What's wrong with crying?

Roy Orbison sang about "Crying."

I actually do it.

Getting it naturally from my Dad who easily cried after surviving a rough start in life, the horrors of war, watching his best friends die ... it left him ... "tear friendly."

He wept like Jesus wept.

Passing his tear ducts on, salt water flows easily from my eyes.

Here's an example.

We were watching "American Idol" ... often reason enough to cry ... when a commercial came on and the song was familiar so I grabbed my I-phone and found Zach Sobiech's magnificent "Clouds"

Zach was 17 when he was dying of cancer trying to figure out to say goodbye to everyone so he wrote a song that got recorded and took on a life of it's on as he lost his.

As I played it on Youtube, Sarah's 7 year old Cassidy crawls in my lap, lays her head on my shoulder and as we watch together ... my tears flow freely.

"Give Mike a hug," Sarah says from the sofa, "he's crying."

American society holds the value that tears are signs of weakness.

I think a lot of American society is bullshit because if Jesus wept then he's apparently as un-American as they come.

My Dad the Marine Prisoner of War too!

I believe it's healthier to cry ... to let your emotions out and not bottle things up inside.

Dr. Judith Orloff concludes, "Typically, after crying, our breathing, and heart rate decreases, and we enter into a calmer biological and emotional state."

That sounds pretty healthy to me.

It's a shame the world ... American society, John Wayne, the Die-Hard movies, Chris Rock, the modern church (not Jimmy Swaggart but Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes), and most everybody elected to public office ... frowns on crying.

Tear ducts were given to us by God and are every bit as important as lungs, eyes, hearts, passion, intellect, penises and vaginas!

I try to use all of my gifts from God.

What about you?

Tidings of Comfort and Joy

The Palm tree with the oyster shell eyes and coconut bra is wearing a grass skirt again.

Winter winds blew the old one away and she's been standing there bottomless until this morning.

Sarah brought a bunch of them so the next time her skirt's blown off we're prepared!

Last night my dear friend Terry Ball was over for dinner and afterwards we took a stroll around the island to catch up.

Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it, was hosting "Open Mike" night at Bernie's.

"That Sam," I point to Terry as we walk.

"Where's Bar Church?"

"There in the Bar," I answer Terry and lead side where the place is happening because Sam's owning it and everyone's having a blast!

"Where's Sarah? Where's your guitar? Y'all doing Bar Church Sunday?" he rapidly fires questions while hugging me on stage and several people in the audience join us.

Bar Church isn't confined to Sundays.

Leaving the madness Terry and I wander down to "Doc's Bar" for Monty Parks and the acoustic jam which is where I spend most Tuesday evenings as part of a family of dysfunctional musicians.

We share our talents or lack thereof, tell stories, sing songs and make a different kind of church together ... a pure one where people simply share what they have without asking for much in return.

Not hanging around, I introduce Terry and we slide back into the darkness making our way to the beach reminding ourselves of 30 years of friendship.

Strolling by "Stingrays", Jason Courtenay has a large crowd in the palms of his guitar playing hands wailing out country blues.

"Is this a normal Tuesday night" Terry asks.

"It's Spring Break somewhere," I answer, "and a lot of them come here."

By now we're making our way passed "Tybee Island Social Club" where an acoustic player is singing while the band sets up.

"You should go there," I say. "It's good. The Bluegrass Brunch on Sunday's is better than church."

When God decided to announce to the world he was having a son ... he sent musicians.

"Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and singing 'Glory to God in the Highest ..." (Luke 2:13).

I believe God has a "preferential option" for musicians.

That's why She send a Heavenly Band to deliver the tidings of comfort and joy to the world.

Alas, preachers have tried to talk this down ever since but if you read the first couple of chapters of the Gospel of Luke ... everybody's singing.

Mary gets knocked up and breaks out in a song with some of the best lyrics ever written.

John the Baptist's Dad did the same thing.

When Jesus was born it was a whole damn band bringing the news.

"Wow!" Terry said as we make our way in the darkness.

"Exactly," I smile throwing my arm over his shoulder.

The Oppression of Divorce

When I returned to Savannah I was asked to conduct the marriage of a High School friend at one of the City's old historic churches.

He was divorced as was his bride.

Standing there in the black robe I bought for $10 from a Preacher going out of business I quoted Holocaust survivor and Nobel Laureate Eli Wiesel.

"God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

And the Bride and Groom cried because they had the chance ... and they were taking it.

Afterwards they thanked me for pointing out the Elephant in the room by acknowledging their divorces and still believing in love.

I remember walking through the moss draped Square after the service thinking about the oppression of the divorced.

"The Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit," says whoever wrote the Psalms (34:18) and divorce certainly breaks hearts and crushes spirits.

I also wondered why it's the Church orchestrating so much oppression of the brokenhearted and crushed people so near the Lord?

Somehow the Church made it into one of the Ten Commandments ... "Thou shalt not get divorced" though it's not certainly not one!

"But Jesus says," according to the modern day Pharisees (e.g. Fundamentalists and other shallow thinkers) "whoever divorces his wife, except for sexual immorality, and marries another, commits adultery" ... and adultery is one of the Ten Commandments!

This verse if from the Gospel of Matthew and is the "Jewish" version of Jesus.

Quick lesson on the New Testament ... Paul's letters were written first ... THEN comes Mark ... closely followed by Matthew a couple of years later ... Luke was a decade after that ... and whoever the hell wrote John came out a decade or so later.

