was born and raised a Southern Baptist so I have a natural preference for the back row, the pew of choice for members of God's "frozen chosen."
Back when I was a "Professional Christian" in charge of a church, I took out the first twenty-four rows of pews so that everyone would move a little closer to the front.
It did not work.
The Back Row people would have nothing to do with it. They unscrewed their pews from the floor and moved them back to their regular location. This was after I'd done all of the hard work by unscrewing those damn screws in the first place. They'd been in that floor before Billy Graham could shave or Oral Roberts learned how to heal over the fly in his boxer shorts!
So if you can't beat them join them, right? I started preaching from the back row to be closer to the people.
This also did not go over well.
While Preachers think that the real action is behind the pulpit, it's really on the back rows. Couples are holding hands. Some have a hand on a thigh underneath a Sunday dress. Others are settling into the buzz that's hitting them while a few adjust their I-Pods.
There are "traditionalists" too who have magazines they're reading inside of their Bibles. Of course there are always those who just sleep and the Restaurant Rushers who are gonna beat everyone else to the buffet line (though lets be honest ... most are fat and lose the ground they've gained from being on the back row when they "sprint" from their car in the parking lot to the double wide doors).
I haven't thought about any of this in years ... until now.
God, Guy Sayles, my Mother, Bill Berry (not the former R.E.M. drummer but the other one that went to Seminary with me), Johnny O, each of my children Jeremy, his wife Marie, Kristen and Chelsea and Sam, Shirley Sessions, Jan Skutch, Terry Ball and ... a heavenly host of others ... are aghast!
I regularly attend church again.
No one ever saw this coming.
And I do it from the back row.
Of the band.
Playing rhythm guitar and occasionally hitting really good harmony notes, I've been moved around a lot but normally I'm back row ... behind Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, Dedra or "DeLuv" but only because she sucks up to Sam, and Sarah who is beautiful in her tight jeans and makes many a congregation member yell out ... "GLORY!"
It's OK. I like being on the back row with Davy, the drummer. We share secret jokes, do really cool stuff that nobody else can see, and stare at Sarah who is beautiful in her really tight jeans. GLORY!
Sean, the bass player, used to be on the back row with us and was really cool about it. He brought really groovy dance steps to the stuff that we were doing. But ... he sold out to corporate Christianity, pulled the trigger ... rode the bullet ... to the front row yesterday.
Davy and I merely looked at one another as he drummed and I played a brilliant rhythm guitar, shrugged our shoulders and acknowledged another lost soul.
Nevertheless ... Bar Church is happening. Then last night, God summoned me back to the Bar around 5 because Sam needed the guitar that I had. (You must understand that God talks to Samuel first then normally ... but not always .... Sam passes on to the rest of us whatever it was that God said. We're always surprised!).
So last night, I ended up on the back row of the band in the bar ... not to be confused with the Bar Church Band ... playing two sets of pagan music!
It was great.
There is a point to all of this ...
Mitch Wesley!
Eat your heart out.
Oh ...
and ...
GLORY!
Monday, January 9, 2012
Sunday, January 8, 2012
Zacchaeus
Speeding through the darkness of Highway 21 in Garden City we talked of injustice that had occurred in our lives. Not the gross sweeping social unfairness and greed, but the purposeful spite of some. Tears rolled down my face and when we stopped at the red light at Grumman Road, she wiped them away.
"Zacchaeus," I said out loud.
Knowingly, she nodded.
He was a "Publican", someone who cared about himself more than anyone else ... his race, his family, everything was about him. A lover of money and saving his own ass at everyone else's expense, he collected taxes from his fellow Hebrews for the occupying forces of the Romans. He was a Son-of-A-Bitch mercilessly taking money from his brothers and his sisters, swearing Pagan oaths ... whatever it took to get ahead. He care less who he stepped on, forced out and justice was a foreign concept to him. He just didn't care about anything other than himself.
For many years, I was blessed to work with great men and women: Ben Barnes, Carole Beason, Herb McKenzie, Philip Solomons, Archie Davis, Joe Daniel, Saul Rubin, John Carpenter and others.
Then one day, I didn't.
I worked with Zacchaeus.
He was fond of telling stories of how he got ahead.
A banker, he was known for arriving hours before the bank actually opened to prove that he was more than anyone else. His work hours became the stuff of legend. Co-workers asked how he did it? His supervisors took notice. His rank rose.
One morning, the President of the Bank decided to arrive in the wee hours of the morning to see for himself what the hard working Publican did. When he arrived, Zacchaeus was asleep at his desk.
When I heard the story it was delivered with laughter and boastfulness. It was the lone day that this had ever happened. In spite of it, his career continued.
Then one day, he noticed a loan that too large that had been granted and the interest payments were lagging behind. He drove to the farm of his customer to demand why payments were not being made. After long confrontations, he learned that the farmer was making no money, had fallen behind in everything, borrowed as much as he could so that his family that he loved so much would not know.
"Well, rules are rules," he was told. "We're going to have to foreclose."
That night the farmer committed suicide.
When I heard the story, he concluded by explaining, "I feel bad about it, but rules are rules."
That's the kind of man Zacchaeus is ... little, narrow, small ... yet determined to prove to everyone that he is superior, confident, always right ... especially when it comes to numbers and how things are to be done.
We were doomed together ... oil and water ... the Angel wrestling with Satan ... love and hate ... peace and war.
Except it didn't end in a draw, like in the Biblical story. The Son-of-A-Bitch won. There was nothing fair-and-square about it. It all happened in private meetings with his attorney Best Friend, phone calls made demands that couldn't possibly be met, flimsy reasons given and ... Zachaeus got what he wanted.
Just like he always does.
In the Biblical story, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to see what all the commotion was about. He had to. The crowd hated his guts for the things he'd done to them and would have beat the shit out of him.
Then Jesus looked at him and said, "I want to go your house."
Jesus would go most anywhere and he didn't care who he was seen with. That's one of the things that made him Jesus.
According to tradition, the little man saved himself in the end. Hung around Peter, went to Rome where the Romans that he'd collected all of that money for ... killed him. For some reason the Church recognizes him as a Martyr.
I wonder about the farmers and the peasants he pushed out of the way to climb that tree. The ones he'd taken money from. The ones who killed themselves because they couldn't pay. The penniless families that were left behind.
Finding a space in the airport parking lot, she looked at me and said, "I believe that it all comes around. In the end justice prevails.'
We sat in silence but love filled the car.
"I believe that too," I said.
Then we hugged in the darkness.
Zacchaeus though, is an usher at church this morning. Making his way to ... wherever the hell he wants to go.
"Zacchaeus," I said out loud.
Knowingly, she nodded.
He was a "Publican", someone who cared about himself more than anyone else ... his race, his family, everything was about him. A lover of money and saving his own ass at everyone else's expense, he collected taxes from his fellow Hebrews for the occupying forces of the Romans. He was a Son-of-A-Bitch mercilessly taking money from his brothers and his sisters, swearing Pagan oaths ... whatever it took to get ahead. He care less who he stepped on, forced out and justice was a foreign concept to him. He just didn't care about anything other than himself.
For many years, I was blessed to work with great men and women: Ben Barnes, Carole Beason, Herb McKenzie, Philip Solomons, Archie Davis, Joe Daniel, Saul Rubin, John Carpenter and others.
Then one day, I didn't.
I worked with Zacchaeus.
He was fond of telling stories of how he got ahead.
A banker, he was known for arriving hours before the bank actually opened to prove that he was more than anyone else. His work hours became the stuff of legend. Co-workers asked how he did it? His supervisors took notice. His rank rose.
One morning, the President of the Bank decided to arrive in the wee hours of the morning to see for himself what the hard working Publican did. When he arrived, Zacchaeus was asleep at his desk.
When I heard the story it was delivered with laughter and boastfulness. It was the lone day that this had ever happened. In spite of it, his career continued.
Then one day, he noticed a loan that too large that had been granted and the interest payments were lagging behind. He drove to the farm of his customer to demand why payments were not being made. After long confrontations, he learned that the farmer was making no money, had fallen behind in everything, borrowed as much as he could so that his family that he loved so much would not know.
"Well, rules are rules," he was told. "We're going to have to foreclose."
That night the farmer committed suicide.
When I heard the story, he concluded by explaining, "I feel bad about it, but rules are rules."
That's the kind of man Zacchaeus is ... little, narrow, small ... yet determined to prove to everyone that he is superior, confident, always right ... especially when it comes to numbers and how things are to be done.
We were doomed together ... oil and water ... the Angel wrestling with Satan ... love and hate ... peace and war.
Except it didn't end in a draw, like in the Biblical story. The Son-of-A-Bitch won. There was nothing fair-and-square about it. It all happened in private meetings with his attorney Best Friend, phone calls made demands that couldn't possibly be met, flimsy reasons given and ... Zachaeus got what he wanted.
Just like he always does.
In the Biblical story, Zacchaeus climbed a tree to see what all the commotion was about. He had to. The crowd hated his guts for the things he'd done to them and would have beat the shit out of him.
Then Jesus looked at him and said, "I want to go your house."
Jesus would go most anywhere and he didn't care who he was seen with. That's one of the things that made him Jesus.
According to tradition, the little man saved himself in the end. Hung around Peter, went to Rome where the Romans that he'd collected all of that money for ... killed him. For some reason the Church recognizes him as a Martyr.
I wonder about the farmers and the peasants he pushed out of the way to climb that tree. The ones he'd taken money from. The ones who killed themselves because they couldn't pay. The penniless families that were left behind.
Finding a space in the airport parking lot, she looked at me and said, "I believe that it all comes around. In the end justice prevails.'
We sat in silence but love filled the car.
"I believe that too," I said.
Then we hugged in the darkness.
Zacchaeus though, is an usher at church this morning. Making his way to ... wherever the hell he wants to go.
Saturday, January 7, 2012
What I Shall Be
In the middle of shagging last night with my carnival of friends, I lost my I-phone. It's probably on the floor of Doc's Bar. We'll see later. It's full of stuff that I want to keep, but who knows?
Life is that way.
Good times, surrounded by my best friends, with good music playing ... things just couldn't get better. Then almost immediately, something screws it up. I don't worry about too much anymore.
I used to.
Back in the day such stuff would send me over the edge and I'd blame the universe for bad things happening to me. I'd ask God, "Why am I being singled out? What did I do?" It was always someone else's fault!
It reminds me of John Lennon's description of the break-up of the Beatles. "It's your fault that you can't play the tambourine that everything went wrong!"
It's really hard to play a tambourine wrong.
The truth is what I did was drop my phone while I was dancing with the person I love. She's far more significant and it was heavenly. Going to heaven has its cost, I suppose. What's an I-phone when I was dancing with smile like that?
I'll go back to Doc's in a little bit and see if someone turned it up or decided to keep it. I've already called it a couple of times and made myself a mental note to change my voice mail greeting ... it sounds lame.
Last night at AJ's, where we had dinner, the obnoxious people who are my best friends were making fun of how old I am. I didn't take it personally. To quote Popeye, "I am what I am," ... which is pretty damn close to what God said to Noah after setting fire to a bush ... "I Am that I Am."
It's a funny word in Hebrew though. Like most Hebrew words, it can mean a lot of different things, though the 16 different versions of the King James English translations of the Bible pretty much keep it "I am that I am."
It also says, "I shall be what I shall be."
Just like God to always be moving forward.
