Son of A Beach

"Dude, I'm not one to compliment another Dude, but I gotta say, you got the Beach Bum look down."

He's got multiple piercings in his ears, a colorful tattooed sleeve on his right arm of dragons and topless Mermaids which I admire as he hands me our "to-go" environmentally unfriendly plastic bag.

"Thanks man," I answer taking home the fried flounder sandwich with cheese for me and the broccoli/cheddar soup for Sarah.

"Seriously Micheal," he continues ... and I'm so very pleased he knows my name though I couldn't call his if my life depended on it ... "you got the look."

It's not the first time I've been complimented on my snazzy, fashionable, anti-establishment style of dress.

Walking into the managing attorney's office of Hunter, Maclean, Exley and Dunn, Savannah's largest and most prestigious Law Firm, John Hunter laughs and blurts, "Jesus you look like a Beach Bum!"

He's wearing a tailored dark blue, silk suit accentuated with a red tie ... Windsor knot ... and a blazing, starched white shirt.

With my black "Repaire du Pirate" tee shirt, stained cargo shorts and flip-flops, I'm so very pleased.

My wife Sarah will be the first to tell you I'm not everything I seem.

I'm too intense, calculating, not-as-spur-of-the-moment to be the Beach Bum I seem.

I don't know.

Pirates are intense, calculating and anything but spur-of-the-moment sorts.

On the other hand Beach Bums are ... lovers of the Beach.

We care not for the wearing of laundry or shoes.

Even though my life's mostly been spent living beside the Ocean, my top vacation destinations are other beaches.

My favorite music has nautical themes.

I believe with everything in me tanned fat looks better than white.

Drinks taste better with salt on the rim of the glass just like kissing your baby's skin with feet sinking in the sand.

 The pungent aroma of the Marsh at low tide is the smell of sex in the Tropics.

 Sand Dunes were made to provide privacy for love making.

Body surfing should be taught in school.

Shagging and Salsa are the highest forms of movement.

There's nothing like swimming as the Sun bubbles out of the Sea.

Sunsets into the Sea should be toasted every day.

Skinny dipping in the Ocean shouldn't be illegal.

And every coffin should be dropped at Sea to build artificial reefs so fish repopulate faster.

Sarah's right ... she mostly is all the time ... and I may deviate from my true nature from time-to-time but, my life's destination towards becoming the Beach Bum I am in my mind.

"You wear the same thing every day," says Maddie ... our UGA Bound daughter who knows everything ... if there's something you don't know and really need to know it ... ask Maddie ... she knows.

"Your point?" I ask peering over the "Mild One" coffee cup she gave us for Christmas.

Sarah's coffee cup looks the same except it says, "Wild One."

"Is there a problem with my sense of fashion?" I ask.

"You don't have a sense of fashion," she sighs pouring Fruit Loops into a plastic bag to eat as she drives herself to Catholic School where ... they know a lot about fashion ... with their embroidered white shirts, rolled up plaid skirts and brown shoes.

In years gone a group of Nuns who taught at St. Vincent's sat on the Beach every summer between 10th and 12th Streets wearing bikinis.

It's a theological and moral quandary to see Nuns in bikinis working on their tans, laughing as any collection of girls do, drinking Miller Lite, eating boiled peanuts and tossing the shells in the sand.

Was I sinning just for seeing their flesh?

You and I both know the institutional Church has lots of issues right now but I believe with everything in me it could prevent abuse, embellezment and other scandles by spending more time on the Beach.

Nuns and Priests ... Preachers, Pastors and Deacons ... televangelists like Joel Olsteen and T.D. Jakes should spend lots more time on the Beach ... wearing bikinis and Speedos ... turning white fat into brown ... listening to music with nautical themes ... sharing Communion with salt on the rims of the cup ... taking deep whiffs of the pungent aroma of sex in the Tropics ... making love in the Sand Dunes ... shagging or skinny dipping while contemplating the afterlife.

I loved that collection of Nuns in bathing suits because they broke away from the nasty habits of living out their faith dressed in black, clutching rosaries, serving the poor and prayer without ceasing.

The point being most of us live in a constant dichotomy of living life as who we really are or who we think we're supposed to be.

Dour faced Nuns on the outside are really beer drinking girls in a bikinis on the inside and it makes me wonder which one God intended them to become?

Who are we really once we throw off the masks, disguises and armor suits we wear to convince ourselves and others how we want them to see us?

Isn't life a journey towards wholeness anyway ... a lifelong pilgrimage to the Holy Land of authentically being ourselves ... the person God intended us to become?

Throwing off the pretense society and organized religion heap upon us is one of the lessons Jesus taught us..

After he was resurrected, he stood on the Beach at sunrise and his Disciples didn't know who he was (John 21:4)

Peter, James and John have been out night fishing and hadn't caught a damn thing.

A Dude on the Beach asks, "What you caught?"

They're sullen, quite and pissed because they haven't caught anything.

"Throw it starboard," the Dude yells.

"Who's this guy?" the Disciples ask, like most fishermen who haven't caught anything and have no lies to tell.

But they do it and fill the boat with flopping fish.

By the time they reach shore, Jesus has a fire going and as they grill the fish, they see Jesus as he really is ... living proof love conquers death ... sharing's better than hoarding ... eating together beats eating alone ... there's life in fellowship ... especially if you're bar-b-quing fish.

And it's on the Beach Jesus makes the point.

We've got a lot going for us in this Bar we gather inside to worship, mostly it's a Beach Bar and the Ocean's only steps away which gives us a leg up on this journey to become who we really are ... the person God made us to become.

Giving Up Lent

As a child I was involuntary committed to the First Baptist Church of Port Wentworth, Georgia.

My parents were responsible.

They had fallen under the sway of the largest group of organized evangelicals in the south, followed by the Methodists.