Just like Paul's letters were written to certain churches the Gospels were written for certain audiences.

Realizing everyone who knew Jesus personally was dying off Mark assembled his sayings and birthed the first Gospel which Matthew quickly plagiarized giving it a Jewish slant!

Lesson over.

The verse about not divorcing your wife unless SHE has sex with somebody else ... but it's okay if the husband does ... was all about Matthew trying to slowly bring the Jews over to Jesus' way of thinking ... by Jews I mean ancient Pharisees who believed in rules more than anything else.

Fast forward back to now.

It's a shame Pharisees run most Churches!

When I got divorced (X 2) lots of people ... church people! ... said horrible things when I was just trying to survive my broken heart and crushed spirit.

The same thing happened to Sarah and, because she comes from a background even more conservative than the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia, it was worse.

"Whoever does not love does not know God because ... God is love," I John 4:8.

A lot of divorced people know this WAY MORE than Church people.

A Good Day

I didn't have to but I kept the normal schedule today, left "The Breakfast Club" at 7 am and made my way home.

Sarah's girls don't have school today so I could have lingered, enjoying the company and being out with people which is a rare thing working from home.

Strolling into the dark house, Goddess and Gypsy follow me into the kitchen so I can give them treats and let them outside.

Turning, I hear a door open and the 7 year old sleepily stumbles to me ... blond hair askew ... wearing her "Monsters High" bathrobe and carrying the "Ferbie" her mother gave her for Easter ... Cassidy lifts both arms signifying I should pick her up.

I do and she lays her head on my shoulder, wraps her arms tightly around me and I feel her breath on my neck.

This has become our routine.

While the others sleep, Cassidy finds me as soon as she wakes and this is how she starts her day.

It has a profound impact on me.

I am not her father but spend as much time with Cass and her sisters as he does.

I tell the girls to call me "Micheal" their friend and not their "stepfather" and ... except for awkward introductions when it's just them and me ... that's what they do.

They confide in me lots of things they keep from their parents and grandparents primarily because ... I don't act like a stepfather, parental figure or much of an adult.

I cuss around them and occasionally at them, drink wine when we're sitting around, listen to their confessions without much judgment and offer my thoughts at their half-baked ideas.

AND THEY KEEP COMING BACK FOR MORE!

Of course I get in trouble.

Yesterday both Sarah and my daughter Kristen got on to me because of my interaction with the girls and they're right ... there are things I can do better.

But ... they tell me they love me ... fight for time alone like they do with their Mother ... ask unanswerable questions like "Why can't you be my Dad?" ... tell me about girls kissing boys and girls kiss who kiss girls ... share things they share with their friends ... beg me to intervene with Sarah about things.

I love being Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea's Dad and just because my children are adults doesn't mean it gets any easier.

I'm the first to admit I'm out of practice with smaller kids but I do my best to love and encourage them in my perverted ways.

I walk Cassidy to the sofa and as I lay her on it under a blanket she kisses my cheek.

Surprising her with Cinnamon Rolls she asks for uncooked doe and I give her some.

She laughs and winks because she's getting some and her sisters won't.

I never would have guessed at this stage of life I'd be living with 3 small children again and lots of people think I'm nuts because I do.

But they are gifts to me every bit as precious as life itself.

Plus I got all day to mess with them.

It's a good day.

A Better Ending

"Trembling and confused, the women fled the tomb and didn't say anything to anybody because they were scared," Mark 16:8).

That's how the first written Gospel ends.

Other things were added later by other people.

Matthew, Luke and John came decades later and are much more glorified versions of events than the rawness of the first account of Jesus's life and death.

The original ending of Mark has an tomb with no body and three women scared out of their minds.

When they arrived to pay their respects, the tomb's open and somebody's sitting inside.

A young man dressed in white is apparently waiting on someone to show up.

He explains, "You're looking for Jesus but he's not here," pointing a finger to the imprint on the ground, "that's where he was."

I'm sure the women looked and wondered, "What in the Hell?"

"Go find Peter and the others and tell them to go to Galilee and you'll see him," the kid concludes and it scares the women to death so they get away from the grave as fast as possible, keep their mouths shut and ... who knows what happens next?

Mark doesn't call the young man in white an Angel.

He was just somebody who seems to be in the know.

That's how the story originally ends.

All of the other events ... frying fish on the beach after telling Disciples which side of the boat to fish ... letting doubting Thomas touch him ... magical apparitions here and there ... were added in the rewrites of the original story because many though such a great story needs a better ending.  

As good as those other endings are, I prefer the original.

The tomb's empty.

Jesus' body isn't there but a cocky teenager is who basically explains, "Just do the stuff he told you to do."

Because in his life Jesus said lots about how to live a better life.

The obvious question Mark leaves hanging in the air is, "Where's Jesus?"

The obvious answer is, "Where do you want him to be?"

God I hope you're there!

The story goes when the great theologian Paul Tillich went to the beach in the early part of this century, he'd drop to his knees in the sand, scooping it together into a mount he could sit on and then he'd sit on it, stare at the ocean and cry.

Born in Germany, raised in Poland, educated in Germany where he found his teaching career he was fired when Adolph Hitler rose to power.

Immediately another great theologian Reinhold Niebuhr offered Tillich a job at New York Theological Seminary for a lot less money but he had no real options so he took it.

Besides there are no beaches in Germany and bad things happen when you can't get to the beach.