That's one of the things I love about Hebrew, which is of course, God's chosen language (sorry every elected official in America, it's not English) ... there is no sense of time. I was what I was. I am what I am. I shall be what I shall be.
I've been a lot so far. I've been everywhere I've wanted to go ... well ... not Bora Bora or ... or Fiji ... or the great Barrier Reef ... but I'll get around to it.
You only live once.
I refuse to die without doing all of the things that I really was born to do.
I shall be what I shall be.
What I was last night ... was blissfully dancing with this smile on the dance floor of Doc's Bar. So what? The cost of touching heaven is an I-phone?
Today, I am what I am ... I-phone-less... but blissfully happy.
Tomorrow ... I shall be what I shall be ...
If I were you ...
I'd duck.
Life is that way.
Good times, surrounded by my best friends, with good music playing ... things just couldn't get better. Then almost immediately, something screws it up. I don't worry about too much anymore.
I used to.
Back in the day such stuff would send me over the edge and I'd blame the universe for bad things happening to me. I'd ask God, "Why am I being singled out? What did I do?" It was always someone else's fault!
It reminds me of John Lennon's description of the break-up of the Beatles. "It's your fault that you can't play the tambourine that everything went wrong!"
It's really hard to play a tambourine wrong.
The truth is what I did was drop my phone while I was dancing with the person I love. She's far more significant and it was heavenly. Going to heaven has its cost, I suppose. What's an I-phone when I was dancing with smile like that?
I'll go back to Doc's in a little bit and see if someone turned it up or decided to keep it. I've already called it a couple of times and made myself a mental note to change my voice mail greeting ... it sounds lame.
Last night at AJ's, where we had dinner, the obnoxious people who are my best friends were making fun of how old I am. I didn't take it personally. To quote Popeye, "I am what I am," ... which is pretty damn close to what God said to Noah after setting fire to a bush ... "I Am that I Am."
It's a funny word in Hebrew though. Like most Hebrew words, it can mean a lot of different things, though the 16 different versions of the King James English translations of the Bible pretty much keep it "I am that I am."
It also says, "I shall be what I shall be."
Just like God to always be moving forward.
That's one of the things I love about Hebrew, which is of course, God's chosen language (sorry every elected official in America, it's not English) ... there is no sense of time. I was what I was. I am what I am. I shall be what I shall be.
I've been a lot so far. I've been everywhere I've wanted to go ... well ... not Bora Bora or ... or Fiji ... or the great Barrier Reef ... but I'll get around to it.
You only live once.
I refuse to die without doing all of the things that I really was born to do.
I shall be what I shall be.
What I was last night ... was blissfully dancing with this smile on the dance floor of Doc's Bar. So what? The cost of touching heaven is an I-phone?
Today, I am what I am ... I-phone-less... but blissfully happy.
Tomorrow ... I shall be what I shall be ...
If I were you ...
I'd duck.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Marriage Rules
"Come on, take your shirt off!"
It was Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and is the founder of Bar Church. He breezed by as a man was on mission. I'm sitting in front of my computer for past three hours writing a business plan that will become the guts of numerous grants for an organization so it was time for a break.
He was already sitting in the warm January sunshine on the Beloved Back deck, long hair hanging around his shoulders, smiling at Fran's thousand shades of green who were gushing all over him.
Taking a seat, he flashed his million dollar smile and gave me a "High Five".
"What's Up?" he asked dripping with sincerity.
So I told him. It hadn't been the best of days, but I was somehow being productive anyway. Immediately he commencerated and told me that his had been a waste so far. "We're only given today anyway," he said giving me another High-Five.
As he did his cell phone buzzed. His cell phone is always buzzing and it reminded me of all of those years at Union Mission when mine never stopped. Now I mostly leave it on the counter and check it when I walk by. I'm no longer whipping it out like Gunslinger in the Old West before the first vibration has even had the change to cease.
"OK," Sam said. "We can do that. It'll be this afternoon."
Hanging up he explained that Bar Church is helping pay an electric bill for a waitress whose been sick and unable to work. A $300 Electric Bill would have her homeless in no time. "Pay the bill, the rent, food or the medicine?" are hard choices to make when you're sick. Luckily though, her daughters are school age so she can sleep while they are learning how to things differently.
"That OK?" Samuel asked in all seriousness.
"You kidding," I replied?
We High Fived again.
"Your Mom still want you to cut your hair," he laughed.
"Yep," I answered and we slapped hands yet again.
"Y'all still getting crazy mail?" he settled back again.
"I Corinthians 7:10 and 11," I said.
"ME TOO!" he laughed, shaking his head.
At a time when the early Christians were just getting started, St. Paul was pretty serious about the relatively small group staying bound together until Jesus could take over the world. They were far outnumbered by the Romans, Greeks, Jews, Pagans and those that didn't anything. Paul was one of those "safety-in-numbers" believers.
"We got to stick together gang," he told them. "So don't get divorced. Even if your husband is beating the shit out of you ... or your wife is emotionally torturing you ... stick it out for Jesus. It's more important to pretend like you're happy than it is to be happy. So ... 'a wife must not separate from her husband but if she does she must remain unmarried or reconcile with her husband. And a husband must not divorce his wife'."
It ended being an excellent strategy for the growth of early Christianity. The numbers grew, not so much much because of the rules ... but because of the fact that God was willing to break them. Leaving heaven to dwell among us, not acting like a God at all ... spreading love and forgiveness all around ... even to whores and politicians.
Of course, St. Paul was single. What does he know about marriage?
Besides he thought the world was coming to an end at any moment. Why bother starting over again?
Samuel and I discussed these things then gave another High Five.
He grabbed my guitar and showed me the songs that he wants to do in Bar Church this Sunday.
His cell phone buzzed again. He took the call. Looking at me, rolling his eyes with a devilish grin, he stood and told me that he has to go.
"I promised Bob that I would take him to visit his son who's in jail. Poor Bob's not going to be here much longer and he can't drive anymore."
And he left.
Grabbing my guitar, I sat on the Beloved Back Deck and played Fran several songs. I said some prayers. And sun shone on me ... like it shines brilliantly on Samuel and the rest of us sinners and screw ups who get up and keep trying in spite of it ... or what others say to us about it.
In spite of miraculous accomplishments, St. Paul made rules.
God breaks them.
It was Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island and is the founder of Bar Church. He breezed by as a man was on mission. I'm sitting in front of my computer for past three hours writing a business plan that will become the guts of numerous grants for an organization so it was time for a break.
He was already sitting in the warm January sunshine on the Beloved Back deck, long hair hanging around his shoulders, smiling at Fran's thousand shades of green who were gushing all over him.
Taking a seat, he flashed his million dollar smile and gave me a "High Five".
"What's Up?" he asked dripping with sincerity.
So I told him. It hadn't been the best of days, but I was somehow being productive anyway. Immediately he commencerated and told me that his had been a waste so far. "We're only given today anyway," he said giving me another High-Five.
As he did his cell phone buzzed. His cell phone is always buzzing and it reminded me of all of those years at Union Mission when mine never stopped. Now I mostly leave it on the counter and check it when I walk by. I'm no longer whipping it out like Gunslinger in the Old West before the first vibration has even had the change to cease.
"OK," Sam said. "We can do that. It'll be this afternoon."
Hanging up he explained that Bar Church is helping pay an electric bill for a waitress whose been sick and unable to work. A $300 Electric Bill would have her homeless in no time. "Pay the bill, the rent, food or the medicine?" are hard choices to make when you're sick. Luckily though, her daughters are school age so she can sleep while they are learning how to things differently.
"That OK?" Samuel asked in all seriousness.
"You kidding," I replied?
We High Fived again.
"Your Mom still want you to cut your hair," he laughed.
"Yep," I answered and we slapped hands yet again.
"Y'all still getting crazy mail?" he settled back again.
"I Corinthians 7:10 and 11," I said.
"ME TOO!" he laughed, shaking his head.
At a time when the early Christians were just getting started, St. Paul was pretty serious about the relatively small group staying bound together until Jesus could take over the world. They were far outnumbered by the Romans, Greeks, Jews, Pagans and those that didn't anything. Paul was one of those "safety-in-numbers" believers.
"We got to stick together gang," he told them. "So don't get divorced. Even if your husband is beating the shit out of you ... or your wife is emotionally torturing you ... stick it out for Jesus. It's more important to pretend like you're happy than it is to be happy. So ... 'a wife must not separate from her husband but if she does she must remain unmarried or reconcile with her husband. And a husband must not divorce his wife'."
It ended being an excellent strategy for the growth of early Christianity. The numbers grew, not so much much because of the rules ... but because of the fact that God was willing to break them. Leaving heaven to dwell among us, not acting like a God at all ... spreading love and forgiveness all around ... even to whores and politicians.
Of course, St. Paul was single. What does he know about marriage?
Besides he thought the world was coming to an end at any moment. Why bother starting over again?
Samuel and I discussed these things then gave another High Five.
He grabbed my guitar and showed me the songs that he wants to do in Bar Church this Sunday.
His cell phone buzzed again. He took the call. Looking at me, rolling his eyes with a devilish grin, he stood and told me that he has to go.
"I promised Bob that I would take him to visit his son who's in jail. Poor Bob's not going to be here much longer and he can't drive anymore."
And he left.
Grabbing my guitar, I sat on the Beloved Back Deck and played Fran several songs. I said some prayers. And sun shone on me ... like it shines brilliantly on Samuel and the rest of us sinners and screw ups who get up and keep trying in spite of it ... or what others say to us about it.
In spite of miraculous accomplishments, St. Paul made rules.
God breaks them.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
The Life of Words
You know it as soon as the words leave your mouth ... "Ooops! That was a stupid thing to say!" and normally it is. As much as you'd like to reach out and grab them before they hit the hears of who you're talking to ... once words are out, they're out. You can't take them back.
Sometimes the result can be glorious if the words are abrupt expressions of love, desire, friendship or utter honesty. Most often though, they are some reaction to what is taking place in front of you ... a fight with the significant other, a disagreement with a co-worker, audacity that the police officer pulled you over when people sped right past you, or you receive the bill at the restaurant and have sticker shock.
In Hebrew, words are not spoken ... they are born.
Luckily, the vast majority born are the mere function of communication. "Honey, do you want me to turn the heater up?" ... "Do I take or a right or a left at this intersection?" ... "Want to take the kids to McDonald's tonight?"
Holy words are sometimes born that refuse to die. "Four score and twenty years ago" ... "Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country" ... "Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself" ... and the holiest of words are "I love you."
The most meaningful words are the most basic of sentences. "I love you" ... "I can't stay anymore and am leaving" ... "We can do this!" ... "I hate you!" ... "Trust me!" ... "We'll make it" ... "I quit!" ... "We have each other."
Prayer are really just predicated on the most basic of words ... "Oh God!"
That's it!
Every other prayer ever uttered is really elaboration of this guttural, initial response to ... either something very, very bad ... or something very, very good. The rest of the prayers usually have a selfishness about them ... "Give me this" or "Take away that."
Sometimes there is no need for words. You just look and know. Eyes do the talking. Touches convey everything. Hearts say it all as they break ... or as they leap in joy.
It's best to be honest about it. In the last twelve hours, I've lived through ... and uttered ... each of the categories of words that are born.
In the last couple of years, I've either said or have heard ... every single phrase in each context described above.