There was also Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church but we shunned them because they drank beer, misspelled "Lord's" and the whole "Lady of the Lord" thing was bothersome because Baptists believed (in fact they still do) women should look good in Church, clean up, cook, give sex on demand from their husbands and raise the children.

On the other side of the Viaduct was Bonnybridge Baptist Church but nobody from our side went because ... well ... there was a Viaduct.

Port Wentworth was, and remains, a very divided community.

First Baptist, or PWB was, and remains, the largest Church in town, in terms of structure anyway.

As an involuntary incarcerated member I was expected to wear a suit to Sunday Service, give my heart to Jesus before the age of 12, stop playing on Wednesdays to attend "Prayer Meeting", remain abstinent and not smoke or drink.

Don't get me wrong, all the Port Wentworth Churches got along fine.

When the Baptists and Methodists wanted to join the Catholics for beer, they just met at Ralcho's, a one time Comet gas station turned liquor store.

They even had the gas pumps taken up so no one would ask for a fill up ... unless they came inside ... and then it was for Schlitz, Ol' Milwaukee, Pabst Blue Beer or brown liquor.

This was when wine and white liquor, other than "white lightning" was all you could get in Port Wentworth ... that's not true ... there was Boone's Farm.

All the religions mixed back then ... just not to worship God.

They were an inclusive bunch because even the black Baptists and Methodists came and drank together ... though the blacks sat out back under the oak trees.

But after enough liquor flowed every body got together and ... what's the right word ... made fellowship!

Except on Sunday mornings, there was never an issue with drinking in Port Wentworth.

What divided us was ... Lent!

Baptists and Methodists grilled steaks or burgers on Friday nights!

Catholics ate fish!

This was crazy because everyone ate fish, shrimp and oysters most every day back then because they were cheap and plentiful and if you couldn't afford to buy it, you could catch it nearby ... so fish was pretty much an every day thing ... at least several times a week in most houses.

Even when it weren't Lent, there was always a Fish Fry on Friday somewhere.

In spite of Port Wentworth being a divided community because of the Viaduct ... everyone really got along ... there were no great controversies ... red and yellow, black and white ... Cajun and Mulatto, Indian or mixed ... all were precious in everyone's site ... not just God's ... and even Democrats and Republicans got along.

It was a different world back then.

But Lent?

We could never rise above Lent.

Catholics gave up steak and burgers to show their love for God ... even if they were out at Joe's Drive Inn on a Friday night ... they'd order the fish sandwich or platter .., as plentiful and cheap there as at the Root Bear Drive Inn next door.

Looking back on it, I'm not sure how much they really gave up to show their love of Jesus.

Steak, burgers or fish ... who can go wrong?

Just so everyone remembers ... the purpose of Lent is to repent for the lavish spending at Christmas and decadence of New Year's ... and these days we need to throw in Martin Luther King Weekend, Valentine's Day, Mardi Gras, St. Patrick's Day and Bar Olympics ... so we can identify with the suffering of Jesus leading up to his crucifixion and resurrection on Easter.

{By the way ... if you don't know ... the Bar Church Band is bringing the music at this Easter's Sunrise Service on the Pier for the second consecutive!}

{Sorry ... I didn't mean to aggrandize ... but ... be there or be square! ... you might even be LEFT BEHIND if you don't come!}

{Now ... back to the sermon.}

Anyway, a lot of people give stuff up for Lent.

Eating meat ... Chocolate ... cussing ... texting while driving ... drinking while driving ... sending emojis to express your true feelings ... wearing clothes that are too tight that call attention to your body ... or fishing!

People ask me all the time, "Micheal, what are you giving up for Lent?"

"Religion," I answer.

It's the honest truth.

Though I don't give it up just at Lent.

I give it up all the time.

I find God without religion is much more acceptable and real as I live my life.

You and I both know that as soon as Lent's over, everybody who gave up something is going to have it on Easter!

To celebrate the living Savior they'll have steak ... Chocolate ... cuss ... text while driving ... drink while driving ... send emojis to express your true feelings ... wear tight clothes to call attention to their body ... or get the 2-for-$5 Fish Sandwich special from Arby's.

You don't have to give up anything to love God ... or to identify with the suffering of Jesus ... because God knows we all suffer enough anyway living life.

If it makes you feel better to give something up, by all means do so but understand, you're doing it for you and not God.

God doesn't care.

Religion does.

What God cares about is those happy occasions when red and yellow, black and white ... Cajun and Mulatto, Indian or mixed ... everyone precious in his site ... come together as one ... even Republicans and Democrats.

Alcohol may, or may not, be a factor, as Queen Roma used to say.

If you're serious about getting ready for Easter, then you need to know what a resurrected Savior looks like.

It's described pretty well in the second chapter of Acts.

All of the people of the world were gathered in one place and, while they spoke different languages, everyone understood everyone else (2:6).

That's what the risen Jesus looks like ... everyone rising above themselves to understand one another ... red and yellow, black and white ... Cajun and Mulatto, Indian or mixed ... especially Democrats and Republicans ... because all are precious.

If you want to be all religious about it, give things up and tell yourself you're closer to God.

But if you want to hang out with the risen Lord you'll be better served understanding people who are different from you.

Because once you understand each other, Jesus is right there with you.

Chasing Ghosts

Sixty years separate us though you can't tell it watching us cuddled on the couch, her head cradled in my the elbow of my arm and both her legs crossed on mine.

She sucking a bottle of milk and I'm sipping wine.

We're watching cartoons.

I have to tell you cartoons have gone to Hell since I was a kid.

We're watching "The Mickey Mouse Club" is nothing like the Mickey Mouse Club I used to watch ... the one with live kids like Annette Funicello, whom I sure you remember, like me, as "the over developed Mousketeer."