Adolph Hitler, Joseph McCarthy, George Wallace and such people get elected to office and life goes to shit when you can't be reminded of the vastness of the sea.

Anyway, the dignified old theologian had a terrible personal life!

His first wife left him when she got pregnant by her lover and his second wife married him after she lost the child she conceived with her husband.

These things happened while he was writing "Systematic Theology" and other books that changed the way people think about God, Jesus and faith.

To this day we believe it's up to us to know when God's doing things, or not, in our lives and in the world.

Before Tillich people waited on God, or some Priest, to slap them beside the head to let them know what was happening.

Tillich wasn't paid much in New York so he went to Harvard and then to Chicago where he made more money and people weren't as "judgmental."

As great as his was his life is as nutty as yours and mine, every bit as messy, flawed, with highs of happiness and discovery mixed with lows of disappointment and frustration.

The words he left behind are uttered in Seminaries and academic institutions around the world.

The messiness of his life is still examined and either vilified or praised as an honest man.

That's no different from how you and I are going to be remembered when we're dead and gone.

Who knows what Paul Tillich thought about sitting there on the clump of sand on the beach, salt water running down his face while staring at the salty ocean?

But I know what I think about when I do the same thing.

It's a big world and I'm a small person.

I've done great things and bad things and hope I'm praised for some while forgiven for others.

God, I hope you're there because I've staked my life on it but if you're not that's okay.

I pray to you every day and especially at night.

I'd rather live in a world believing you're here than one where you're not.

All those years ago on Holy Saturday that's whatever everybody else in the world was thinking too.

Jesus was a Beach Bum

Nicodemus asks Jesus, "So you’re telling me I can be born though I’m obviously already born or I wouldn’t be here to ask you this question?”

Jesus smiles, nods and says, “You got it Nick!”

Nick shakes his head signifying he doesn’t get it and asks, “There’s no way I’m crawling back inside my Mom’s vagina to do it again? Or can I?"

Jesus yells "HEY!” then looks at Nick like he can’t believe the stupid ass question so he yells it again.

“HEY! LISTEN you moron … you gotta get wet … then you catch the Spirit …after that you can hang out with God.

“No one can enter the Kingdom of God unless they are born of water and the Spirit …” Jesus says according to John, the youngest and weirdest of the Apostles.

Water mixing with Spirit is … heavenly.

Biblical commentaries speculate that Jesus is talking about Baptisms but I have a difficult time following their logic since it has nothing to do with this particular conversation.

So Jesus was baptized by John.

It’s got nothing to do with the convo with Nick.

Jesus starts with water.

I like that.

Of course Sarah and I live beside the ocean so water is big to me … literally.

That means we live at the beach where the Spirit is easily found.

They go together.

Jesus was a beach bum.

To kick off his ministry he got baptized.

The first thing he did after being raised from the dead (no small feat) was host a fish fry on the beach.

It’s hard not to love Jesus.

I believe when he walked on water Jesus invented paddle boarding.

When he recruited Disciples his pitch was they could be fishers of men and women.

Jesus liked boats and often took sailing trips to crazy places like the “Region of the Gerasenes” hang out in graveyards with crazy people and eat bootleg Bar-b-Que (Jewish law forbade pork)!

Even when he was being crucified Jesus kept a positive attitude and probably thought something like, “At least I’m working on my tan.”

Many take issue with such depictions of the Messiah but the Gospels can certainly be read from a Beach Bum perspective.

And I swear to God when I’m standing on the beach watching God throw diamonds on the ocean, silhouettes of crippled people walking on the water, Pelicans diving and dolphins smiling, it’s just like being born again.

That’s why everybody needs some beach time.

Water and Spirit go together.

Find yours again in the water.

Happy Easter!

Surf's Up!

 

Our Adventure

On the tiny uninhabited island of Tintamarre in the French West Indies, Sarah and I walk alone through tall grass growing on hard dried coral.

Leaving the others by the crystal clear water on white soft sandy beach we’ve embarked on an adventure.

It’s hotter and dryer as we make our way towards a gate of a ghost farm.

Miles of rock are stacked forming an impenetrable fence and we both imagine a once thriving village, filled with cattle, sheep and gardens.

We spy goats still roaming the island and Sarah snaps their picture.

Making our way through the gate we finally arrive at the buildings, the cistern and other remnants of the past.

Cold fire pits, discarded mattresses, beer bottles litter the floor of what once was the island store, now used by giant hermit crabs.

It is deathly quiet and both of us feel a bit spooked anticipating someone to jump upon us at any second though we know there’s nobody here save us.

After a while, we make our way back to the pristine beach where our friends wait beside the boat.

“How was it?” they ask.

“It was great! You should have come.”

At some point during our exploration Sarah commented, “I’m glad it’s just us. It’s time for our own adventures.”

We’re still on it.

Defying conventional wisdom, we’re making our way in our way. While we’re pretty clear about where we’re going to end up, we have no idea whatsoever how we’re getting there. She’s a planner so it can drive her crazy while I believe that unplanned excursions and unconventional choices often lead to places where God resides.

It’s like we’re still on that ghost farm because it’s just each other getting ourselves further along to where we’re going. There are lots of things to be scared of so we listen harder to each other, try to be more kind and hold each other tighter through the nights.

We’ve also noticed lots of others are on solitary journeys; moving from things they hate to what they desire; transitioning from acceptance towards fulfillment; leaving death like existence in marriages, jobs, communities and beliefs to choose life rooted in love, fulfillment, community and spirituality!