This morning I sit her watching the sun rise over the ocean. The cold winds of the past several days are blowing elsewhere. Staring out of windows that need cleaning, I am quiet ... thoughtful ... praying without words ... not asking for anything but making a declaration of my faith.
"I believe."
Sometimes the result can be glorious if the words are abrupt expressions of love, desire, friendship or utter honesty. Most often though, they are some reaction to what is taking place in front of you ... a fight with the significant other, a disagreement with a co-worker, audacity that the police officer pulled you over when people sped right past you, or you receive the bill at the restaurant and have sticker shock.
In Hebrew, words are not spoken ... they are born.
Luckily, the vast majority born are the mere function of communication. "Honey, do you want me to turn the heater up?" ... "Do I take or a right or a left at this intersection?" ... "Want to take the kids to McDonald's tonight?"
Holy words are sometimes born that refuse to die. "Four score and twenty years ago" ... "Ask not what your country can do for you but what you can do for your country" ... "Love the Lord your God with all of your heart, soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself" ... and the holiest of words are "I love you."
The most meaningful words are the most basic of sentences. "I love you" ... "I can't stay anymore and am leaving" ... "We can do this!" ... "I hate you!" ... "Trust me!" ... "We'll make it" ... "I quit!" ... "We have each other."
Prayer are really just predicated on the most basic of words ... "Oh God!"
That's it!
Every other prayer ever uttered is really elaboration of this guttural, initial response to ... either something very, very bad ... or something very, very good. The rest of the prayers usually have a selfishness about them ... "Give me this" or "Take away that."
Sometimes there is no need for words. You just look and know. Eyes do the talking. Touches convey everything. Hearts say it all as they break ... or as they leap in joy.
It's best to be honest about it. In the last twelve hours, I've lived through ... and uttered ... each of the categories of words that are born.
In the last couple of years, I've either said or have heard ... every single phrase in each context described above.
This morning I sit her watching the sun rise over the ocean. The cold winds of the past several days are blowing elsewhere. Staring out of windows that need cleaning, I am quiet ... thoughtful ... praying without words ... not asking for anything but making a declaration of my faith.
"I believe."
Wednesday, January 4, 2012
Stuff
Sometimes stuff just get in the way of life.
There's the stupid stuff like cars that take forever to heat on a freezing morning, plants that you meant to bring in that you tenderly loved throughout the year that froze in the middle of the night, Jesus magnets that lose their staying power and drop to the floor off of the fridge, and leaks occurring in the house for no apparent reason.
There is also the valid stuff ... like why the United States has the most expensive health care in the world but rank 72nd worldwide in quality of care ... every damn member of Congress ... television weather women and men ... and Board Chairman who chose to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) cause they just can't let it go ... and the World Monetary Fund.
Then there is what is most important to me!
My wireless stopped working this morning.
The entire universe came to a screeching halt!
At 5:00 this morning I was lying in bed making the list of everything that I have to get done today. IT"S A LOT! It's all time sensitive. Albuquerque, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City and ... then there are these studuents in China that I've fallen in love who are starting Street Medicine Programs in a Communist with and Andrew in Africa has touched my heart as he tries to start these clinics for children who has nothing.
Then there is Chuck Courtenay who has raised Jesus from the dead in Nursing Homes.
Then there's Bar Church ... where if Jesus actually attended Church ... he'd stop by most Sundays ... not all Sunday's as he's extremely busy.
Anyway, I had to take Dedra to the airport for Street Medicine stuff and then rushed back home, loved the Goddess and fired up the computer ready to ROAR ...
Only to have technical difficulties. The Wifi didn't work. I was suddenly screwed.
But then I spent an hour and fifteen minutes talking to Alvaris in the Philippines ... where it is a hell of a lot warmer there than it is here ...
Then another hour with Morales from Costa Rica ... when I decided I hate technical support people. They all live where it's warm, women go topless on the beach, and they know more about computers than I'll ever know in my life!
It's all fixed now.
I spent so much time with Alvaris and Morales that we are all planning a vacation together soon.
But the Wifi works.
And I just here ... I don't know ... with a smile.
What else you need?
Ce La Vista.
There's the stupid stuff like cars that take forever to heat on a freezing morning, plants that you meant to bring in that you tenderly loved throughout the year that froze in the middle of the night, Jesus magnets that lose their staying power and drop to the floor off of the fridge, and leaks occurring in the house for no apparent reason.
There is also the valid stuff ... like why the United States has the most expensive health care in the world but rank 72nd worldwide in quality of care ... every damn member of Congress ... television weather women and men ... and Board Chairman who chose to remain anonymous (Jerry Rainy) cause they just can't let it go ... and the World Monetary Fund.
Then there is what is most important to me!
My wireless stopped working this morning.
The entire universe came to a screeching halt!
At 5:00 this morning I was lying in bed making the list of everything that I have to get done today. IT"S A LOT! It's all time sensitive. Albuquerque, Atlanta, New York, Philadelphia, Salt Lake City and ... then there are these studuents in China that I've fallen in love who are starting Street Medicine Programs in a Communist with and Andrew in Africa has touched my heart as he tries to start these clinics for children who has nothing.
Then there is Chuck Courtenay who has raised Jesus from the dead in Nursing Homes.
Then there's Bar Church ... where if Jesus actually attended Church ... he'd stop by most Sundays ... not all Sunday's as he's extremely busy.
Anyway, I had to take Dedra to the airport for Street Medicine stuff and then rushed back home, loved the Goddess and fired up the computer ready to ROAR ...
Only to have technical difficulties. The Wifi didn't work. I was suddenly screwed.
But then I spent an hour and fifteen minutes talking to Alvaris in the Philippines ... where it is a hell of a lot warmer there than it is here ...
Then another hour with Morales from Costa Rica ... when I decided I hate technical support people. They all live where it's warm, women go topless on the beach, and they know more about computers than I'll ever know in my life!
It's all fixed now.
I spent so much time with Alvaris and Morales that we are all planning a vacation together soon.
But the Wifi works.
And I just here ... I don't know ... with a smile.
What else you need?
Ce La Vista.
Tuesday, January 3, 2012
Ass Clowns
In my career, I stove to leave things better than I found them. The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel became this meca of activity to help the poor. Union Mission went from being a mere homeless shelter to an expansive array of services designed to put an end to it. Both were wildly successful ... and both had their enemies.'
It is hard to watch regression but I have. The Baptists kicked the Chapel out of its building. Union Mission tore itself asunder and continues to do so.
But I left both far better than I found them and that was all that I can do.
My work now is to help people and organizations ... make themselves better. To embrace curiosity. To stop looking backwards at what used to be ... to grab hold of change. These were the principals that make the Chapel and Union Mission were built upon only to have Ass Clowns drag them into the past.
On both Tybee Island where I live ... and throughout the world, this is becoming my work. I am not quite certain where it's taking me ... in fact I'm curious as hell about that ... but I know that I'm going. Because that's where God is.
It is hard to watch regression but I have. The Baptists kicked the Chapel out of its building. Union Mission tore itself asunder and continues to do so.
But I left both far better than I found them and that was all that I can do.
My work now is to help people and organizations ... make themselves better. To embrace curiosity. To stop looking backwards at what used to be ... to grab hold of change. These were the principals that make the Chapel and Union Mission were built upon only to have Ass Clowns drag them into the past.
On both Tybee Island where I live ... and throughout the world, this is becoming my work. I am not quite certain where it's taking me ... in fact I'm curious as hell about that ... but I know that I'm going. Because that's where God is.
Monday, January 2, 2012
Glorious
"You look terrible," Cheryl said as she crashed into the living room and plopped herself down between Sarah and me.
I felt terrible. After a great New Year's Eve night where we played in the band surrounded by the best of friends, someone planted a bomb inside of my head and blew my sinuses up.
While they talked, I took a hot shower and tried to breath.
"You look better," she said when I came out. "Let's go."
So we made our way to Marlin Monroe's for the Sunday afternoon Oyster Roast. The place was packed but Johnny O, Judy O, Julie-Just-Julia and Ronnie had saved us a table.
"Thanks for the introduction," Johnny O said as he waved at me with one finger.
I was to have introduced him in Bar Church that morning but cosmic events got in the way. My beautiful daughter Kristen kicked the door in yelling, "Why is there no parking on this damn island? Why is the Breakfast Club closed? Why are so many people trying to get into the sunrise? AND ... I've got boyfriend issues!!"
She sits on the side of the bed and lets it out.
We have breakfast.
Then that's about all I can accomplish so I fall asleep on the sofa, only to have Samuel Adams who plays damn good live music on the island, break into the house to wake me up. Monique is with him and tells me something about parking tickets. I have no idea what Sam was telling me but he was happy about whatever it was.
They leave and I fall back asleep until Cheryl breaks in.
Dedra broke in at some point. I was asleep so I don't know.
It's hard not to have a good time at Marlin's and we did, feasting on oysters, grouper, and a burger. I ask Johnny O if he'll give me away at the wedding which will either take place on a boat, in a back yard with tents, on the beach or ... in Vegas. Everyone seemed very opinionated about it.
Then it was back home to the sofa and I never mounted another rally but fitfully slept. The bomb planted inside of my head turned out to be a mind field and explosions occurred all night.
But I want to tell you something. This New Year's Day is so incredibly different from those in the past. I'm taken care of and fretted over. Love showers on me like soft summer rain. Laughter erupts often. Long thoughtful conversations take place as the future is planed. The Jesus magnets on the refrigerator hold new pictures in place that capture moments of happiness and joy. Little girls dance on it.
Even though I'm sick at the start of the New Year, I wouldn't trade it. Too many good things have happened last year that are the foundation of all of the better things that are happening this year.
"What we need," someone said at Marlin's, "is a party."
"On a cruise ship," someone else said.
"Let's go to St. Augustine," was next.
"Or Vegas."
I smile and hold a hand under the table struck by the wonderfulness of it all. Like everyone else there are things to get through, unpleasantness to contend with, work issues, disapproving people, Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous ... and exploding sinuses!
It's glorious though ... simply glorious.
I felt terrible. After a great New Year's Eve night where we played in the band surrounded by the best of friends, someone planted a bomb inside of my head and blew my sinuses up.
While they talked, I took a hot shower and tried to breath.
"You look better," she said when I came out. "Let's go."
So we made our way to Marlin Monroe's for the Sunday afternoon Oyster Roast. The place was packed but Johnny O, Judy O, Julie-Just-Julia and Ronnie had saved us a table.
"Thanks for the introduction," Johnny O said as he waved at me with one finger.
I was to have introduced him in Bar Church that morning but cosmic events got in the way. My beautiful daughter Kristen kicked the door in yelling, "Why is there no parking on this damn island? Why is the Breakfast Club closed? Why are so many people trying to get into the sunrise? AND ... I've got boyfriend issues!!"
She sits on the side of the bed and lets it out.
We have breakfast.
Then that's about all I can accomplish so I fall asleep on the sofa, only to have Samuel Adams who plays damn good live music on the island, break into the house to wake me up. Monique is with him and tells me something about parking tickets. I have no idea what Sam was telling me but he was happy about whatever it was.
They leave and I fall back asleep until Cheryl breaks in.
Dedra broke in at some point. I was asleep so I don't know.
It's hard not to have a good time at Marlin's and we did, feasting on oysters, grouper, and a burger. I ask Johnny O if he'll give me away at the wedding which will either take place on a boat, in a back yard with tents, on the beach or ... in Vegas. Everyone seemed very opinionated about it.