There were other reasons than the two Annette gave us back then because the cartoons were funny because ... well ... Mickey  Mouse ... Bugs Bunny and our favorites were very politically incorrect!

Mickey wasn't above threatening Donald Duck with a shotgun to get what he wanted!

A card carrying member of the National Rifle Association, Elmer Fudd wants to "kill the Wappit" every time he sees him.

Pepe LePew is obviously a sexual predator.

Betty Boop crossed racial and sexual lines in her most famous cartoon, "Scrub me mamma with a Boogie Beat!"

That was funny stuff when I was growing up.

Watching cartoons with my daughter Che leaves me horrified.

Arthur ... The Amazing World of Gumbo ... Sponge Bob Square Pants?

They're awful.

They're riddled with garbage trying way too hard to be funny and original. The animation is terrible. The message is all ... so perfect. Everyone's politically correct!

The door to our bedroom slams shut with a gust of wind.

Che jumps in my arms, turns her large blue eyes towards and without words asks for an explanation.

"It's a ghost," I explain.

Her almond shape eyes grow large.

She knows what I'm talking about because I've introduced her to Casper the friendly ghost.

Leaving the couch, we creep through the Living Room into the kitchen making our way towards the tiny hallway, past the bathroom in the bedroom ... where four white drapes fly upward.

Frightened blue eyes stare at me over the round, pink pacifier.

"It's under the bed," I say, and our brave little girl, spins around, drops to her knees and peeps into the darkness, wetly sucking her "pacie".

Watching from above, stiffing a giggle, I'm a proud papa.

She "ain't 'fraid of no ghost."

But I am.

"The ghosts of our past are boiling in a cauldron that is spewing fury and distress across America like lava from a volcano," writes columnist Andy Brack, Charleston City Paper, 2/13/19).

"And just like climate change, many deny or ignore how segments of our society are colliding, getting hotter and hotter week after week. There is an increasing sense that America is out of control, preferring dysfunction and confrontation to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness."

"Leaders wear blackface.

#MeToo revelations.

White nationalist rallies.

Priests abusing kids.

A high school student staring down a native American.

Deadly shootings at schools, churches, {mosques} and synagogues.

Gay conversion therapy.

All-white social and country clubs."

We're a country on edge, seemingly leaderless as ghosts increasingly confront society, deteriorating the values that united us in the past. It's as if there's something new every day heating up the cauldron which releases even more hot venom from the ghosts.

I don't know about you but I listen to a lot of talk I don't want to engage in ... so I don't.

"You don't have to look far to hear the haughty ghost of racism, discrimination, paternalism and privilege" spewing everywhere in America.

The ghosts are here and no matter how hard we try not to see them, we do every single day.

One of three things happen ... we're seduced by them and spew the same "isms" that keep them alive ... we ignore them pretending they don't exist ... or we confront them and it's never funny if you're a Ghostbuster because it's so easy for ghosts to drag you down to their level.

"Count it all joy, brothers and sisters, when you meet various trials for you know the testing of your faith makes you steadfast" (James 1:2-3).

It's hard to have joy when confronting evil kept alive by ghosts ... especially if their haunting the very people you call friends or family.

It's a test.

We're either steadfast against them or we're not.

If we are, we side with God.

If we're not then we're in danger of being possessed like our friends and family spewing the racism, discrimination, paternalism and privilege we abhor.

Every single day it's a pass or fall only test.

Che leads me back to the sofa.

Sitting down, she snuggles beside me, head resting on my chests, her tiny hand wrapped around my index finger and we watch Disney's "Beauty and the Beast."

Belle, the princess falls in love with the Beast, who is under a spell cast by an evil Witch, and the only way the spell can be broken is if someone can love him at his worst.

She does.

The Beast is transformed into a handsome Prince.

"If only it were that easy," I sigh to my daughter.

The wind blows through the windows and the white drapes fly again to remind me the ghosts remain, if we can find them or not.

All we have to do is keep an ear out for them ... cause you can hear them everywhere.

Trusting God

"You'd be a great minister," he says with a half snare smile, "if you ever got saved."

"What?" I ask.

"I have no idea how you graduated from Seminary without ever actually being a Christian," he explains shaking his head.

"Wait a minute," I protest, but John Ferguson is on a roll.

He's a refined, southern gentleman ... retired owner of an auto parts supply business ... Chairman of the Deacons at Bull Street Baptist Church ... good friend to the city's "movers and shakers" ... and a person I can't help but respect and enjoy because ... well ... he's so damn respectable and enjoyable.

We're polar opposites.

He's a gentleman ... honestly the most "gentle" ... "man" I've known.

"Could I share something with you?" is how he starts a real conversation ... elbows resting on knees and his chin held in place by the hands ... leaning forward hopefully expecting a hearing ... he waits until the answer comes.

He never pushes for a response.

Polar opposite from me.

"Let me tell you something!" is how I begin ... sticking my finger in your chest ... almost pushing you over with my rightness because you are so wrong if you take issue ... not caring what you have to say.

Over time, I learn his way is far better than mine.

I begin changing how I communicate with others because John got results and friendship by sharing, listening and conversing than I ever did telling people how things should be done.

First, I began emulating the way he approaches talking to others.

After the pleasantries of asking how you're doing ... how's the family ... offering complements on something or the other ... the purpose of getting together would finally arrive.

"What can I do for you?" I'm asked.

In silence, I wait a moment to consider my words ... then I rest my hands on my knees ... learn towards the person and say, "I'd like to share something with you."

More often than not, genuine interest flashes in the eyes as the answer's given, "What is it?"

Now I'm invited to share.

Then I tell a story about why something is important without ever asking for anything.

Again, more often than not, the response is, "How can I help?"

I became a far better person to work with, achieved far better relationships and earned far more results because I trusted John's way's better than mine.