The God’s honest truth is none of us know how things are going to turn out regardless of the planning and preparation we put into how we want things to be at the end.

It’s also a Divine absolute that everyone believes we have plenty of time to do the things we want though we really don’t have a clue.

There is only now and whatever it is we are doing with it.

When Gandalf approached Bilbo he explains, “I am looking for someone to share in an adventure I am arranging, and it’s very difficult to find anyone.”

“I should think so --- in these parts,” Bilbo replies. “We are plain quiet folk have no use for adventures. Nasty disturbing uncomfortable things! Make you late for dinner.”

He didn’t want to go.

It’s the same when Jesus told Simon Peter to follow and crusty fisherman protested, “Go away from me; I’m a sinful man.”

In both instances, they had the adventures of a lifetime that we’re still talking about.

That’s the adventure Sarah and I are on.

Willie Page ... my son

It was one of those days when everything was going perfect.

Bright sunshine on a warm cloudless morning made Savannah especially lovely.

Wandering out of The Savannah Bank towards moss draped Johnson Square, I pause to notice the political rally taking place.

"ELLIOTT," Congressman Jack Kingston screams, "I NEED TO TALK TO YOU NOW!"

"Shit," I mutter but it's part of the job so I meander across the street.

All the Republicans in charge of everything are there and, after Jack greets me warmly, it seems as every one of them are glad I'm there, appreciative of something I'd done for them and needed something now.

Completely surrounded I'm the center of attention and enjoying every second of it!

"DADDY," I hear from the familiar voice. "DADDY!"

And Willie Page shuffles his uncooperative legs towards me.

The Republicans part like the Red Sea as the little black man with yellow teeth, flaky skin and a child's brown eyes strolls in and hugs me.

"HEY DADDY," he says in his raspy voice while keeping an arm around me.

"You're his Daddy?" Kingston asks.

"It's a long story," I reply ready to kill Willie on the one hand but absolutely loving him for coloring the rally something other than red on the other.

Then again, I love the red and black ... Go Dawgs!"

The Republicans are done with me though so Willie and I make our way to the Ice Cream shop beside the Barber Shop on Bull Street where he likes to hang out.

I buy him Ice Cream  and ask, "What do you want?"

"Daddy, can I come home?" he explains giving me his sad child face and licking the Ice Cream.

He means Grace House, the homeless shelter I ran. He'd lived there twice and loved it both times.

The first time he was a "success story" because we got him on disability and found him "permanent housing" in a boarding house but ... Willie missed us ... so he got himself kicked out and moved back into the shelter.

"Willie," I yell, "you cannot live in a frigging homeless shelter for the rest of you life!"

"I love you Daddy," he sheepishly replies.

"Listen," I fire back, "you get yourself kicked out of your next home then we're not going to be friends anymore. I'm not giving you any more birthday money either."

Horrified, Willie suddenly became the perfect client and a few weeks later we find him his new home.

A decade later he stumbles into the Republican Party and me.

I love him.

"Daddy, come see me play," he begs so one day I go to City Market and watch him play a string less guitar with Bucky and Barry, happy and in love with the people who love him.

It was the last time I saw my son.

He died today after a long stay at Hospice having stamped himself on the hearts of many.

So hey Willie, on behalf of a lot of us ... Thank you.

You were incredible making more lemonade out of the worst lemons ever!

And I can only imagine how long it's going to take the Angels to drag you from the Heavenly Banquet because ... God you love to eat!

Thank you most for teaching me by being you.

Because you were incredible!

The Girls

"You know everyone's watching you?" he says as we drink beers at "The Quarter" ... Tybee Island's lone Sports bar ... which is mostly bar without much sports ... but the TV was working that night.

"For what?"

"Three little girls," he replies.

For one of the few times in my life I'm at a complete loss of words.

When Sarah and I fell in love and married it was a miraculous, Heavenly sent, timely and a wonderful gift from God ...and like most relations ... we both brought baggage.

But she was looking for baggage that went with hers.

That was me.

In addition to baggage, what she brought to our marriage was three little girls ... and they brought a lot of trash.

As a survivor of already raising three children to successful adulthood it seems I shocked people by choosing to do it again ... as an older man.

The societal norm is I should be a grandfather by now, happily loving children I can sent home whenever I tire of them.

I don't have any grandchildren yet but look forward to whenever it happens.

In the meantime I help conceive and raise three of best children ever born (up there with Micah and Amber Berry, Mandy Sayles, Dani Sadowsky ... and her brother Ryan who didn't make the Top 10 List ... or the top 100 for that matter)!

I've got parental experience.

My kids are off successfully living their own lives and I live in a house with four girls (two of which menstruate and a third is not far off).

Half of the time things are just great!

Otherwise it's like being on a never ending reality television show.

But it's like when Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea were coming up ... when I didn't want to kill them I'd never known such deep love.

Maddie, Laurel and Cassidy remind me of that every single day!

The second time around I'm pretty laissez faire about it ...

"Sure! Of course you can ride the skate board you got for your birthday down the hill into the marsh mud full of oyster shells with the cute little pod of baby sharks ... it'll be fun!"

Sarah's a first time parent so she takes such things far more serious not understanding how little influence she really has on who her girls are going to be when they grow up.

But back to whoever's watching me these days ... the girls crack me up ... when I don't want to kill them.

We share tender moments and I get the joy of watching them discover who they are as people.

In return I help as best I can.