Then it was back home to the sofa and I never mounted another rally but fitfully slept. The bomb planted inside of my head turned out to be a mind field and explosions occurred all night.
But I want to tell you something. This New Year's Day is so incredibly different from those in the past. I'm taken care of and fretted over. Love showers on me like soft summer rain. Laughter erupts often. Long thoughtful conversations take place as the future is planed. The Jesus magnets on the refrigerator hold new pictures in place that capture moments of happiness and joy. Little girls dance on it.
Even though I'm sick at the start of the New Year, I wouldn't trade it. Too many good things have happened last year that are the foundation of all of the better things that are happening this year.
"What we need," someone said at Marlin's, "is a party."
"On a cruise ship," someone else said.
"Let's go to St. Augustine," was next.
"Or Vegas."
I smile and hold a hand under the table struck by the wonderfulness of it all. Like everyone else there are things to get through, unpleasantness to contend with, work issues, disapproving people, Board Chairs who choose to remain anonymous ... and exploding sinuses!
It's glorious though ... simply glorious.
Sunday, January 1, 2012
A Very Happy New Year's Day
Why are Church services being held on New Year's Day?
This is lunacy!
Who's capable of real worship when they're so hung over and tired?
Never mind ... that's most people on Sunday mornings.
I really wouldn't care except that Johnny O is "preaching" at Bar Church this morning. His wife Judy O has already said she's not going. This is confusing as I think that Sarah and I are supposed to play in the band. Dedra will surely be there. I have no idea about Sean and Wen.
The last time I saw them was a few hours ago when Dedra slowed down to 35 Miles-per-hour and threw us out of her van in front of our house.
We had a good time though. We were in the band last night for the New Year's Eve celebration at Bernie's. Unlike the disastrous Christmas Eve concert ... last night we were pretty good. We did two sets and ended with "Free Bird". Cheryl stood and swayed with her Bic lighter.
Sarah looked incredibly hot as the lead singer. Sean is cool as always. Gordon had on a tuxedo. Johnny O was throwing drum sticks at people. Samuel Adams played lead and told the rest of us what God had told him to tell us. I danced and played guitar at the same time.
The place was packed! And they were happy, singing along and enjoying the music.
Of course they were also drunk. It could have been Alvin and the Chipmunks and they would have loved it.
Nevertheless, I am sitting here with a hot towel on my head, on the Beloved Back Deck with Goddess. It is almost seventy degrees, I'm wearing a UGA tee shirt and nothing else, bouncing around Face Book. The coffee can't go down fast enough.
Somehow I am scheduled today. How in the hell did that happen? First there is Johnny O at Bar Church. Then there is the Polar Bear Plunge at noon (ok to all of my dear friends who are freezing there asses right now, I need to say ... HA!). Then I think we obligated ourselves to return to the scenes of last night's crimes for leftovers though that part is fuzzy.
What I do know is that this year is already far better than last year.
Or the one before that ... and even the one before that!
I was talking to my kids the other day. All three of them expressed the same thought. "Hey Dad, we just want you to be happy."
They'd witnessed all of those years of me giving it all away. Helping the homeless and the rich who have screwed up kids ... playing the game with politicians who just take far more than they give ... kissing funder's asses and sharing camera time with the reporter who wanted the interview.
Anyway ... I told Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... I'm very happy!
For the first time, in a long, long time.
I hope you are too.
Happy New Year!
This is lunacy!
Who's capable of real worship when they're so hung over and tired?
Never mind ... that's most people on Sunday mornings.
I really wouldn't care except that Johnny O is "preaching" at Bar Church this morning. His wife Judy O has already said she's not going. This is confusing as I think that Sarah and I are supposed to play in the band. Dedra will surely be there. I have no idea about Sean and Wen.
The last time I saw them was a few hours ago when Dedra slowed down to 35 Miles-per-hour and threw us out of her van in front of our house.
We had a good time though. We were in the band last night for the New Year's Eve celebration at Bernie's. Unlike the disastrous Christmas Eve concert ... last night we were pretty good. We did two sets and ended with "Free Bird". Cheryl stood and swayed with her Bic lighter.
Sarah looked incredibly hot as the lead singer. Sean is cool as always. Gordon had on a tuxedo. Johnny O was throwing drum sticks at people. Samuel Adams played lead and told the rest of us what God had told him to tell us. I danced and played guitar at the same time.
The place was packed! And they were happy, singing along and enjoying the music.
Of course they were also drunk. It could have been Alvin and the Chipmunks and they would have loved it.
Nevertheless, I am sitting here with a hot towel on my head, on the Beloved Back Deck with Goddess. It is almost seventy degrees, I'm wearing a UGA tee shirt and nothing else, bouncing around Face Book. The coffee can't go down fast enough.
Somehow I am scheduled today. How in the hell did that happen? First there is Johnny O at Bar Church. Then there is the Polar Bear Plunge at noon (ok to all of my dear friends who are freezing there asses right now, I need to say ... HA!). Then I think we obligated ourselves to return to the scenes of last night's crimes for leftovers though that part is fuzzy.
What I do know is that this year is already far better than last year.
Or the one before that ... and even the one before that!
I was talking to my kids the other day. All three of them expressed the same thought. "Hey Dad, we just want you to be happy."
They'd witnessed all of those years of me giving it all away. Helping the homeless and the rich who have screwed up kids ... playing the game with politicians who just take far more than they give ... kissing funder's asses and sharing camera time with the reporter who wanted the interview.
Anyway ... I told Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea ... I'm very happy!
For the first time, in a long, long time.
I hope you are too.
Happy New Year!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
The Family
I was dancing with Sarah, Judy and Wen and we were in Doc's Bar.
I can multitask with the best of them.
We were in a huddle of sorts, arms around each other and swaying to Roy singing "Beach Music" songs.
It's a warm Spring night on the next to the last day year and the "family" is celebrating.
We started off at Bernie's so we could listen to Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, do an acoustic set. It didn't last. Gordon Hill, who plays the best mouth harp ever, showed up and joined him. The family sat there laughing and enjoying one another.
Then for some reason we lost our collective minds and wandered into the "Geriatric Ward" also known as Doc's. But the music is good and the drinks are cheap and we danced.
What a year it's been!
Last year at this time United States Homeland Security forced me to leave St. Martin and spend New Year's Eve at home. I was in a perpetual state of shock. But ... the family was coming together then. Cheryl, Jodee, Johnny O and Judy O, Dedra, Samuel and of course Sarah ... throughout the year we were born.
The actual birth was the week after my birthday in Julie when they all threw a birthday party, the likes of which the island has never seen ... and that's saying a lot given this island!!
Since then ... it's been this moveable feast!
God have we had fun!
Then we adopted Seana and Wen ... maybe they adopted us ... who cares ... they're in!
It's not all about the parties though. The changes that we have been through ... and the ones we are still going through ... well those are the ties that bind us all. Every single one of us is either going through or has just been through ... deep shit.
But God we love each other!
And God has given us ... NOW.
And She has given us one another ... NOW.
And sometimes you know when God is being active.
So ... on behalf of the family I want to thank God!
I love these people with everything inside of me.
I can multitask with the best of them.
We were in a huddle of sorts, arms around each other and swaying to Roy singing "Beach Music" songs.
It's a warm Spring night on the next to the last day year and the "family" is celebrating.
We started off at Bernie's so we could listen to Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee Island, do an acoustic set. It didn't last. Gordon Hill, who plays the best mouth harp ever, showed up and joined him. The family sat there laughing and enjoying one another.
Then for some reason we lost our collective minds and wandered into the "Geriatric Ward" also known as Doc's. But the music is good and the drinks are cheap and we danced.
What a year it's been!
Last year at this time United States Homeland Security forced me to leave St. Martin and spend New Year's Eve at home. I was in a perpetual state of shock. But ... the family was coming together then. Cheryl, Jodee, Johnny O and Judy O, Dedra, Samuel and of course Sarah ... throughout the year we were born.
The actual birth was the week after my birthday in Julie when they all threw a birthday party, the likes of which the island has never seen ... and that's saying a lot given this island!!
Since then ... it's been this moveable feast!
God have we had fun!
Then we adopted Seana and Wen ... maybe they adopted us ... who cares ... they're in!
It's not all about the parties though. The changes that we have been through ... and the ones we are still going through ... well those are the ties that bind us all. Every single one of us is either going through or has just been through ... deep shit.
But God we love each other!
And God has given us ... NOW.
And She has given us one another ... NOW.
And sometimes you know when God is being active.
So ... on behalf of the family I want to thank God!
I love these people with everything inside of me.
Friday, December 30, 2011
Not Like It is Now
Wearing several layers of clothes, a three day beard on his face and alcohol on his breath he entered the Bank of America building on Johnson Square in downtown Savannah. Immediately after walking through the doors, he took a left upstairs to the second floor where the Executive offices are located. There is a Bullpen of large oak secretary desks with pretty secretaries sitting at them.
"May I help you Sir," one suspiciously asked.
In truth she was familiar with suspicious looking men entering the Trust Department to meet with Joe Daniel, her boss, so that he could manage their money.
The homeless looking man said nothing. He took another left in front of the second office and walked inside.
Joe was sitting at his desk, chewing tobacco, spitting into a silver chalice with his initials engraved on it.
Startled, because he was used to keeping people waiting until he was ready for them, Joe looked up from what he was doing, spit in cup and said in a shaky voice, "May I help you?"
The man just stood their staring at him.
"Can I help you?" he heard the secretary ask outside.
Then another man wearing several layers walked inside and stood beside the first one. He stank and had stains of dried mud in his hair. He said nothing.
"Can I help you?" Joe asked repeating what the secretary had just asked.
Then a third walked in ... a fourth ... a fifth ... a sixth
The exasperated secretary looked over her shoulder. Everyone who worked in the Trust Department of the Bank of America were huddled in a corner preparing themselves for the robbery ... or the murder that was about to happen. She called Security.
A seventh homeless man entered the room. Most menacing of all, he wore a dirty black Trench coat and carried a wooden club. The Secretary stared at him and before she could ask, he held a finger to his lips ordering her to stay quiet.
She left her desk and hugged the huddle of co-workers in the corner.
Strolling into Joe's office, the seven were complete. Joe was gripping the arms of his chair, staring wondering what was going to happen.
Then it did.
"Happy Birthday," the seven sang in unison. "Happy Birthday. Gloom and Doom your life is done. Happy Birthday."
Wide eyed Joe sat there staring.
When they'd finished the birthday greeting, they filed out one at a time. Silent. Never speaking another word other than the macabre singing of "Happy Birthday."
When the seventh one left. I entered.
"Hey Joe!" I said with glee.
He was sitting there sweating and looking like a ghost.
"Gotcha!"
He called me a Son-of-a-Bitch as I left.
He was the President of the Union Mission Board of Directors at the time. I was the CEO. We played jokes on each other. It was my turn to get him ... and I did.
And that's the way it used to be.
It's not that way anymore ... and that is sad.
Joe called me recently and we told all of the old stories. We laughed a lot. He asked about the assholes who run things now. I told him that they are meaningless people. We made promises to get together which we may or may not keep. Life has moved on.
But before it did ... it was something. We built a lot. More were helped. We cared about each other more than we cared about ourselves. We laughed a lot. We played jokes and broke rules ... and changed a city.