For whatever reason, I had more faith in John's approach than in my condescending, "take no prisoners", one-sided conversations.

I've come to believe the same is true with trusting in God.

Now John certainly had his questions about what kind of believer I am ... how can I be an unsaved, ordained, Seminary educated minister?

I know why he wondered about my salvation.

All you have to do is look at me to wonder for yourself.

I don't much look like a minister ... especially by Bull Street Baptist standards ... with my Che Guevara tee-shirts, black running shorts, leather ankle bracelet and bare feet.

Plus, I cuss ... drink ... listen to rock-and-roll ... and generally live my life according to the principal of "I'd rather laugh with the sinners than cry with the Saints."

But here's what John and I shared in common ... we live with far more trust than certainty.

I believe " ... faith has far more to do with trust than with certainty."

As Barbara Brown Taylor shares in her Leaving Church ...

      I trust God to be God even if I can't say who God is for sure ...

      I trust God to sustain the world although I cannot say for sure how that happens ...

      I trust God to hold me and those I love, in life and in death, without giving me one shred of
      conclusive evidence that it's so."

"Trust the Lord with all your heart and don't just rely on your own understanding. In every way, acknowledge God and you'll find your way" (Proverbs 3:5).

You can say what you will about me but I trust God in these things.

You can tell me God is this or that ... an old white man in Heaven, a judgmental and angry Deity waiting to punish me for my sins, the Spirit in the sky ... and I'll mostly be polite and listen ... but I trust God to be God even though I'm not certain of everything that is.

You can question how I live out my faith but I trust God to know I'm doing the very best I can.

You can tell me the world's going to Hell in a hand basket ... and that I am too ... and there can't be a God who allows the evils and injustices to occur like they do ... and I'll agree with your conclusions ... but then I trust God to keep this ol' world spinning in spite of all of the bad things that have happened on it.

You can point out the many times my heart's been broken by those who took advantage of me, lied to my face, took more than I have to give ... and that those I've loved have died and I am too so none of it matter in the end ... but I'm going to continue trusting God that those I love are taken care of though I have no idea how.

"You'd be a great minister if you were saved," is what he said.

And I trust God that I am.

Saved from the restrictions, constrictions, addictions, afflictions and conflictions of this world!

Saved from the Church and it's dogma, rules, judgment and requirement to conform.

Saved from myself and saved from you too!

And I'm going to continue trusting God that I'm saved regardless of what anybody says, thinks or does about it.

Who gave you the Authority?

Three of us sit at one end of a long, mahogany conference room table pouring over financial reports trying to uncover if anyone besides the Chief Financial Officer is involved in the misappropriation of $3.1 Million.

She'd done it over time, taking a few thousand each pay period to pay things she believed more important than taxes.

She's already been fired though I've endured the front page news calling my character into question because she did it on my watch and I'm desperate to make things right.

I'm also tired and hurt.

Twenty years earlier a lowly bookkeeper became my partner and in that time we'd built a spectacular company and she was one of the highest paid CFO's in the state.

If money was running short, she could have easily asked for help and it would have been given.

Instead she put everything at risk by not paying the federal Government taxes.

To this day I don't know if she fell in with the wrong crowd of advisers, funneled money through accounts she eventually got back or was simply in way over her head.

Mulling these thoughts over, one of the other's sits back speaking ruthlessly to the other.

"Do you have a copy of the Profit and Loss statement from ..." he demands in the most intimidating way ... like a Mobster on a shakedown right before he does bodily harm.

The President of a bank with greasy black hair, he's short with a Napoleonic complex and an Alabama accent ... a hateful man who's clawed himself to the top.

"I do," the other fearfully stammers in response.

A head full of white hair, he's the Chief Financial Officer because he was bored being retired ... "There's only so much golf you can play" and now he's doing his best to right someone else's wrong.

"Then get it now," the banker hisses.

Jumping up the old man knocks his coffee cup over, hurriedly pauses to clean the spill and pees the pants of his three peace suit a little.

"NOW," the banker orders.

The old man rushes from the room.

Staring from the end of the table, my chin resting in my hands, I ask, "Why'd you do that?"

Diabolically the little man laughs, "I'm good at it, aren't I?"

Grinning, he stares explaining, "I'm gifted with making people scared to do the right thing."

"Is that what you're doing?"

"You watch," he laughs, "he's too scared to not give me everything I want."

I don't like him ... and didn't like him from the moment we met several years earlier but now he's the Chairman of the Board of Directors and I'm President and Chief Executive Officer of the company.

He doesn't much care for me either.

For the moment though, we're stuck with each other, managing a mess that makes both of us look bad.

Now wishing he'd stayed retired the white hair man rushes back with stacks of papers ... the wet spot on his pants larger from where he tried to clean the piss ... and with a cracking voice says, "Here they are."

The meeting drones on but I go the French West Indies in my mind ... hot weather ... white sandy beaches ... crystal, clear aqua-blue water ... topless girls.

When it was all over ... the Banker won.

Banks normally do.

Mentally I was gone but the white hair man remained until he was no longer necessary and then he was gone too.

It's a funny way for thirty years of your life to come to an end.

For three decades I sacrificed most everything I had for what I believed ... if people would merely help others everything would be better ... God is love ... if we just love each other then the world becomes like God intends ... Love is all you need ... all you need is love.

Well, it's sad, but it's not true.

You need bankers too ... or at least people with money who'll help.

You need arms to fall into when people are mean as Hell, forever taking more than you're capable of giving.

You need those who reach out to you when you don't give a continental damn about reaching out to them.

You need people who'll talk with you ... not to you ... when you have nothing to say ... listen when you do ... and share drinks in silence when there are no words to be shared.

You need those who'll buy the drinks.

And you'll need those who'll order "Sweet Tea" when the last thing you need's another drink.