Laurel, the middle child, has a gross fear of dead people so I got "Weekend at Bernies" to help her process irrational beliefs.

Next up is "Wayne's World" I and II to assist in defining their relationship with God and "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" to help confront their sexuality.

In return they give me lots of love and kisses ... along with numerous
opportunities to talk Sarah into letting them do things I know there's no way in Hell she's going to let them do!

It sure is fun making them think they've got a chance.

And they keep me young, laughing and are forever surprising me with really bad, putrid, suck ass music on the radio when I'm driving.

It's all good!

Today

The waves sing without ceasing this morning.

One consistent low-key roar of ocean hitting shore.

A thin grey blanket of clouds cover the sun.

There is no breeze and green leaves, purple Wisteria, red, pink and yellow petunias stand still as though in prayer.

Birds sing solos.

Squirrels quietly dart along electrical lines and in the branches of trees.

Sitting silently in the midst of these things, I'm open to the world that's been given to me today.

I had a rough and fitful night plagued with sinuses, restlessness, worrisome thoughts brought on by too much alcohol and not enough food or water.

At 3:17 I sat in the same chair on the Beloved Back Deck that I sit in now.

With my feet propped on the table I watched wisps of clouds gently glide passed a white full moon.

Wide awake, I contemplated unanswerable questions each beginning with the word "Why?"

After a while I returned to bed to snuggle beside Sarah who's sleep was a casualty of my night.

Sleep returned only to be interrupted by unwelcome dreams.

In the predawn darkness I welcome the day stumbling downstairs to the outdoor shower.

I gather with others for communion over coffee as light begins to chase the darkness away.

Afterwards, home again, I tend to the animals and check on Sarah who's now sleeping.

As the sun rises I sit as part of the waking world.

The day holds good and bad, unpleasant tasks mixed with welcomed ones, rendering unto Caesar what is his while working towards redemption from plans gone array.

Just as sand flies appear the slightest of ocean breeze blows them from hovering and leaves begin to dance.

The sun begins to throw off the sheets of clouds.

Sarah rises and the aroma of coffee brewing wafts with the sounds of her making breakfast.

The day is now born.

Now it is time to make the most of it.

Competitive Religion

Multiple choirs of birds are blasting Hymnsof Praise in fierce competition with the other creating one giant cacophony of noise.

It's a like the churches meeting today at the same time where they'll all compete for God's attention at the same time by singing, praying loudly, dropping coins in gold plates and a lot of talking.

Being God and all, everything's heard at the same time and it must come across like a lot of noise without much action.

It's mostly religious competition.

It reminds of the old joke that when the Baptist Church was singing "Will there by any stars in my crown" the Methodist Church next door was singing, "No Not One."

It's funny because it's mostly true ... most churches are businesses competing for customers, investments, publicity and "Yard of the Month" awards.

I know, I know ... your church is different!

Yours is the only one that meets your specific needs and you enjoy it!

At the same time, every other church in the world wants you ... your time, talent, money, voice and help winning "Yard of the Month."

Yesterday Samuel Adams, who plays damn good live music on the island whenever he gets around to it, and I took a walk on the Pier.

It was a beautiful sunny day with blue skies, lots of people enjoying the beach and Davy the drummer was fishing.

Sam wanted to talk about Church, specifically Bar Church which he founded and I'm an occasional participant.

Bar Church doesn't have a building.

We borrow a bar and there's no chance in Hell we'll ever win "Yard of the Month."

It doesn't proselytize either because nobody really cares who comes!

Whoever does show up hears good rock music glorifying God, eats breakfast if they want, listens to a low key sermon if they want or walk outside to smoke if they don't.

On this Palm Sunday, I'm participating ... meaning I'm preaching and playing in the Band again.

Sarah's not so sure any of this yet and is non-committal.

I hope she comes but everybody will want her to sing and there's always the chance if she took control of the matter Bar Church could win "Yard of the Month."

Regardless, it strikes me that Jesus sent some Disciples to borrow a Donkey so he could ride into Jerusalem all those years ago today to do what God wanted.

Bar Church borrows a building to do what God wants.

There's something magnificently illogical about both!

The sun bursts through the branches of the Palm Tree with the oyster eyes, coconut bra sans the grass skirt ... and the imagery makes me lough out loud.

My Sermons

The reputation has always been that I shoot from the hip.

Someone says something, or I have something to say, and I come across as though it instantly came to me as though God Herself sent me a Divine message.

Sometimes it happens that way but most of the time I labor over the things I'm going to say.

I learned both in Seminary.

Let me be clear, there is a great deal I did not learn in Seminary ... and had no interest whatsoever in learning ... like how to dress in the Pulpit!

Give me a freaking break!

Mike Ruffin and I had to sit through a lecture on keeping our socks up while sitting in front of a congregation waiting to preach!

If our socks weren't pulled all the way up then God isn't honored, Jesus remains in the tomb and it's we spray paint graffiti over our Bibles.

That's when God led me to stop wearing socks!

What I did learn in Seminary though is that if I'm going to be arrogant enough to speak for God for 20 minutes or so once a week, I should give it serious thought and prayer.

So I took to writing it all out in advance.

It ended up being good for me because that's how I became a writer (9 books and counting ... number 10 coming soon!)

The "shoot from the hip" delivery of my sermons I learned during Seminary but not at the school.

My congregation was homeless people, drug addicts, prostitutes, inner city kids, the sick and other Seminarians who hated Church.

I had to adapt to a lot of things of things quickly when I preached.

"WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?" a homeless guy high on crack holding a baseball bat once inquired in the middle of one of my sermons.

"What would Jesus do?" I thought to myself.

I didn't have to think about it much because a bunch of other homeless guys pounced on him, took the baseball bat and beat the shit out of him in the aisle between the 3rd and 4th pews.

When it was over, I was glad I'd written the sermon out and it was there on paper in front of me.

Picking up right where I'd left off, I took the Southern Baptist approach I'd learned in Seminary that if I pretended something hadn't just happened then ... it really didn't happen.

In spite of the unconscious high homeless man bleeding in the aisle between the 3rd and 4th pews!

All of that to say ... when God told Sam Adams to tell me to preach at Bar Church this week, I went to work immediately ... as soon as Sam called asking what the Scripture verses are going to be so he print them in advance.

That was a few days ago ... but the sermon's mostly done.

I'll keep tinkering with it until it's time to actually give it.

Everything should go fine ... unless someone asks me what the fuck I'm doing in the middle of the sermon.

It's a good question.

I'm glad I've got the answer written down.

The Holy Host

"Do you ever talk out loud anymore," I ask God while we're sitting on the Beloved Back Deck at my house.

We're drinking beers and working on our naked tans.

"As a matter of fact," I press, leaning forward pointing my beer bottle in Her face, "how come you never invite me to your place?"

As usual God remains tight lipped and doesn't answer.

"Well, it's just not right that I'm always the host and you never are," then I giggle out loud before saying, "Well, except at Catholic Mass where you're always the Host ... then they eat you."


God flashes a smile just as She's taking a swig of her St. Pauli Girl and some dribbles down her chin.

"I know," I laugh, "I'm pretty funny."

She flips over to tan the back side Moses once saw and I'm glad Sarah's not home to see her new chase lounge is being used before my wife ever had a chance to open it up.

Lou Reed and The Velvet Underground blast "Femme Fatale" from the speakers and I say, "Nice choice!" tipping my beer towards God.

She flashes that beatific smile that only God has back at me.

It's a beautiful day!

God gave clouds the day off so it's a deep blue sky with a giant yellow ball hanging bathing us in warm sunshine.

Purple Wisteria drips limply in Fran's thousand shades of green as there is no ocean breeze though we can hear waves crashing in the distance.

A chain saw cranks up and a group of brown men start banging the hell out of the house behind where Sarah and I live.

God's head pops up, obviously perturbed and the Tybee cops show up out of nowhere issuing a "STOP WORK" order and arresting three illegal immigrants and two permanent, tax paying, long term residents.

"Nicely played," I say.

A choir of birds appear and sing in perfect harmony with Lou Reed.

"How did you? ..." I begin.

"Shut up and enjoy the day," God finally says. "You always want more! I've given you a perfectly good day, your wife looks hotter than Hell, the girls won't be home for hours, and you're bitching."

As She flips over to tan her front side I say, "You're right. You're always right. You're God. You want another beer?"

She gives me the "okay" sign so I stumble into the kitchen and grab two more bottles.

Drinking her beer in one guzzle I exclaim, "For Christ's sake are you in a hurry or something?"

A car door slams and Sarah's home.

God's gone from the Beloved Back Deck leaving two empties under my wife's perfectly unused chase lounge.

"Hmmm," I ponder as Sarah bounces up the stairs wearing tight little booty shorts and dripping with sweat.

Giving a quick glance over my shoulder I say, "Hey thanks. I don't deserve all this."

Out of nowhere, on a cloudless perfect day, I hear thunder that sounds just like laughter.

"Well played," I say again and then dive into my day ... literally.

My Bible

On May 29, 1979 my Granddad Carver presented me with a Scofield Reference Bible.

It was the day I graduated from college and had made the decision to follow Guy Sayles to Seminary because he'd called one day saying he thought it a good idea I attend while he was there.

Though he's long dead, I still love my Grandfather passionately.

Mr. Scofield ... not so much.

We were in Seminary Chapel one Tuesday morning singing a Hymn and I was sitting with the "Bob Dylan" brigade, a group of Hippy Seminarians who love Dylan as much as Jesus so they sang like him.

"AHHHH ... MAAZZZZ ... ing GRAAAAAACE," they belted out in the nasal, monotone kind-of-singing-but-kind-of-talking sort of way.

On this day the Bob Dylan Brigade sang/spoke a much beloved Hymn but they changed the words.

"My hope is built on nothing less ..than Scofield notes and Broadman Press."

Had I not been sitting with them I would have missed the new lyric because they were completely drowned out by the several hundred pious Seminarians who sang the actual words, "My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus Christ my righteousness."

 I busted out laughing drawing the ire of several Professors sitting nearby.

The Broadman Press is the publishing company for the Southern Baptists and these same Professors had written commentaries on the books of the Bible for it.

Scofield notes appeared in 1909 and is a very fundamentalist interpretation of the Bible.

Cyrus Scofield wanted everyone to read Scriptures just like he did so he put his thoughts on the same page so you don't have to think at all about what you were reading.

Plus everything Jesus ever said is printed in red so you can't miss it.

To this day I'm not a huge fan of Cyrus ... Miley or otherwise.

Though ... had Cyrus Scofield done a naked photograph on his Bible like Miley  has on her wrecking ball ... I wonder what I would believe today?

But I'm working on something for Bar Church this weekend and grabbed my Bible to look up something and my Granddad, whom I still love passionately, was immediately raised from the dead while Sarah's gone to work out and I'm home alone.