Not like it is now.
"May I help you Sir," one suspiciously asked.
In truth she was familiar with suspicious looking men entering the Trust Department to meet with Joe Daniel, her boss, so that he could manage their money.
The homeless looking man said nothing. He took another left in front of the second office and walked inside.
Joe was sitting at his desk, chewing tobacco, spitting into a silver chalice with his initials engraved on it.
Startled, because he was used to keeping people waiting until he was ready for them, Joe looked up from what he was doing, spit in cup and said in a shaky voice, "May I help you?"
The man just stood their staring at him.
"Can I help you?" he heard the secretary ask outside.
Then another man wearing several layers walked inside and stood beside the first one. He stank and had stains of dried mud in his hair. He said nothing.
"Can I help you?" Joe asked repeating what the secretary had just asked.
Then a third walked in ... a fourth ... a fifth ... a sixth
The exasperated secretary looked over her shoulder. Everyone who worked in the Trust Department of the Bank of America were huddled in a corner preparing themselves for the robbery ... or the murder that was about to happen. She called Security.
A seventh homeless man entered the room. Most menacing of all, he wore a dirty black Trench coat and carried a wooden club. The Secretary stared at him and before she could ask, he held a finger to his lips ordering her to stay quiet.
She left her desk and hugged the huddle of co-workers in the corner.
Strolling into Joe's office, the seven were complete. Joe was gripping the arms of his chair, staring wondering what was going to happen.
Then it did.
"Happy Birthday," the seven sang in unison. "Happy Birthday. Gloom and Doom your life is done. Happy Birthday."
Wide eyed Joe sat there staring.
When they'd finished the birthday greeting, they filed out one at a time. Silent. Never speaking another word other than the macabre singing of "Happy Birthday."
When the seventh one left. I entered.
"Hey Joe!" I said with glee.
He was sitting there sweating and looking like a ghost.
"Gotcha!"
He called me a Son-of-a-Bitch as I left.
He was the President of the Union Mission Board of Directors at the time. I was the CEO. We played jokes on each other. It was my turn to get him ... and I did.
And that's the way it used to be.
It's not that way anymore ... and that is sad.
Joe called me recently and we told all of the old stories. We laughed a lot. He asked about the assholes who run things now. I told him that they are meaningless people. We made promises to get together which we may or may not keep. Life has moved on.
But before it did ... it was something. We built a lot. More were helped. We cared about each other more than we cared about ourselves. We laughed a lot. We played jokes and broke rules ... and changed a city.
Not like it is now.
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Great Expectations (Or Not)
"What are you wearing" my boss Russell Bennett asked me?
Shrugging my shoulders I replied, "I dunno."
"You are not going to embarrass us," he chided. "I've seen the way you dress. Blue jeans with a coat and tie in the pulpit. Tennis shoes! It's just not acceptable!"
"I'll find something," I said turning.
"Come with me now," he commanded and he drug me to some store in downtown Louisville where I was measured for my first three-piece suit. I had not worn a suite since I was eleven. Russell was pissing me off.
"You would have wandered down in the clothes closet where you give out stuff to homeless people and found one," he said as the man stuck one end of a tape measure against my crotch.
It was true that the clothes closets was jammed packed with suits for homeless people. As a matter of fact, more suits are donated to the homeless than any other article of clothing. They have really wide lapels and some are even crushed velvet. These are just the things that people need to get out of homelessness.
Several days later, he took me back to get the suit.
The reason is I'd been asked to be a key speaker at the Annual Meeting of the Women's Missionary Union of the Southern Baptist Convention ... at the Southern Baptist Convention. Russell was determined that I meet his expectations and look the part.
So I bought an ear ring.
When I showed up to give the speech, a diamond stud was in my earlobe. There's a picture of me somewhere waiting to on stage in front of several thousand people wearing the suit, the ear ring and a really big grin.
Then God said it was "Show Time" and we took the stage. The guy sitting next to me was speaking right before me. He was a foreign missionary or something. He kept staring at the ring in my ear. Then he got up and gave one of the most boring speeches ever given in the history of the world.
Have you ever watched hundreds of people fall asleep at the same time? It is something to see!
Then I got up, ear ring and all, and God liked me that day. I talked about the poor and how they are God's gift to us so that we may be kind to them. I told stories of my friends Chester who used to live in a garbage dump and of Pouche who lived in alley ways.
And applause came. At first it was a sprinkle. Then it was a roar. Finally it was thunderous. And the thunder continued. Seven times they stood and I stood there not quite knowing what to do. I'd go to say something but the noise was too much so I stood until they sat and then I said something else then it started all over again.
To this day I can see the face of one member of the Women's Missionary Union ... Pillbox Hat and fine blue dress suit, smiling from several rows out as she clapped. The lights were so bright it was hard to see much anything but I could see her with halos surrounding her head.
Afterwards, I remember my friend Bert Breland being pissed because he thought that he should have been the one giving the speech and not me. I also remember Guy Sayles running across the room to bear hug me and throw me around like a rag doll.
Later Russell came up to me shaking his head with a smirk on his face.
"You had to do it didn't you," he asked. "Look at your shoes for God's sake!"
I looked down. Beneath the three piece suit was a pair of black patient leather shoes with massive gold leafs on them and argyle socks. I'd gotten them out of the clothes closet.
He grabbed the ear ring from my ear.
As this was happening, lots of people were coming up and patting me on the back, giving me hugs and asking for my card which of course I had none.
As Russell turned to walk away, I asked, "What? I didn't live up to expectations?"
He shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Shrugging my shoulders I replied, "I dunno."
"You are not going to embarrass us," he chided. "I've seen the way you dress. Blue jeans with a coat and tie in the pulpit. Tennis shoes! It's just not acceptable!"
"I'll find something," I said turning.
"Come with me now," he commanded and he drug me to some store in downtown Louisville where I was measured for my first three-piece suit. I had not worn a suite since I was eleven. Russell was pissing me off.
"You would have wandered down in the clothes closet where you give out stuff to homeless people and found one," he said as the man stuck one end of a tape measure against my crotch.
It was true that the clothes closets was jammed packed with suits for homeless people. As a matter of fact, more suits are donated to the homeless than any other article of clothing. They have really wide lapels and some are even crushed velvet. These are just the things that people need to get out of homelessness.
Several days later, he took me back to get the suit.
The reason is I'd been asked to be a key speaker at the Annual Meeting of the Women's Missionary Union of the Southern Baptist Convention ... at the Southern Baptist Convention. Russell was determined that I meet his expectations and look the part.
So I bought an ear ring.
When I showed up to give the speech, a diamond stud was in my earlobe. There's a picture of me somewhere waiting to on stage in front of several thousand people wearing the suit, the ear ring and a really big grin.
Then God said it was "Show Time" and we took the stage. The guy sitting next to me was speaking right before me. He was a foreign missionary or something. He kept staring at the ring in my ear. Then he got up and gave one of the most boring speeches ever given in the history of the world.
Have you ever watched hundreds of people fall asleep at the same time? It is something to see!
Then I got up, ear ring and all, and God liked me that day. I talked about the poor and how they are God's gift to us so that we may be kind to them. I told stories of my friends Chester who used to live in a garbage dump and of Pouche who lived in alley ways.
And applause came. At first it was a sprinkle. Then it was a roar. Finally it was thunderous. And the thunder continued. Seven times they stood and I stood there not quite knowing what to do. I'd go to say something but the noise was too much so I stood until they sat and then I said something else then it started all over again.
To this day I can see the face of one member of the Women's Missionary Union ... Pillbox Hat and fine blue dress suit, smiling from several rows out as she clapped. The lights were so bright it was hard to see much anything but I could see her with halos surrounding her head.
Afterwards, I remember my friend Bert Breland being pissed because he thought that he should have been the one giving the speech and not me. I also remember Guy Sayles running across the room to bear hug me and throw me around like a rag doll.
Later Russell came up to me shaking his head with a smirk on his face.
"You had to do it didn't you," he asked. "Look at your shoes for God's sake!"
I looked down. Beneath the three piece suit was a pair of black patient leather shoes with massive gold leafs on them and argyle socks. I'd gotten them out of the clothes closet.
He grabbed the ear ring from my ear.
As this was happening, lots of people were coming up and patting me on the back, giving me hugs and asking for my card which of course I had none.
As Russell turned to walk away, I asked, "What? I didn't live up to expectations?"
He shook his head and disappeared into the crowd.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Landing In Trouble
"You need to cut your hair. Stop hanging around that group of people. And don't do what you're doing," she said in an exasperated voice.
I pondered the words before replying.
"Mom that's the exact same thing you told me when I was seventeen."
It's true. At seventeen I had really long hair, hung around people that my parents did not approve of and was in a serious relationship with an older woman (Ginny was a Senior. I was a Junior).
At seventeen, I was mostly in trouble. So much so that it became one of my life's guiding principals. If I wasn't in trouble about something or the other, then I must not be doing something right. So in High School I got in trouble. In college I got in trouble. In Seminary, I got in serious trouble. At the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, where I was employed as a Professional Christian, I was forever being written up. And at Union Mission, there were lots of lectures, Letters-to-the-Editor and Tom Barton Editorials informing the world of the troubles I was in.
It's all come full circle.
I'm in trouble with my Mom again.
My hair is longer than it's been in years (what's left of it anyway), I hang around a tight group of suspicious friends ... and I'm in a relationship with a Junior to my Senior (though neither words are defined the same now as it was then).
Over the past two years, Mom and I have spoken almost daily. Everything about my life changed and like all good Mom's, she swooped into help her oldest child. Then I went on a Sabbatical to put the past in perspective and to plan the future and she was my confidant along the way. She encouraged and she chided. She gave suggestions that were perfect and others that were ignored. Yet we were together all along the way.
Then it started happening.
New patterns started to develop. "Why are you doing that?" became the first thing said in many of our conversations.
In other parts of my life, I struggled to answer that question. I'd fumble words, try to find logic, be politically correct or ... just grow silent. I'd crumble to the heaviness of the expectations of others to be ... whatever it was they thought I should be. I'd conform when I knew better.
I have no problems answering the question anymore.
I'm following my heart.
And following your heart always lands you in trouble.
I pondered the words before replying.
"Mom that's the exact same thing you told me when I was seventeen."
It's true. At seventeen I had really long hair, hung around people that my parents did not approve of and was in a serious relationship with an older woman (Ginny was a Senior. I was a Junior).
At seventeen, I was mostly in trouble. So much so that it became one of my life's guiding principals. If I wasn't in trouble about something or the other, then I must not be doing something right. So in High School I got in trouble. In college I got in trouble. In Seminary, I got in serious trouble. At the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel, where I was employed as a Professional Christian, I was forever being written up. And at Union Mission, there were lots of lectures, Letters-to-the-Editor and Tom Barton Editorials informing the world of the troubles I was in.
It's all come full circle.
I'm in trouble with my Mom again.
My hair is longer than it's been in years (what's left of it anyway), I hang around a tight group of suspicious friends ... and I'm in a relationship with a Junior to my Senior (though neither words are defined the same now as it was then).
Over the past two years, Mom and I have spoken almost daily. Everything about my life changed and like all good Mom's, she swooped into help her oldest child. Then I went on a Sabbatical to put the past in perspective and to plan the future and she was my confidant along the way. She encouraged and she chided. She gave suggestions that were perfect and others that were ignored. Yet we were together all along the way.