At the end of Jesus' life, he makes his way into Jerusalem and on the same day ... according to the ancient text ... does three things.

Rides in on a donkey like it's Mardi Gras hearing crowds sing, "Hosanna, Heysanna, sanna, sanna Hosanna."

Get's really mad at what passes for worship and throws over tables full of money, pulpits, offering plates and ... basically scares the Hell out of everybody so they flee an otherwise normal worship service ... which infuriates the Priests watching their profit margins shrink substantially.

Then, obviously because he can't get enough of a good thing, Jesus returns to the Temple for the third time in the same day, strolls around the courtyard, quite proud of himself according to the Greek in Mark's Gospel, and is confronted by the Priests and CFO's who are feeling the sting of lost money.

"By whose Authority did you do this?" they hiss like Bankers.

Cocky, Jesus answers, "I'll tell you what ... you answer this question first ... then I'll answer yours."

Not waiting for a response, he asks, "So when John the Baptist baptized me ... who gave him the authority ... Heaven or ... you guys? ... meaning organized religion.

Those guys have no response because if they say, "Heaven" it means you can be of God without organized ... and if they answer "He's one of us" ... then everybody might want to become "one of us" ... and get the perks of being special ... separate ... set apart ... holier than you ... better than you.

After giving them plenty of time, Jesus basically says, "Screw you! ... if you got nothing to say ... I've got nothing to say."

But the question remains.

Who gave John the Baptist the authority to baptize Jesus?

Let's be honest John was nuts.

He lived in the woods ... wore clothes made from dead animals ... ate locust and honey ... which I've never seen in a Grocery Store ... even Whole Foods ... told everybody they're nothing unless they turn their lives around.

People loved it.

John was crazy popular, in constant trouble because he criticized the Government then told everyone who cheered, they're no better than anyone who ever got elected.

But he was humble about it.

"I ain't nothing either," is how he put it. "Someone's coming along who's better than me."

The someone was Jesus ... a cousin John didn't know he had ... but recognized immediately ... baptized under protest ... and soon afterward was publicly executed by the Government with his head, literally, being served on a silver platter.

What a crazy question Jesus asked the powers that be!

Who gave this crazy man the authority to do the things he did.

The powers that be couldn't answer because if it wasn't them doing it ... the Presidents,  CEO's, Bankers, Lawyers, Elected Officials, Priests, Popes and Meteorologists ... then it must be God but God doesn't run the world ... they do.

So where did John get his Authority?

The powers that be don't know ... and if they do ... they're keeping it suppressed.

If it's the people ... well ... they seem to have put all their trust in Presidents, CFO's, Bankers, Lawyers, Elected Officials, Priest, Popes and Meteorologists who have nothing to do with low life's like John.

So where did his Authority come from?

I know.

You do too, though you may not remember.

It came from John, telling himself to follow the things he believed in ... give it everything he's got ... damn the consequences.

You know what?

God blessed it.

Jesus sought John's blessing before he ever did anything.

It's the same for you and me.

When we bless ourselves with the Authority to be us ... damn the consequences ... God blesses that ... cause we're giving ourselves the power to be what God intended all along.

"Hey," I say to the white hair man in the Board room that day, "will you excuse us. We need the room for a moment."

He looks at me ... so grateful ... I'll never forget that look ... so long as I live ... and he leaves.

"What?" the Banker spits. "That was unnecessary. We aren't finished."

"We are," I say, standing and leaving him there.

Walking away I hear him ordering me to return. He's not finished with me.

I walk to my car, drive home, grab a six pack and hit the beach.

Several months later, I'm forced to resign.

I have no doubt when they cut off John the Baptist's head and placed it on the silver platter to hand to the Kind who'd ordered it, he grinned a little.

He's the one remembered.

Not them.

He's the one God used to introduce the Messiah.

Not them.

He was the one with the Authority ... not them.

I was too.

So are you.

The Love Between Us

"What kind of damn minister are you?" Roma bellows from across the Pool Table.

If you've spent any amount of time on Tybee over the past 20 years, you remember Roma.

She remains a revered Icon on the island ...

Somehow, though I don't know how, she was a Queen but we met when she was a lowly "Yard Goddess" a 60 year old grass eating machine, watering your plants and trimming your hedges.

She was Tybee's first lawn care service and though she did excellent work, she didn't look the part with short, wild gray hair exploding from the red bandanna wrapped around her head, sitting over tan, bare shoulders before a colorful halter top left over from the 60's... no bra ... and khaki shorts.

Around 11 every morning she'd break for lunch, go to Fannie's, drink Miller Lite while playing the slot machine on the counter, meet Judy and John O'Neil ... Trolley Joe ... Chicago Bob and eventually me ... whom she call "The Rev."

After lunch, she went home, showered and changed before returning with the same basic collection of people to shoot pool.

It was not a friendly little game.

We were cut throat competitive and Roma was the best of us all ... with her short little sawed off pool cue.

It was an intense game and she's aiming to shoot.

"Dear Lord Jesus," I pray out loud, "make her miss."

Snickering, mostly with confidence, she hits the cue which hits the 9 ball which hits the 7 ball which ... misses.

"What kind of damn minister are you?" she bellows.

Lining up for my shot to win the game, I smile, catch her eyes and answer, "A damn good one."

She didn't miss another shot the rest of the game ... or the rest of the day ... wiping up the pool table with my ... holiness.

We became good friends, fiercely coming up with tangible expressions of our love.

Like the December morning I came out my house to drive to the Breakfast Club to find a lit reindeer, stolen from someone's yard, epoxied to the top of my car.

Have you ever driven down Butler Avenue while it's dark with a lit reindeer on your car?

Even back then, the Tybee Cops will you over.

"Roma why did you put a lit Reindeer on my car?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Roma protests though her blue eyes start to dance, a thin angry smile explodes into laughter as she falls into my arms.

