.

Alone on the beach

It's fair to say I've spent as much time sitting on this beach alone as I have with anyone else.

It's the wilderness where my soul constantly wanders.

I sit staring at the majesty of the Sea ... lost in contemplative non-thoughts ... mostly feeling ... turning golden then brown with a reddish flair thanks to my Dad's side of the family.

Beside the wilderness of the Ocean I mostly listen and watch.

It's like a prayer closet ... without the closet.

It's worship without a Church.

It's God's most majestic Cathedral.

Rasta reggae rhythms flow through my ears as I anticipate.

Boys and men wear jams stretching from just below their belly buttons to underneath their knees.

Wanting to get as close to the Garden of Eden as I can get I'm wearing next to nothing and it's tan through.

I don't know what these other people are thinking.

I don't pay them much attention because I'm preoccupied watching dolphins glide, pelicans dive and schools of menhaden make their own waves.

Way back when I willed myself to be here and came surrounded by cries of protest.

That was 3 decades ago.

It's my sanctuary, my refuge, my calm in the storm even when the lighting and thunder put on a Hell of a show!

This beach has been good to me. It's seen me through a lot and I sit here now appreciating this clump of sand.

Dolphins break the water and motion for me to follow. Pelicans fly in V-formation towards Little Tybee before disappearing in the distance.  Schools of menhaden clap underwater making a splashing celebration. A flock of seagulls sing squawking Hymns of Praise.

I sit here alone in this grand Cathedral, intently watching these things, anticipating what's being said and wondering what's next.

God's will for me

I need to go ahead and win the Lottery.

It'll make planning easier and cause less stress.

I understand I have a better chance of being struck by lightening in the North Pole, which is far away from where I sit, than of actually winning the Lottery but that's not stopping me.

I have tremendous faith and know God will make certain I win at the right time with the right amount ... not too much but not too little ... and everything is going to work out fine.

As a matter of fact, I have much faith in God making it happen I don't even have my own special numbers like our anniversary or the kids birthdays.

I figure God will make it happen regardless of such things so I just get the "Quick Pick."

It's God's will.

In the meantime, I'm just living as though I've already won the Lottery, pretty much doing what I want ... when I want ... and with who I want.

Sure my check book consists mostly zeros on the wrong side of an actual number and my accountant burst into tears whenever he sees me, but I'm of the opinion that if you believe it ... it'll come true.

Besides God's got my back.

It's not I'm going to spend the money frivolously or anything.

I'm not going to buy clothes or silly things like that because who really needs them? The car I drive is fine though I may get cloth falling from the roof tacked back up. And the windows that don't open in the house will probably get replaced though they work fine in the winter.

Though if it's God's will that I win "Mega-Millions" I'll likely buy Delta Airlines so I can fire everybody or pay off Congress so they'll just stay home and not bother us anymore.

But I'm not planning on "Mega-Millions" because God and I both know I don't need that much.

I just need enough to keep doing what I'm doing now.

Well ... and buy a House Boat with an icemaker, large screen plasma television, large kitchen and a great bedroom.

Oh ... and I'll need another smaller one for Sarah's girls which will be tethered 30 feet behind ours so we can hear them they call.

Oh ... and one more for my kids when they come to visit!

Other than that, I'll just keep being my usual humble, satisfied self and the only difference is this wonderful lifestyle will finally be adequately financed!

Oh ... and I'd hire Dicky Trotter to take all of my calls so he can decide if it's Gods will if I make investments, personal or otherwise, in all of my new best friends.

Anyway that's the plan.

Sometime today, I need to ride my old rusty bicycle up to Chu's so God can do the "Quick pick" for me again this week.

It's just a matter of God's timing now.

The Answer

My friend Dr. Jim Withers recently posted, "Now we're down to hours between mass shootings - not days. Pray for our people. Pray for change."

Since then a man stormed a Georgia courthouse ready to do more carnage but was killed after only wounding one.

In Atlanta a woman kills her husband in a Kroger before killing herself.

Down to hours indeed!

We watch it on the news with a detached objectivity, a sad acceptance of disbelief such things happen and a prayer of thanks it's no one we know.

The religious among us pray for our people and pray for change but things stay pretty much the same.

Politicians make promises, increasing funding for police departments, build more prisons to lock the problem away but nothing makes a difference.

Most just go about there business, getting on with our lives with some conviction there's not much we can do anyway because crazy people are going to do crazy things.

What do you do?