Then it started happening.
New patterns started to develop. "Why are you doing that?" became the first thing said in many of our conversations.
In other parts of my life, I struggled to answer that question. I'd fumble words, try to find logic, be politically correct or ... just grow silent. I'd crumble to the heaviness of the expectations of others to be ... whatever it was they thought I should be. I'd conform when I knew better.
I have no problems answering the question anymore.
I'm following my heart.
And following your heart always lands you in trouble.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Looking Forward
"Looking forward, all that I can see is good things happening to you and me ... I want to live like a free roaming soul on the highway of our love."
The wooden music of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fill this Christmas Eve morning on the Beloved Back Deck. A fire is in the Chimania to knock off the slight chill of the morning. The ocean sings carols of Good "Tides" of Joy and Cheer. All is calm and bright this morning. Goddess loves the fire and snuggles next to it.
Aromas of stew cooking fill the house on the other side of the sliding glass doors. Inside Christmas music is softly playing. The tree is lit with colored lights and the kids stocking hang though they themselves are all scattered to and fro on the face of the earth. It is a warm and inviting view and it is only slightly warmer inside than out but the sun is just starting to climb above the Palm Trees.
Last night night we went wassailing, meaning that we went to a gathering of dear friends though we didn't do any caroling. So we did shots instead. There was a spread befit of good King Wenceslas, story telling, gift giving and ... then "da kiddies" got drunk and caused a scene but what's Christmas without a little drama. But then again we live on an island. There's drama everywhere.
This morning is holy and bright. It's the first time in seven years that I've been here for Christmas and ... it's nice. I miss St. Martin and my friends there. I could use the additional twenty degrees that is there but this is pretty damn nice too.
I think God sees all of this and decides to say something to me. So it was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young that pops up on Pandora on this glorious Christmas Eve, with a fire blowing smoke, and they bring prophetic greetings from on high.
"Looking forward all that I can see is good things happening to you and me ... I want to live like a free roaming soul on the highway of our love."
Then the sliding glass doors burst open and the roaming soul hits the road.
The wooden music of Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young fill this Christmas Eve morning on the Beloved Back Deck. A fire is in the Chimania to knock off the slight chill of the morning. The ocean sings carols of Good "Tides" of Joy and Cheer. All is calm and bright this morning. Goddess loves the fire and snuggles next to it.
Aromas of stew cooking fill the house on the other side of the sliding glass doors. Inside Christmas music is softly playing. The tree is lit with colored lights and the kids stocking hang though they themselves are all scattered to and fro on the face of the earth. It is a warm and inviting view and it is only slightly warmer inside than out but the sun is just starting to climb above the Palm Trees.
Last night night we went wassailing, meaning that we went to a gathering of dear friends though we didn't do any caroling. So we did shots instead. There was a spread befit of good King Wenceslas, story telling, gift giving and ... then "da kiddies" got drunk and caused a scene but what's Christmas without a little drama. But then again we live on an island. There's drama everywhere.
This morning is holy and bright. It's the first time in seven years that I've been here for Christmas and ... it's nice. I miss St. Martin and my friends there. I could use the additional twenty degrees that is there but this is pretty damn nice too.
I think God sees all of this and decides to say something to me. So it was Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young that pops up on Pandora on this glorious Christmas Eve, with a fire blowing smoke, and they bring prophetic greetings from on high.
"Looking forward all that I can see is good things happening to you and me ... I want to live like a free roaming soul on the highway of our love."
Then the sliding glass doors burst open and the roaming soul hits the road.
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Riding the Christmas Wave
For years ... decades really ... I was in charge of planning the holidays for hundreds of people. Hundreds of volunteers and sponsors were involved. It started several weeks before Thanksgiving and ended the day after New Year's. It was a crazy whirlwind of activity! To be honest Thanksgiving was more for the volunteers than the people with no place to go. So the volunteers were thankful but the homeless were still homeless.
I do love the Old Savannah City Mission's handling of Thanksgiving because they are clever enough to understand that it is really this incredible marketing opportunity. They feed thousands of people in the park who may or may not be hungry. Thousands of volunteers show up. It is a great photo op! Now that's smart. The Mission is thankful the rest of the year.
Christmas was worse. The birth of the Savior means everybody cares about the poor for a couple of weeks and are very intense about it. The givers are cheerful because for once during the year they are actually doing what God commands them to do ... be cheerful givers ... to the poor. Such cheerfulness just make the poor feel worse about things. Depression grows. The suicide rate climbs. Santa Claus doesn't visit everybody. But the cheerful givers are blessed.
One Christmas night I was leaving the "celebration"we'd had. In the Grace House laundry room I heard a noise. It was like a fight. Alarmed, I fiddled with my keys until I found the right one, stuck it in the knob and opened the door as quickly as possible.
The homeless man was making love to the homeless woman on top of the dryer.
"Hey Rev" he said without pausing. She said hello too.
How does one respond?
"Merry Christmas!" and I shut the door and let them ... celebrate.
By the time New Year's rolls around all of the cheerful givers have given out ... except for my dear friend Chuck Courtenay, the famous musician. He'd put on a New Year's Eve party for the homeless playing songs with his lovely wife Vicky grabbing them to dance. He brought food and those were the best nights. Everyone was feeling the same thing. Last year sucked! God I hope next year is better! Let's dance!
{Chuck. I never thanked you enough. Thank you.}
Then I just couldn't do anymore. I burned out on trying to make it all special for everybody. I'm not Norman Rockwell though I love his paintings of the ways that things should be ... but they're not. It took me a long time to learn that.
By this time there were enough people for me to pass things over to ... so I did. And I went to St. Martin. Christmas was white sand, aqua blue/green water, Trade Winds over the reef, Santa hats and steel drums. The cell phone rang with a lot with people wanting me to make decisions on the Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's celebrations back home.
And I did ... but I had no more heart to give. It was all gone ... but once you give you heart ... people keep wanting it .. and if they don't give you theirs ... then you wake up one day and realize that yours is gone.
This year is different.
I'm riding the Christmas wave.
Dolphins jump behind me in the brown Tybee waters that make our seafood taste better than anyone else's. I'm not in St. Martin. I'm not in the homeless shelters. I'm sitting under Fran's thousand shades of green with the ocean singing loud songs.
But yesterday, I was in the nursing home playing guitar with the Samuel Adams band. We'd given everyone Harmonicas and old people in wheelchairs where sucking in and blowing out and ... smiling and singing and crying. I played in front of a woman trying to blow and sing and laugh at the same time. Grabbing her hand I said, "Let's Dance!"
She was in her wheelchair.
"Nobody's asked me in years," she said with tears of happiness.
So we danced.
And so this is Christmas.
It is small and intimate ... tiny and thoughtful ... humble and holy ... little ... like a baby in manger.
My friend Wen took a picture. I am leaning over dancing and smiling. The old woman sits in wheelchair flashing the joy of Christmas on her face.
Were he still alive ... Norman Rockwell would paint this.
I do love the Old Savannah City Mission's handling of Thanksgiving because they are clever enough to understand that it is really this incredible marketing opportunity. They feed thousands of people in the park who may or may not be hungry. Thousands of volunteers show up. It is a great photo op! Now that's smart. The Mission is thankful the rest of the year.
Christmas was worse. The birth of the Savior means everybody cares about the poor for a couple of weeks and are very intense about it. The givers are cheerful because for once during the year they are actually doing what God commands them to do ... be cheerful givers ... to the poor. Such cheerfulness just make the poor feel worse about things. Depression grows. The suicide rate climbs. Santa Claus doesn't visit everybody. But the cheerful givers are blessed.
One Christmas night I was leaving the "celebration"we'd had. In the Grace House laundry room I heard a noise. It was like a fight. Alarmed, I fiddled with my keys until I found the right one, stuck it in the knob and opened the door as quickly as possible.
The homeless man was making love to the homeless woman on top of the dryer.
"Hey Rev" he said without pausing. She said hello too.
How does one respond?
"Merry Christmas!" and I shut the door and let them ... celebrate.
By the time New Year's rolls around all of the cheerful givers have given out ... except for my dear friend Chuck Courtenay, the famous musician. He'd put on a New Year's Eve party for the homeless playing songs with his lovely wife Vicky grabbing them to dance. He brought food and those were the best nights. Everyone was feeling the same thing. Last year sucked! God I hope next year is better! Let's dance!
{Chuck. I never thanked you enough. Thank you.}
Then I just couldn't do anymore. I burned out on trying to make it all special for everybody. I'm not Norman Rockwell though I love his paintings of the ways that things should be ... but they're not. It took me a long time to learn that.
By this time there were enough people for me to pass things over to ... so I did. And I went to St. Martin. Christmas was white sand, aqua blue/green water, Trade Winds over the reef, Santa hats and steel drums. The cell phone rang with a lot with people wanting me to make decisions on the Thanksgiving/Christmas/New Year's celebrations back home.
And I did ... but I had no more heart to give. It was all gone ... but once you give you heart ... people keep wanting it .. and if they don't give you theirs ... then you wake up one day and realize that yours is gone.
This year is different.
I'm riding the Christmas wave.
Dolphins jump behind me in the brown Tybee waters that make our seafood taste better than anyone else's. I'm not in St. Martin. I'm not in the homeless shelters. I'm sitting under Fran's thousand shades of green with the ocean singing loud songs.
But yesterday, I was in the nursing home playing guitar with the Samuel Adams band. We'd given everyone Harmonicas and old people in wheelchairs where sucking in and blowing out and ... smiling and singing and crying. I played in front of a woman trying to blow and sing and laugh at the same time. Grabbing her hand I said, "Let's Dance!"
She was in her wheelchair.
"Nobody's asked me in years," she said with tears of happiness.
So we danced.
And so this is Christmas.
It is small and intimate ... tiny and thoughtful ... humble and holy ... little ... like a baby in manger.
My friend Wen took a picture. I am leaning over dancing and smiling. The old woman sits in wheelchair flashing the joy of Christmas on her face.
Were he still alive ... Norman Rockwell would paint this.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
The Light of Arthus (Winter Solstice)
It is the longest night of the year. The Winter Solstice or as the Druids named it "The Light of Arthur" the time of death and rebirth. At one point in his life King Arthur pulled the sword out of the stone and Camelot was born. Later, he stuck it back in and we've been waiting on Camelot ever since.
The sun, and the light in our lives, seems to be going away. The Druid prayer is "Cast away, O man and woman, whatever impedes the appearance of light." In the darkness, they believe that light will come again. A candle is lit symbolizing this belief ... Things will get better. It can't stay this bad.
Jews light Hanukkah candles.
Christians light Christmas Trees to chase the darkness away.
It's funny, Jesus was born in the Spring but the early Church knew that the Druids were onto something so ... to symbolize the "Light of the World" entering the Darkness and lighting our lives ... they moved his birthday to the Winter Solstice time.
All of that to say, I am sitting at the Breakfast Club with my friend Whitley sipping coffee. He looks at me and, "Tomorrow the days start getting longer."
I stop reading the Savannah Morning News and stare at him.
Politically, Whitley is far right of Attila the Hun and Ronald Reagan immediately assented to heaven prior to his death. That is normally what Whitely talks about. I ignore him most of the time (unless we're on our bicycles together ... then it is a different story).
Seeing my confused, questioning face, he says, "Today is Winter Solstice."