Flipping through the Bible he gave me, there are tons of notes written in the margins and lots of Cyrus notes underlined.

My eyes grow moist.

Looking up I can see my Grandfather like I haven't in a long time.

I can hear him too.

"I never would have thought about Bar Church," he laughs because he often laughed at the way I approached faith, "but I'm proud of you and want you to do good this week. That's why I gave you that Bible."

And I baptize myself in love and tears.

Who Cares?

Most people get lost in thought.

I get lost in feelings.

It's easy for me to laugh, cry, joke or slide off into an alternative universe of emotions where there is no time.

It's very Monk-like in that I'll be thinking about something before I realize I'm staring at the sunlight shinning on green leaves dancing in the breeze.

How did 30 minutes just pass?

Where was I?

Did Scotty beam me up and back down again?

Was that prayer?

I'll give you an example.

Several years ago I was invited to the LBJ School of Public Policy at the University of Texas in Austin (a most beautiful college campus) and a really lovely town.

I was to share the stage with the head the Texas head of Public Health, the School's Dean of Public Policy and others ... it was a big deal.

I impressed upon the school that if they were going to pay for me to come all that way and if they anted the whole story, they should also invite Peter Doliber from Memorial Health University Medical Center.

We were doing great stuff at the time.

So they invited Peter too.

The Lyndon Baines Johnson (LBJ) School is a freaking cool place, especially the replica of his office when he was President!

I was mesmerized by the red phone on his desk with one button on it pressed only to use nuclear bombs to destroy the world.

Anyway, Peter and I killed them that day.

"Well," the Dean said after the session, "you certainly were ..." as he struggles to find the right word, "entertaining."

It was a great day!

It was also a long time ago and a lot's happened since.

Peter's back home in the Northeast being in charge of something and I'm a happily married beach bum coping with three little girls.

But I just spent 30 minutes in an alternative universe feeling those things again.

When Scotty beams me back down I'm full of emotion and wonder if Peter ever thinks about these things.

Isn't it funny how you do nice things for people in life and they don't remember?

Or care.

It's funny in a sad sort of way.

The next thing I know I'm staring at the sunlight illuminating the thousand shades of green dancing in the breeze with tear drops of purple Wisteria falling on them.

Suddenly I'm aware that Neil Young is reminding me that "Yes only love can break your heart."

"Hmmm," I mutter out loud and I wish Sarah was home.

Almost Mayor Blind Mike

Blind Mike didn't have a job so he decided to run for Mayor.

"Why are you running for Mayor?" we ask at the counter of The Breakfast Club over coffee.

"I need a job," he daftly replies staring at us like we're idiots through his Coca-Cola bottle cap lenses covered by long greasy hair and rubbing his long salt-and-pepper beard.

Blind Mike's last job was The Oar House peeling shrimp for free beer.

The Oar House was a seafood place on Tybee but everyone called it "The Whore House" because there was a lot of that too in those days.

But it closed and Blind Mike hadn't worked since.

"You got a platform?" Georgia Griesbach snarls after delivering all the newspapers on the island sitting between Mrs. Tommy and me.

Blind Mike strokes his greasy beard lost in thought for several minutes while Lori pours us more coffee.

"Yeah, I'll need a platform," he muses.

"What's your stance on crime?" Jake, who is deaf as a doornail, yells.

"It's here," Blind Mike replies still lost in thought.

Jake looks at Georgia, Mrs. Tommy and me and confesses, "You can't argue with that."

"I know," Blind Mike finally says.

Everybody ... Georgia, Mrs. Tommy, Johnny O, Jesse the racist, Art who's recently diagnosed with cancer and suddenly finds God, Kenny Wade and me ... stop everything we're doing to stare at our candidate.

"The island is not kind to people with disabilities," he says sounding every bit as Presidential as Richard Nixon ever did. "I'm going to change that."

"Really?" Kenny Wade asks. "You still owe me for yesterday's coffee. Give me my damn dollar."

Blind Mike's rubbing his beard again, obviously thinking hard and looking like a very successful politician because he already has other people paying for his coffee.

"I know," Blind Mike says.

"Oh Christ!" Kenny Wade exclaims, "I'm never gonna get my dollar back" but the rest of us stop to stare at the politician we already love most.

Georgia slaps the shit out of Blind Mike because he's taking a long time and screams, "What in the hell is it?"

"HEY, HEY, HEY," Johnny O says taking control. "Everybody just calm down a little bit."

Blind Mike rubs his shoulder and explains, "I'm gonna make the Lighthouse handicap accessible."

If laughter is good for the soul ... we're suddenly very soulful people ... because we're laughing our asses off.

Forgetting about his dollar because Kenny Wade knows everything yells, "Oh for Christ's sake Blind Mike, the ramp would have to start in Hilton Head to meet DNR requirements."

"That's discriminatory," Blind Mike fires back. "As soon as I'm Mayor I'm taking those bastards down!"

"I think it's brilliant," Georgia surprises us by siding with him.

"Oh Jesus, Joseph and Mary," Mrs. Tommy says.

"I'll be your campaign manager," I offer.

"I know how to lose an election," Johnny O exclaims. "I'll tell you what not to do."

"I'm never gonna get my damn dollar," Kenny Wade slurs as he storms outside.

So Blind Mike ran for Mayor which is the closest he ever came to actually having a job.

By far the best candidate, his honesty was too much for the electorate to handle.