Honestly, we're not there yet as a people to address things like mass shootings, needless deaths, homelessness, corrupt health care systems, greedy leaders and selfish religions.

Our hearts aren't broken.

"When all the broken hearted people living in the world agree there will be an answer ... then they will be an answer.

But not until then.

As bad as things are ... our hearts aren't broken yet.

Nothing much is going to happen until then.

Cleaning Up Christ

In Bantry Bay, Ireland I got up early and joined a group to attend Mass.

I like Catholic Mass.

Back when I was a "Professional Christian" employed as a Southern Baptist minister, I often attended Mass at St. Martin de Tours Catholic Church in Louisville, Kentucky where my friend Father Vernon Robertson was the Priest.

I did the readings and got to know the Liturgy and to this day I have a fondness for Mass.

When I miss organized religion I'll often find my way into a Catholic Church and celebrate the Eucharist.

I've been to Bar Church on Tybee Island several times over the past year but here I am in Ireland with a bunch of Irish Catholics so I had to go to Mass.

Sarah stayed in bed.

We make our way to St. Fin Barre's Cathedral. 

The Priest was a young red head Irishman who was very serious about things. He never smiled and didn't have any Good News for the several hundred of us in attendance.

He did have a lot of Bad News.

Apparently the Irish are thinking about legalizing abortion which has the Catholic Church in a tizzy because the Bishop wrote a letter for the redheaded Priest to read.

It was a great letter!

The Bishop wrote if abortion is allowed then women can't have boys and then the pool to select Priests from will diminish  and there's already of shortage of Priests so ... everybody go out and make more Priests!

"What'd you think Micheal?" Tony Ryan asks as we make our way back to retrieve the sinners who'd slept through Mass.

"My favorite part is always when the Priest cleans the Chalice after the Eucharist and that red headed boy did a Hell of a job! He cleaned and scrubbed as though, if Jesus really was in there, he was going to get every drop out. It's like cleaning up Christ!"

This was met with stony silence until my friend Bill Shearouse turns, looks me in the eye and says, "What do you mean 'IF'?"

"I was trying to be respectful," Tony chimes in, "so I didn't want to say anything."

"Oh come on," I shoot back. "There's more than one way to look at Transubstantiation (the belief that the wine and the wafer actually become the blood and body of Christ)."

"No there's not," Bill and Tony reply at the same time.

As everyone knows, when it comes to religion, it's often best to keep your mouth shut.

I love Bill Shearouse and like Tony a lot so I nodded in agreement with them.

But I enjoyed Mass immensely, like St. Fin Barr a lot and his Church, laughed at the wicked intensity of the red headed Priest with no Good News and the several hundred good Irish Catholics who stared intently when I passed the collection plate without putting anything in it ... twice!

That'll probably do me for a while in terms of organized religion though eventually I'll start to miss it a little and will hit Bar Church and then likely a Mass somewhere.

Maybe next time Sarah will go with me and I won't offend anybody.

Or maybe I'll just stay in bed with her.

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.

Turning Down God's Gifts

"You're going somewhere again? Didn't you just get back?"

Standing beside him paying the bill at Tybee Animal Care, I shrug my shoulders and reply, "Well I suppose I could put if off but I may die before I ever got to go. It would be a shame to be dead and never have seen Ireland."

Then Sarah's 7 year old Cassidy comes home claiming her teacher wants to know why we travel so much?

"Where do they get all of this money?"

Having no idea Cass answers, "My Mom doesn't do anything. My step dad's a writer."

The poor child really is clueless sometimes.

"Do you think he'll come speak to the 1st grade about what it's like to be a writer?" she asks Cass who asks me.

I have no idea how to respond ... because I have absolutely no idea what I would say to a class room of 1st graders ... I imagine "Children's Time" in Church with all of the precious kids come down front to sit at the feet of the minister ... who really is just trying to manipulate them to say something funny so the service won't be as boring as the sermon.

First off, unless you're John Grisham, writers don't make any money.

We're like musicians ... we do it for the love of creating and sharing.

That's not to say I think anybody should put off experiencing life and there's no better way to enjoy living than travel.

"Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts. Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

So says Mark Twain and I believe him.

I believe it's best to take whatever you've got and see the world now!

Keep going to the places you love, regardless of the cost.

The worst that can happen is you run out of money in a place you love or die before you ever get a chance to spend it actually visiting your dreams.

I've got lots of memories saved up to savor in the Nursing Home if that ever happens.