"Let's to it to O'Neil tomorrow," she giggles as we still embrace.

So we do.

We did lots of other things too.

"I need you at City Council tonight," bellows one afternoon through the phone.

"No Roma," I insist. "I don't do City Council."

"Dammit," she snaps, "I need a minister and you're mine."

"Since when?" I roll my eyes.

"Since now!" she yells slamming down the phone.

So I go to City Council which I am loath to do but I love Roma so there I sit.

I'm so glad I went.

The controversy was allowing Golf Carts on the streets.

The issue was Howard ... you all know Howard ... he's got physical disabilities .... rides his Golf Cart mostly to the Wind Rose and around Tybrisa ... it's the only way he gets around.

Someone on Council thinks it sets a precedence for others to drive Gold Carts on sidewalks without lights at night while intoxicated and has introduced a motion to make life safer for Howard and everyone else who wants a Golf Cart on Tybee.

"You are profiling a paraplegic!" Roma tells the City Council.

Honestly at the time, there were perhaps three Golf Carts on the island but City Council could see the future and moved to get things under control before bad things started to happen.

And Howard had hit a couple of people on the sidewalk and run into a trash can or two late at night.

Council states facts.

Roma takes it as a personal afford on the disabled.

"Anything else Mrs. Roma?" the Mayor asks.

"Yeah," Roma yells. "If you don't do the right thing then ... Kiss this!"

And she moons them.

Sitting on a table in the back, I place my hand over my mouth and am speechless.

Everyone else in the room is speechless too.

Storming out, Roma glares at me nodding her head to follow.

"You want to get a beer?" she asks once we're outside.

""Yeah, sure," I shrug.

In those days you could still walk across the street from City Hall to get your beer from Spanky's or the DeSoto which is where the members of Council got there's before the meeting.

"How'd I do?" she asks taking a long drawl from the Miller Lite.

"Well, nobody could argue with the end," I answer.

"Yep," she infectiously grins as only she can.

"Lemmie ask you this," I ask as we open the third can. "Why was I here tonight?"

"Gwafff," as only Roma can laugh. "If things got out of hand you could have done something."

"What?" I stammer.

"You'd have handled it," she laughs as only she can. "You're the Rev."

"Roma," I explain, grabbing her wrinkly face in my hands, "you just mooned the entire City Council. There is nothing I could do to follow that."

"Prayed," she laughs.

"Or pay bail," I sigh.

That's Tybee as it used to be ... Roma was Queen ... Cops let you go ... Howard was the only one with a Golf Cart ... nobody cared if you dove off the end of the Pier ... the Beach Bum Parade was a fun water fight ... you could arrange the letters on the sign in front of City Hall to say "Fireworks at 9! Elvis at 10!" on July 4th and Police Chief McCutchen, drinking beer across the street watching O'Neil do it, would just laugh ... tap John on the shoulder and ask, "What are you doing?"

Lots has changed.

Roma's question hasn't.

"What kind of damn minister are you?"

Honestly, I'm still struggling to answer the question.

Years ago, I wrote a book ... Our From Under the Rock which was about me being a minister without a Church.

It's my favorite title.

"Upon this Rock I will build my Church, "Jesus told Peter.

That rock has crushed a lot of people and I, for one, was really glad to get out from under it.

The book tells the story of my crazy and aimless wandering ... a sojourn if you will ... from birth in the Southern Baptist Convention to a rock-and-roll band, teen-age pregnancy, marriage, Seminary, divorce, a stellar career, another marriage ... and leaving the Church.

Which is not the same as leaving God.

It's not that I ever stopped believing in holy and righteous things ... that people are more good than bad ... all you need is love ... love is all you need ... music heals ... forgiveness is better than getting even ... anger hurts you far more than whoever it's directed towards ... we're more than we believe we are ... music is the language of the Angels ... death's merely the next beginning.

I need to write a sequel ... Out From Under Another Rock because lots more has happened since.

The stellar career crashed against a brick wall, I got divorced again ... lost myself completely in despair ... "made enough money to buy Miami but pissed it all away" ... got found by love ... married her ... had a baby named for a revolutionary because God had lots to go with overthrowing everything about the way I thought things should be.

Here's the funny thing about it all.

Try as I may, and God Dammit I tried, I could never stop being the Rev.

It's like God had a plan.

"Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, "God says. "Before you were born I set you apart, I made you a Prophet to the nations" (Jeremiah 1:5).

I don't know about that prophet to the nations part but ... well there's no question I'm different ... molded in a way that my Jello of a life jiggles in another way than yours ... and every single one of us wonders about God ... especially if we don't believe.

Drinking beers outside of Fannie's on the sidewalk, I'd beaten her at pool and she was not happy.

"If you ever beat me, you can have my pool stick" she boasts knowing she can win any time she wants.

I hit an incredible, behind the back, bank off the side into the corner pocket shot.

"No flotching way," Roma says using the word she used to replace cussing, and she hands me her pool stick.

Not her favorite!

Another one.

This one.

Anyway, we're sitting on the sidewalk in front of Fannie's drinking beers after everyone else leaves, watching the "Tourons" ... combine the words "Tourist" with" Moron" equals "Touron" ... a word Roma invents to describe anyone she doesn't like ... and she says, "I have another present for you."

Reaching behind the throne Jenny Orr's made for her, Roma hands me a framed photograph of herself, as a teacher in Homerville, Georgia ... she is beautiful.

Long, flowing brown hair cascades on bare shoulders dripping into a white dress.

"Is this you?" I ask in disbelief.

"Shut up," she says before saying "flotching" in lots of various ways.

"Why?" I finally ask listening to the Ocean sloppily kiss the shore.

"I love you Rev."

Bursting into tears, I say, "I love you too Roma."