"I just need a job," he explains at debates.

He lost by only a few votes.

Blind Mike died a long time ago but he leaves a legacy like few others.

He was honest.

"Elect me because I can't do anything else."

And today that's why we elect everybody.

Blind Mike

A long line patiently waited outside of  The Breakfast Club when the old blue Impala coasted to a stop almost inside of the lone parking place in front of the restaurant.

A loud creaking sound, like fingernails on a chalkboard, quieted the line as the door opened and an orange and white walking stick unfolded and began tapping the pavement.

One long leg followed another as a very tall bearded man heaved himself our of the car.

Wearing thick glasses with Coca-Cola lenses he used the cane to tap himself to the door marked "Exit Only" and took his normal stool at the counter beside us.

Of course we're laughing our asses off as the waiting crowd whispers, "They let blind people drive on this Island?"

They used to but they don't anymore.

Tybee Island was different then.

Obama stimulus funding flooded the city with workers, cops, parking service employees and dog catchers.

The funding's gone away so everyone has to generate revenue to maintain their positions so the Island's one big cash cow ... "You come, you pay, we take. ENJOY PARADISE!"

That's the tag.

Or should be.

Back in the day blind eyes were turned to most everything and things were looser, laid back, spontaneous, simpler and pure.

Of course that's most every memory of most every place and time.

The last thing Blind Mike did before he died was get our friend Chela Gutierrez to replicate his baby picture.

From seventy years earlier he had his baby picture.

In black and white he laid on his stomach with his head facing the camera wearing a Gerber Baby smile and a bare ass.

She shows up, Mike drops his pants and lays on his stomach striking the baby pose.

Chela throws up a little but swallows it back down and gets the job done.

Blind Mike brings them to The Breakfast Club to show us and proclaims, "See! You can go back again."

I don't know and while there are lots of funny stories, I really don't want to go back ... in spite of too much Government, terrorist cops, parking services run with Nazi efficiency and dog catchers who bring police backup.

But Blind Mike's ashes are scattered on this clump of sand (we got around to throwing them in the ocean breeze six months after he was cremated ... until then he rode around in the back of Susie's car but he always liked being out).

Unless you're blind to it, things change.

Some things are better while others are worse.

I wouldn't want to go back though because in spite of Government mandated hiccups life is far better.

Though tomorrow I think Johnny O, Whitley and those of us still here from those days should all park in front of the line at The Breakfast Club not quite hitting the parking space, open the door and throw out an orange and white collapsible cane, heave ourselves out of our cars wearing thick glasses and stumble inside the door marked "Exit Only."

A lot of drunken heavenly Angels would rain laughter down upon us and, for a moment anyway, the island would be like it used to be.

Who needs right answers?

A kid's taking a science test and the extra credit question is "What is the strongest force on earth?"

She ponders for a moment, smiles and writes "Love."

The teacher marked it wrong with a slash of red ink.

I've seen a lot of red ink slashes in my life and they are not pretty sights.

Though in this case, like most every thing in life, of course, there's more than one right answer.

Gravity holds planets in place so it's at the top of the list.

Electricity holds atoms together making elements which end up making most everything else which is pretty powerful.

Water mixed with gravity can form tsunamis which is pretty overwhelming stuff too.

Any of these answers would likely have gotten at least partial credit but I'm with the little girl on this one ... love is most powerful thing on earth.

It could be because I am a hopeless romantic but I think it's mostly Sarah's fault who's love holds me in place, is electric and washes over me like a tsunami.

She combines three plausible correct answers into one which is pretty damn impressive.

That's not to say there are moments of doubt, fear, uncertainty, trepidation and frustration because we've mastered those too.

In fact, I wished we sucked much more than we do when it comes to doubt, fear, uncertainty, trepidation and frustration but ... if we were being graded we'd pass with flying colors (not red!).

So this is the funny thing.

Doubts, fears, uncertainly, trepidation and frustration kill most things ... relationships, good public policy, excellent academic thought, pristine theology, excellent nights on the town, sexual ecstasy or even hanging out with your friends.

But, hopeless romantic that I am, l think love really does conquer all.

Last night, long after my bed time, Sarah and I were having a "passionate" conversation.

I'm a terrible conversationalist after bed time but, as she's sitting there on the sofa making her points to me sitting on the floor, I can't help but notice the way a strand of hair falls over her brow and I think she's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.

I'm not quite sure what she was saying but ... damn she looks good!

Damn I love her.

I'm with the little girl on this one.

To hell with right answers!

Peace, Love & Sandy Toes

Sarah and I are contemplating.

A couple of months ago, we made a decision and I applied for a job that would have radically altered the way we live.

A lot was up in the air ... how to spend time in another state, what to do with Sarah's girls, significant travel, spending time apart ... all tempered with excitement, enthusiasm and passion for the work.

Interviews happened, visits were made and ... alas, it didn't come to pass.

So we had the let down that comes when such things happen.

It was a bummer.

We're both ready and this would have been a great match!

But ... life goes on.

What do you do when you don't get what you want?

We went to the beach.

Literally!

For days we grabbed our chairs, cooler and thoughts and set up camp in the sand dunes to protect ourselves from the wind and for privacy.

And we talked.

We shared.

Opening ourselves up to one another, we processed our disappointment, reviewed our options, made short term plans and dug our toes in the sand.

All that to say ... shit happens.

As a result though, we've have 3 days of peace, love and sandy toes.

And it just doesn't get better than that.