In the meantime, to Hell with the money, it's time to experience Ireland.

After all, that's why God made it and it's sinful to turn down gifts from God.

Being the Rev

While the ordination was bestowed upon me by a collection of Southern Baptists, including my Granddaddy, the Rev. Ira V. Carver, the title was given by a bunch of homeless guys.

"Hey Rev," says Sonny Broughton, a tiny little man with a very big mouth.

There were five of them who comprised the inner circle introducing me to the world of homelessness.

Chester Fawbush, Lorenz, Bruce, R.P and Sonny, all homeless, were some of the most funny, conniving, creative and wonderful friends and they're the ones who named me "Rev."

"Hey," I ask strolling into the Church social hall converted into a Day Shelter for people with nowhere to go, "have you been drinking?"

"Naw," the elderly Chester replies, "I've already quit six times today."

The others howl and I have no idea whatsoever how to respond.

It was a magic and wonderful time ... until Chester dies ... Bruce falls off a bridge and drowns ... R.P. disappears and Sonny never wakes up from his bed above the bar.

Senseless deaths made me try harder to save homeless people and for 30 years I gave everything I knew how to not lose anymore.

Somehow the name stuck across time and cities.

"Hey Rev, can you ...?" is how most conversations began.

Of course they gave me every bit as much as I gave them.

Once I wanted to gain entry to a private Republican function with lots of security to keep liberals and other non-believers out and standing on the outside I suddenly see someone I know staring me.

"Hey Rev," she calls wearing clean black pants and a crisp white shirt carrying a case of Scotch, "What in the world are you doing here?"

I explain and smiling she boasts, "I can get you in. Carry this!"

Thrusting the Scotch in my hands she orders, "Follow me."

Leading me to the service elevator we ride to the 3rd floor ballroom and ... I'm in ... standing face to face with Newt Gingrich ... who wants a drink.

"Anytime Rev," she says retrieving the Scotch and walks away.

It pays to be the Rev.

Actually I went from being merely "Rev" to "The Rev" when Chicago Bob so christened me on the Pier at Tybee during a "Bored" meeting.

Johnny O, Trolley Joe, Whitley Reynolds, Dean, Ohio Bob and Chicago Bob and I met on the Pier for cocktails, conversations and lots of lies every chance we had. Judy O, Johnny O's wife, thinks we're boring so she christened us "The Bored Meeting."

"Hey," Chicago Bob says sprinting across the Pier to the bar, "it's the Rev! You look great! Who's your mortician?"

Chicago Bob always thought he was funny and the rest of us play along with it.

So, on island, I'm "The Rev."

I don't have to do much.

There's the occasional wedding or funeral (I did both Chicago Bob's and Trolley Joe's on the same Pier) ... if no one can think of anything to say at a public function they'll call on me (unless a politicians around) ... plus I'm an occasional leader at Bar Church ... and people seek me out privately to counsel, lay on hands and pray or just sit and sip in silence because they need someone.

There's  no money in it but it can be as rewarding as Hell!

So I tell you all of that to tell you this.

My wife Sarah ... plays the piano.

The You Inside of Me

I studied my face in the mirror
And the lines are deeper these days
Cause the world is so full of sharp edges
And it cuts me in so many ways
But I’m hanging in and I hope you're not thinking
it's worse than it might appear
12:15 on New Year's Day
and I haven't shed a tear all year

I love the images of these lines from Jim Morris's song (12:15 on New Year's Eve).


They fit me these days.

Sometimes you can wear a song.

The lines on my face are deep right now.

The world has definitely left its marks.

Though I may look worse for the wear I'm still hanging in there.

I'm older than I used to be ... larger ... with thinner hair ... wounds take longer to heal ... and good friends have disappeared.

At the same time I'm as youthful in the way I approach things as ever ... I like the way I look ... my hair's as long as ever ... my wounds have scars ... and the friends I have are damn good ones.

I'm still regularly accused of being naïve ... romantic ... with incredibly unrealistic hopes.

Honestly, there are times I wonder about God and I ask questions out  loud.

Why the silence?

Where are you when I really need you?

"My God! My God! Why hast thou forsaken me?" you own son says as he dies deader than a doornail.

You can't be any quieter than when you're dead and maybe that's why Jesus went there ... to speak in the idiom of the other ... to communicate without words ... to embrace silence and meet God on Her own terms.

I don't want to take it quite that far ... though I am pretty quiet today ... staring at the lines on my face ... looking at the you inside of me.