And if God is love, like the Bible says, then sure as Hell, the emptiness between us is full of it ... and we hug ... and in those days after Henrietta had died ... and I was divorced and alone ... we both went home ... me with her framed photograph ... knowing there's enough love in the world to find God anytime you need.

Roma and I gave it to each other that night.

"You know what you are Rev?" she asks toasting me.

"Yeah, the one who just beat you in Pool ... bad ... and won this stick ... that no one saw ... damn you!"

Giggling as only she could, Roma continues, "You're a damn good minister."

A long pregnant pause of silence follows as we lock eyes and finished our beers.

"You're not telling anyone are you?" I ask.

"About what?" she laughs, and we hug each other tightly before we both go our own way.

Scared to Laugh

I want to like Saturday Night Live.

I really do.

It's just not funny anymore.

Back in the day, it was friggen hilarious!

"Jane, you ignorant slut!"

The Bass-o-matic!

Mr. Robertson's Neighborhood!

Joe Pescipo Sports.

"You look marvelous!"

Today I watch in high hopes because everything looks right ... Alex Baldwin as POTUS ... every character Kate McKinnon, Kennon Thompson and Cecily Strong play ... the really unfunny new guys on Weekend Update.

I want to like them so bad ... and they all look perfect ... but it's just not funny.

Occasionally they give me a chortle.

Not a giggle, a spewing of drink, a belly laugh or uncontrollable fits of celebration ... but they sometimes, though not very often, make me chortle.

I know, I know ... everyone's going to say I'm old, romanticizing the humor of the past so the first cast was the best or ... Johnny Carson's better than any late night anything on now ... and Bugs Bunny is a hell of a lot funnier than any cartoon our two year old Che watches.

Why are today's cartoons politically correct?

Anything Stephen Wright, Rodney Dangerfield or Richard Pryor ever did was funnier than all the comics today combined.

Dean Martin, Sammy Davis Jr., Frank Sinatra and whoever else they chose to make up "The Rat Pack" were great!

Hell, Laugh-In and Hee-Haw are still funnier than anything Saturday Night Live puts on these days.

It makes sad.

We've lost our ability to poke fun at others and ourselves.

It's dangerous to laugh anymore!

You can get blackballed, fired, arrested or killed in today's politically correct world.

Every day, I get up and try to find things that make me laugh.

It's not what the world wants but it's what I need.

Today, I find humor in my past (how in the Hell did that happen?) ... in most every Che does ... the perplexities of living with 3 teenage girls ... being the Minister of a Church in a Bar ... at the lunacy of politics, religion and societal expectations.

The sad reality though is how few there are left in the world to make fun of how we live anymore and there's even fewer to laugh with anymore.

Because it seems as though everybody's scared to laugh anymore.

Staying Alive

The other night, sitting in the floor tenderly rubbing Sarah's feet we're watching our shows on Netflix, Prime and the Roku Channel.

While the world has gone to Hell in most ways, I gotta say I love the nighttime viewing options these days.

Growing up Dad would say, "Mike! Change the channel!"

That meant scooting my butt across the floor because he and Mom took up the sofa, so my brother and I sat on a rug in front of them to watch television.

I'd turn the knob from Channel 11 ... CBS ... to Channel 3 ... NBC ... and things were fine so long as something was on Dad wanted to watch.

"Turn it to the other one," he'd order if there wasn't, so I'd turn the knob to Channel 22 ... the new channel ABC ... which means I have to stand up and move the rabbit ear antennas around until the picture comes in straight.

To this day I don't care for ABC.

"Turn it back!" he'd bark as soon as he could see what was on.

Damn I hated that!

Now Sarah and I watch whatever we want from a satellite in space in real time and, though out of habit I still sit in the floor, I don't have to move to change the channel.

"You're using too much lotion on my feet," my wife scolds.

I have no idea what she's talking about.

She sticks her feet in my face, I squirt gobs of lotion in my hands and tenderly caress her feet.

How can I use too much?

I love her more than anything!

She deserves shit loads of lotion between her toes ... on her heals ... in the arch where she like it rough.

"You only need a dollop," she explains.

"That's what I used," I answer, rubbing the excess on my legs.

"Look at this," my wife coos, as I wipe more lotion into the carpet so I can change the channel.

Handing me her phone, she shows me one of those Face Book games, "What Song Is Your Life?"

Her's is "Imagine" by John Lennon.

"Sarah, it's easy to become jaded in the world we live in, but you've always had an incredible way of reminding people that in your life there is still beauty to be had."

"Damn, that's good baby!" I say, continuing to rub her feet with the excess lotion in my hands.

"You do it," she says.

"Naw, I don't do that stuff," I protest.

"Do it," she commands so I hit play and in the seconds it takes Face Book to examine my life, I'm thinking it's going to be Jimmy Buffett's "A Pirate Looks at Forty" or Bruce Cockburn's "Wondering where the Lions Are" ... when my phone beeps and we look to see.

Sarah busts out laughing.

"Well you can tell by the way I walk I'm a woman's man ... no time to talk."

"What the Hell?" I ask in disbelief.

But, yep, the song that best represents who I am as a person is "Staying Alive" by the Bee Gees.

"Micheal, you are a survivor," Face Book sums me up, "a dreamer who chases his desires often confronting harsh barriers and challenges but endures to continue the chase."

Or as the Brothers Gibb put it, "Music loud and women warm, I've been kicked around since I was born!"

Well, yeah ... I have to admit.

Dammit! How can Face Book know so much about who I really am?

THE FRIGGING BEE GEES?

But that's the thing though isn't it?

Who we believe we are normally isn't the truth of the matter.

We think we're much more than we really are ... or we're far less than God made us to become.

Sometimes others see us as we really are but, honestly most are too busy trying to portray themselves as they think they are.