Who knew Whitley is a Druid?
For a lot of people I know, this year has sucked.
The economy remained in an Outhouse. Political leadership (an oxymoron!) got worse! Relationships went to hell. Jobs were lost. Everyone who had a certain amount set aside for retirement lost 40% of what they had. The rich got richer. The poor got poorer.
We talk about it we all so want better days ahead.
So ... Happy Winter Solstice. This is the end of the worse of it all. Arthur returns to the stone and pulls it out again. Camelot returns. The days grow longer and in the words of one of the greatest Hymns of all time ... "Here Comes the Sun."
The Druids did the funniest thing to express their convictions in believing that better days are upon us. On the darkest, longest and coldest night of the year ... they entered the woods, took off their clothes ... and danced.
Just like lighting the candle ... they showed what they believed in spite of the realities of what is around them.
I love the Druids.
Just like the Jews.
Just like the Christians.
And in my house, Goddess and I have the lit tree, lighted candles, and ... we dance.
The sun, and the light in our lives, seems to be going away. The Druid prayer is "Cast away, O man and woman, whatever impedes the appearance of light." In the darkness, they believe that light will come again. A candle is lit symbolizing this belief ... Things will get better. It can't stay this bad.
Jews light Hanukkah candles.
Christians light Christmas Trees to chase the darkness away.
It's funny, Jesus was born in the Spring but the early Church knew that the Druids were onto something so ... to symbolize the "Light of the World" entering the Darkness and lighting our lives ... they moved his birthday to the Winter Solstice time.
All of that to say, I am sitting at the Breakfast Club with my friend Whitley sipping coffee. He looks at me and, "Tomorrow the days start getting longer."
I stop reading the Savannah Morning News and stare at him.
Politically, Whitley is far right of Attila the Hun and Ronald Reagan immediately assented to heaven prior to his death. That is normally what Whitely talks about. I ignore him most of the time (unless we're on our bicycles together ... then it is a different story).
Seeing my confused, questioning face, he says, "Today is Winter Solstice."
Who knew Whitley is a Druid?
For a lot of people I know, this year has sucked.
The economy remained in an Outhouse. Political leadership (an oxymoron!) got worse! Relationships went to hell. Jobs were lost. Everyone who had a certain amount set aside for retirement lost 40% of what they had. The rich got richer. The poor got poorer.
We talk about it we all so want better days ahead.
So ... Happy Winter Solstice. This is the end of the worse of it all. Arthur returns to the stone and pulls it out again. Camelot returns. The days grow longer and in the words of one of the greatest Hymns of all time ... "Here Comes the Sun."
The Druids did the funniest thing to express their convictions in believing that better days are upon us. On the darkest, longest and coldest night of the year ... they entered the woods, took off their clothes ... and danced.
Just like lighting the candle ... they showed what they believed in spite of the realities of what is around them.
I love the Druids.
Just like the Jews.
Just like the Christians.
And in my house, Goddess and I have the lit tree, lighted candles, and ... we dance.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Oh "Tides" of Comfort and Joy
Standing on the beloved back deck, the ocean is roaring a few blocks away and I'm mesmerized by the sound. The tide is high and "Blondie" lyrics are running through my head. "The tide is high but I'm rolling on. You're gonna be my number one, my number one."
It's a beautiful December day with bright sunshine and temperature pushing 70. I'm barefoot staring at the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. "This is the way that winter should be," I think to myself. To hell with Christmas snow!"
I stare through the sliding glass doors at the Christmas tree on the other end of the house with it's colored lights and am struck by the contrast ... Palm Tree? ... Christmas Tree? ...
As if that merits serious consideration.
This will be the first Christmas in seven years that I spend in the United States. The rest have been spent on St. Martin and I have countless messages from my dear friends there asking when I'm arriving. White Christmas there means sand. The powdery kind. With warm Trade Winds kissing the reef before the aqua blue/green water kisses the shore. Normally, I'm standing there with my feet in that place where the water ends, sunk into the wet sand, beer in hand, I-Pod blasting in my ears, nodding at passerby's wearing Santa hats but nothing else.
Now that's Christmas!
"Seven years" I think to myself as the waves continue to sing and the sun continues to beam.
Seven times seven.
The Year of Jubilee.
Before God got around to thinking about having a son and birthing Christmas, the celebration was the year of Jubilee. It's Old Testament stuff. Slaves were set free because in the end God doesn't believe in slavery. Land that had been bought or stolen or confiscated by the government was returned to the original over (and it all started again.) Everybody got the chance to start over.
It all started when someone would blow into a Ram's horn and, I imagine, all hell broke lose! It was the forerunner of Christmas morning when presents are ripped open. Back then, it was everything about the way that you'd been living was ripped opened. You were re-born and got back the things you'd lost. Being owned by someone was obliterated because you were set free. There was dancing in the street.
God's greatest gift came in the Year of Jubilee ... the chance to start over.
From bad relationships ... meaningless jobs ... unfulfilling places ... discrimination ... unrealistic expectations ... people you don't really like ... people who don't really like you ... marriages that no longer do anything for either ... from not not forgiving yourself.
If you follow God's logic here (and She never has to logical because ... she's God for God's sake!), Jesus was born and Christmas was created so that we could all be forgiven for all of the mean things that we do to ourselves and each other whenever it's NOT the Year of Jubilee!
These things run through my mind as I listen to roar of the waves, in bare feet, with sunshine washing my skin golden.
Last year at this time it was 23 degrees with a Twenty-five knot wind blowing from the northeast. I was freezing, lonely and sad. I fled to another Christmas in the Caribbean.
I'm not doing that this year (though I will be going back sometime).
I don't need to.
The Tides are telling me that this is the Year of Jubilee.
Tides of Comfort and Joy.
It's a beautiful December day with bright sunshine and temperature pushing 70. I'm barefoot staring at the Palm Tree with the oyster face, coconut bra and grass skirt. "This is the way that winter should be," I think to myself. To hell with Christmas snow!"
I stare through the sliding glass doors at the Christmas tree on the other end of the house with it's colored lights and am struck by the contrast ... Palm Tree? ... Christmas Tree? ...
As if that merits serious consideration.
This will be the first Christmas in seven years that I spend in the United States. The rest have been spent on St. Martin and I have countless messages from my dear friends there asking when I'm arriving. White Christmas there means sand. The powdery kind. With warm Trade Winds kissing the reef before the aqua blue/green water kisses the shore. Normally, I'm standing there with my feet in that place where the water ends, sunk into the wet sand, beer in hand, I-Pod blasting in my ears, nodding at passerby's wearing Santa hats but nothing else.
Now that's Christmas!
"Seven years" I think to myself as the waves continue to sing and the sun continues to beam.
Seven times seven.
The Year of Jubilee.
Before God got around to thinking about having a son and birthing Christmas, the celebration was the year of Jubilee. It's Old Testament stuff. Slaves were set free because in the end God doesn't believe in slavery. Land that had been bought or stolen or confiscated by the government was returned to the original over (and it all started again.) Everybody got the chance to start over.
It all started when someone would blow into a Ram's horn and, I imagine, all hell broke lose! It was the forerunner of Christmas morning when presents are ripped open. Back then, it was everything about the way that you'd been living was ripped opened. You were re-born and got back the things you'd lost. Being owned by someone was obliterated because you were set free. There was dancing in the street.
God's greatest gift came in the Year of Jubilee ... the chance to start over.
From bad relationships ... meaningless jobs ... unfulfilling places ... discrimination ... unrealistic expectations ... people you don't really like ... people who don't really like you ... marriages that no longer do anything for either ... from not not forgiving yourself.
If you follow God's logic here (and She never has to logical because ... she's God for God's sake!), Jesus was born and Christmas was created so that we could all be forgiven for all of the mean things that we do to ourselves and each other whenever it's NOT the Year of Jubilee!
These things run through my mind as I listen to roar of the waves, in bare feet, with sunshine washing my skin golden.
Last year at this time it was 23 degrees with a Twenty-five knot wind blowing from the northeast. I was freezing, lonely and sad. I fled to another Christmas in the Caribbean.
I'm not doing that this year (though I will be going back sometime).
I don't need to.
The Tides are telling me that this is the Year of Jubilee.
Tides of Comfort and Joy.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Staying Away from My Past
One of the funny things about Face Book is how easy it is to connect with people who meant something to you even if it was just for a brief time. Yesterday, out of nowhere, was an instant message from Marv. Years ago, I was in my office at Union Mission working ... music blasting from the radio, he walked in for his appointment.
"You like Santana," he asked?
And it was indeed Carlos Santana's "Shaman" filling the room.
"I do," I replied as he took his seat.
Marv sat down smiling and said, "I do too."
So the both of us just sat there and listened to really good music together.
That is what I remember about Marv. He was homeless, living in Grace House, and we grooved to Santana that day. If he ever got around to asking me for anything I don't remember what it was.
Anyway, out of the blue yesterday, he was messaging me on Facebook reminding me of then. He's doing fine now, living in Effingham County, married and with kids and happy. He wished me well and I wished him well and that was that.
Earlier in the day Ben Barnes, former God of banking, Union Mission Board member and dear friend, and I talked on the phone. He'd been trying to track me down for days but I've been lying low ... staying away from my past. He began telling me of a visit to Union Mission because his wife Bettye had been asked to do something and I interrupted him.
"Hey Ben, lets not go there. That was then. This is now. I'd rather talk about now."
There was silence for several seconds before he asked if I've talked to Herb or Philip.
"No," I told him, "but my daughter Chelsea just graduated from the University of Georgia." Then he moved on to telling me about his grandsons and we made plans to get together next week.
Then Marv wrote. And Henry sent me a You Tube video of George Carlin's "Dealing with Homelessness" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNHIETXh4Vw). Then Kenneth sent me a message. Jimmie showed up at Bar Church yesterday where I was preaching.
These are all people who used to be homeless but aren't anymore. I knew them then and I know them now. They are very intentional about staying in touch. So are a lot of people who are still homeless. They go to the library, wait until a computer is available, log onto Face Book and get around to messaging me.
They make me talk about then ... but from a "now" point of view.
Our lives were intensely intertwined. It took a lot of people to make Union the incredible thing that it was. I had deep relationships with hundreds of people. Some said I was like a "son to them". They've gone away. So have the people I worked with. They're busy with their own lives and making things that were once whole separate. And the politicians are all busy looking after their own opportunities for "continued service" and I'm no longer in a position to assist them so I don't hear from them.
But the homeless people remain.
They remain relentless.
Though I can no longer do the things that I used to do, they remember when I could.
And they let me know.
And it is humbling when they do.
And it teaches me a lot about people who really are good ... and people who are not.
"You like Santana," he asked?
And it was indeed Carlos Santana's "Shaman" filling the room.
"I do," I replied as he took his seat.
Marv sat down smiling and said, "I do too."
So the both of us just sat there and listened to really good music together.
That is what I remember about Marv. He was homeless, living in Grace House, and we grooved to Santana that day. If he ever got around to asking me for anything I don't remember what it was.
Anyway, out of the blue yesterday, he was messaging me on Facebook reminding me of then. He's doing fine now, living in Effingham County, married and with kids and happy. He wished me well and I wished him well and that was that.
Earlier in the day Ben Barnes, former God of banking, Union Mission Board member and dear friend, and I talked on the phone. He'd been trying to track me down for days but I've been lying low ... staying away from my past. He began telling me of a visit to Union Mission because his wife Bettye had been asked to do something and I interrupted him.
"Hey Ben, lets not go there. That was then. This is now. I'd rather talk about now."
There was silence for several seconds before he asked if I've talked to Herb or Philip.
"No," I told him, "but my daughter Chelsea just graduated from the University of Georgia." Then he moved on to telling me about his grandsons and we made plans to get together next week.
Then Marv wrote. And Henry sent me a You Tube video of George Carlin's "Dealing with Homelessness" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PNHIETXh4Vw). Then Kenneth sent me a message. Jimmie showed up at Bar Church yesterday where I was preaching.
These are all people who used to be homeless but aren't anymore. I knew them then and I know them now. They are very intentional about staying in touch. So are a lot of people who are still homeless. They go to the library, wait until a computer is available, log onto Face Book and get around to messaging me.
They make me talk about then ... but from a "now" point of view.
Our lives were intensely intertwined. It took a lot of people to make Union the incredible thing that it was. I had deep relationships with hundreds of people. Some said I was like a "son to them". They've gone away. So have the people I worked with. They're busy with their own lives and making things that were once whole separate. And the politicians are all busy looking after their own opportunities for "continued service" and I'm no longer in a position to assist them so I don't hear from them.
But the homeless people remain.
They remain relentless.
Though I can no longer do the things that I used to do, they remember when I could.
And they let me know.
And it is humbling when they do.
And it teaches me a lot about people who really are good ... and people who are not.
Sunday, December 18, 2011
God and Each Other
Back in the day I was a preacher. Inexplicably I was in charge of a church and in the end we ended up doing all right. We turned Sunday School rooms into apartments so homeless people could move inside, turned the Baptismal Pool into a bathtub and had the "Bob Dylan" pew.
There were a lot of Dylan fans who came so they sang together during the hymns mimicked his singing style. So "Amazing Grace" came out like Dylan would sing it.
"Ah...MAZ...ing Grace ... how sweet .... the sound."
They were hilarious.
We also danced in the aisles, played lots of unplugged hymns way before MTV launched "Unplugged" and once a year we'd close the church and go on a retreat. I'd always hang a "Go Fishing" on the front door of the church while we were gone.
Towards the end of my time there, I got invited to a lot of places to preach. Once in Knoxville, Tennessee after I'd finished a woman stood up in the middle of the congregation, crying and wailing. She said something about how everybody should listen as the Gospel had finally been preached.
I was never invited back.
Another time in Kansas City, I was in the middle of my sermon when this man yelled out, "THE POOR WILL BE WITH YOU ALWAYS!"
To which I said, "Finish the verse."
He didn't say anything.
"The poor will be with you always so that you can help them ...but you won't always have me."
I was never invited back.
I don't preach much any more. Now I give speeches and honestly I'm giving less and less of them. But this morning I'm preaching at Bar Church. I think this is my third or forth time. We meet in a bar and the bands really good. There's a brunch for those who have don't have much. The congregation is this rag-tag collection of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together ... though most know what everybody else did on Saturday night.
There are no pews, carpet, baptismal pool or even a cross hanging anywhere. We do have really cool tee shirts though.
It reminds me of something my favorite writer of all time Frederick Buechner once said, "They make you wonder if the best thing that could happen to many a church might not be to have its building burn down and to lose all its money. Then all that the people would have left would be God and each other" (Listening to Your Life, Harper, 1992).
That's all we got at Bar Church ... God and each other.
Oh ... and really good music.
There were a lot of Dylan fans who came so they sang together during the hymns mimicked his singing style. So "Amazing Grace" came out like Dylan would sing it.
"Ah...MAZ...ing Grace ... how sweet .... the sound."
They were hilarious.
We also danced in the aisles, played lots of unplugged hymns way before MTV launched "Unplugged" and once a year we'd close the church and go on a retreat. I'd always hang a "Go Fishing" on the front door of the church while we were gone.
Towards the end of my time there, I got invited to a lot of places to preach. Once in Knoxville, Tennessee after I'd finished a woman stood up in the middle of the congregation, crying and wailing. She said something about how everybody should listen as the Gospel had finally been preached.
I was never invited back.
Another time in Kansas City, I was in the middle of my sermon when this man yelled out, "THE POOR WILL BE WITH YOU ALWAYS!"
To which I said, "Finish the verse."
He didn't say anything.
"The poor will be with you always so that you can help them ...but you won't always have me."
I was never invited back.
I don't preach much any more. Now I give speeches and honestly I'm giving less and less of them. But this morning I'm preaching at Bar Church. I think this is my third or forth time. We meet in a bar and the bands really good. There's a brunch for those who have don't have much. The congregation is this rag-tag collection of people who normally wouldn't be caught dead together ... though most know what everybody else did on Saturday night.
There are no pews, carpet, baptismal pool or even a cross hanging anywhere. We do have really cool tee shirts though.
It reminds me of something my favorite writer of all time Frederick Buechner once said, "They make you wonder if the best thing that could happen to many a church might not be to have its building burn down and to lose all its money. Then all that the people would have left would be God and each other" (Listening to Your Life, Harper, 1992).
That's all we got at Bar Church ... God and each other.
Oh ... and really good music.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Bar Church Magic (Practice)
It is a warm and pleasant December evening. Stars blaze in the pitch black sky above the vast dark ocean with its waves singing in the night. We pull into the parking lot on Izlar Street which is just off the "Combat Zone" of Tybee Island. One block away, the highest concentration of bars and tee shirt shops lay in wait for party people but here on this little quiet lane there is a sanctuary from the craziness of night time beach living.
Reaching inside of the car I pull out my guitar. At one time I was pretty good. Then I took a thirty year vacation from it. When my friend Mitch Wesley showed up last year, he shammed me into retrieving it from the back of the closet where it rested. We played old songs and my fingers were so sore.
Then Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee along with Gordon Hill, insisted that God had told him to tell me to start playing at Bar Church. I think God talks to Sam more than She does the rest of us. She's forever telling him to not play that verse, add a solo where there hadn't been one before or invite me to say something on the spot. Of course, God doesn't tell the rest of us any of this, so ... we just try to follow Samuel.
This has been going on for weeks now. Ever since the beloved Dawgs of Georgia were slayed by the Philistines of Louisiana, we've been pretty steady in Bar Church. And we've been in the band! My fingers have now calloused over and every week they seem to remember things that they used to do.
God had told Sam to tell the rest of us to do something that we'd never done before ... practice.
So we all showed up at his house. God also told Sam to take a shower before we got there and he evidently enjoyed it so much he remained until the hot water ran out ... leaving us pounding on the door. He had sofas on his porch so I was pretty cool about it all. I sat on the couch and waited. You can't rush God ... or Sam.
Eventually he let us in. Dedra immediately disappeared into back to participate in some holy smoke. There's a lot of holy stuff in Sam's house. We tuned guitars and put music in order. Sarah searched for her notes. As soon as we started playing, Sean and Wren showed up with cupcakes. You can't have a religious service without the breaking of the bread.
God had told Sam to tell Sean to play bass in the band. Sean had no choice. {Mitch Wesley, on the other hand, doesn't listen to God since he retired.}
As soon as we started to play, Davy the drummer rushed in screaming and scaring the Holy Ghost right out of all of us. Nevertheless, the band was assembled for its first practice. Well ... except for Gordon ... and Joe ... and Jean-Marie who obviously opted out of listening to God.
Then we launched into the first song, which will be the last song at Bar Church tomorrow. As soon as we started, God started telling Sam stuff and Sam actually passed it on to the rest of us. "Start here. End there. Everybody sing this." So we listened and the first time we did it like God had told Sam for us to do it ... it was magic.
We recognized it as it was happening. I looked at Sean who was looking at me and smiled. Sarah and I exchanged winks. Davy pounded away. Nobody was certain what Dedra was doing. Sam was smiling as he played with his eyes closed apparently still in conversation with God about the order of the service.
God suddenly told Sam to tell us to take a break. So we did. Sam went to the computer and started transferring money. I told myself to bring Sam my stock investments so that God could tell him to tell me what to do to maximize those babies.
It was back to practice after the money-changers had finished. Though Davy either had spontaneously combusted playing the drums or been called to heaven. Either way, he wasn't there anymore. Then it was cupcake time which was followed by a carnivore's delight.
We came home happy, fully prepared and knowing what we're going to do in Bar Church tomorrow.
Well ... until God tells Sam to tell us what we're really going to do.
Reaching inside of the car I pull out my guitar. At one time I was pretty good. Then I took a thirty year vacation from it. When my friend Mitch Wesley showed up last year, he shammed me into retrieving it from the back of the closet where it rested. We played old songs and my fingers were so sore.
Then Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on Tybee along with Gordon Hill, insisted that God had told him to tell me to start playing at Bar Church. I think God talks to Sam more than She does the rest of us. She's forever telling him to not play that verse, add a solo where there hadn't been one before or invite me to say something on the spot. Of course, God doesn't tell the rest of us any of this, so ... we just try to follow Samuel.
This has been going on for weeks now. Ever since the beloved Dawgs of Georgia were slayed by the Philistines of Louisiana, we've been pretty steady in Bar Church. And we've been in the band! My fingers have now calloused over and every week they seem to remember things that they used to do.
God had told Sam to tell the rest of us to do something that we'd never done before ... practice.
So we all showed up at his house. God also told Sam to take a shower before we got there and he evidently enjoyed it so much he remained until the hot water ran out ... leaving us pounding on the door. He had sofas on his porch so I was pretty cool about it all. I sat on the couch and waited. You can't rush God ... or Sam.
Eventually he let us in. Dedra immediately disappeared into back to participate in some holy smoke. There's a lot of holy stuff in Sam's house. We tuned guitars and put music in order. Sarah searched for her notes. As soon as we started playing, Sean and Wren showed up with cupcakes. You can't have a religious service without the breaking of the bread.
God had told Sam to tell Sean to play bass in the band. Sean had no choice. {Mitch Wesley, on the other hand, doesn't listen to God since he retired.}
As soon as we started to play, Davy the drummer rushed in screaming and scaring the Holy Ghost right out of all of us. Nevertheless, the band was assembled for its first practice. Well ... except for Gordon ... and Joe ... and Jean-Marie who obviously opted out of listening to God.
Then we launched into the first song, which will be the last song at Bar Church tomorrow. As soon as we started, God started telling Sam stuff and Sam actually passed it on to the rest of us. "Start here. End there. Everybody sing this." So we listened and the first time we did it like God had told Sam for us to do it ... it was magic.
We recognized it as it was happening. I looked at Sean who was looking at me and smiled. Sarah and I exchanged winks. Davy pounded away. Nobody was certain what Dedra was doing. Sam was smiling as he played with his eyes closed apparently still in conversation with God about the order of the service.
God suddenly told Sam to tell us to take a break. So we did. Sam went to the computer and started transferring money. I told myself to bring Sam my stock investments so that God could tell him to tell me what to do to maximize those babies.
It was back to practice after the money-changers had finished. Though Davy either had spontaneously combusted playing the drums or been called to heaven. Either way, he wasn't there anymore. Then it was cupcake time which was followed by a carnivore's delight.
We came home happy, fully prepared and knowing what we're going to do in Bar Church tomorrow.
Well ... until God tells Sam to tell us what we're really going to do.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)