"Do you not know that you are God's Temple and that God's Spirit dwells in you? If anyone destroys God's Temple, God will destroy him. For God's Temple is Holy and you are that Temple" (I Corinthians 3:16-17).

I mean I know I am God's Temple ... I mean I believe I am God's Temple ... and that makes me pretty damn good!

Go ahead, take a few moments and see for yourselves.

As James Brown used to sing, "I LOOK GOOD! YOU KNOW THE WAY THAT I SHOULD NOW!"

What?

That's not the words?

Okay, I feel good too! I get it.

I mean I should feel so good because I eat what I want ... drink what I want ... love who I love ... and only hang out with people who are cool, have it all together and have God's stamp of approval on their foreheads.

Like you.

Except ... I know that's a lie.

I mostly hang around people who are just like me.

If anyone destroys God's Temple ... meaning you and me ... then God will destroy him or her ... because you and I are Holy ... and, well, let me be completely honest here ... I think the only one's capable of destroying God's Temple is the one taking care of it ... you ... and me.

I have to say, it's a lot more interesting ... and fun ... watching you destroy your Temple than it is knowing you're watching me destroy mine.

But that's the truth of the matter.

We destroy what God's given us.

Not anyone else.

We do it to ourselves.

We merely blame others.

Here's the thing though ... something the Bee Gees have now taught me ... "But now, it's alright ... it's okay ... you may look the other way."

The other way is to stop destroying the Temple God gave us and start rebuilding it.

Rebuilding the Temple is a rich Biblical theme because we're so gloriously great at  destroying God's gifts so acknowledging we're the ones screwing ourselves is the first step in rebuilding.

So as jaded as my beautiful wife Sarah is, she has an incredible gift of reminding people there's still beauty to be had in their lives as she reminds herself there's beauty to be had in hers.

And me ... well, I'm still here defying the odds because I shouldn't be here at all ... dreaming bout things ... confronting harsh realities ... enduring so I can still dream.

 And you ... well, whatever it is that you're using to destroy the Temple God's given you is the very same array of gifts to rebuild the promise that YOU ARE!

Let's be honest.

We've all wrecked our Temples.

But we still got em.

We can clean them up and make the best of them we're capable of making because ... God's given us everything we need to make our lives beautiful.

What we do is up to us.

Destroy what God's given us or ... stay alive ... make the best out of what you got ... look away from the destruction ... try to understand ... understand you got the wings of Heaven on your shoes ... dance ... like King David danced.

What I hope and pray ... for myself and for you too ... is your're staying alive ... staying alive.

For your sake.

And for God's too!

Eating, Drinking and being Happy

Working late, catching up on lots of things time runs out, I leave unfinished so I can be on time. I don't want to leave but I'm the minister in charge of the evening service downstairs.

I hate Wednesday night Bible study but the five little old ladies who are the "congregation" of the inner city church love it!

I understand their love.

Two live in a senior citizen high rise, one in a run down shotgun house, while the other two share a small home in a slightly better neighborhood. The midweek service breaks them away from the loneliness they call home to be together again at the Church they refuse to let die.

As Pastor, I'm a full time student at the Seminary, part-time as their minister and live in the Church.

The building is a monstrosity, three floors of Sunday School rooms, a social Hall, kitchen, three apartments and a Sanctuary with a baptismal pool that seats 200 but on Wednesday nights perhaps ten gather in a nicely furnished space with sofas and coffee tables.

Making my way from the second floor down to the bottom floor, I hear noises stopping me dead in my tracks.

Located across the street from the projects, surrounded by homeless people sleeping outside, the porno district is only three blocks away and prostitutes are on every corner, the church has bars on the windows to keep people out!

Kids from the projects are forever breaking in because it beats the City park where the basketball rims are missing, the swings have been stolen and gangs gather to fight.

The stairwell is open so I stick my head underneath to find Bruce ... a homeless alcoholic who is my favorite!

From North Carolina, he once worked for Jimmy Swaggart driving a truck, loves country music and tells the story of how third wife tried to kill him with a butcher knife, concluding with, "God, sometimes I sure miss that woman!"

The longest I've ever seen him sober is 72 days.

Quite proud of this accomplishment, he opts to celebrate and has been drunk since.

Under the stairs he sits cross legged cradling a bottle of wine, weeping as he sings, "Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling me home."

When he sings the word "home" he sounds like a wounded wolf far off in the woods ... "Hoooooom."

"Hey Bruce," I say, crawling under the staircase with him. "What you doing?"

He jumps and glazed red eyes look me over before he snickers, "Jesus Christ Rev! You scared the living Hell out of me."

"Apparently not," I laugh.

Bruce starts to cry.

"It's all so fucked up Rev."

"Yeah ..." I agree. "It is."

We're silent for a while before I put my arm around him to say, "Hey listen, Church starts in a minute. The ladies would love to see you. Why don't you come on?"

"Awww," he cries harder, "I can't let them see me like this."

We're silent again.

"Well, we're having Communion tonight," I lie, "but we're out of wine. Can we use yours?

"What?" he asks, clutching the bottle.

"It's for the ladies" I explain.

"Aw, I love the ladies," he sniffles. "Yeah, Hell ... they can have it," and he hands it over.

"Thanks Bruce," I say getting up. "You sure you don't want to come?"

"Naw, I'm just gonna go to sleep," he answers laying down on the floor.

"Alright, I'll check on you later."

Strolling into the Wednesday evening service with the half empty bottle, the ladies are distraught ... "We didn't know it was Communion!"

Now I come from a fine family of drinkers, am one myself and it was simply part of life growing up.

Growing up, if you were pulled over for underage drinking the cops, who knew you and you knew them, would tell you to get your butt home before anything bad happened.

At the same time, I grew up in a Baptist Church that preached if you drank alcohol, you'd go straight to Hell, especially if girls were involved.

There was a creative tension where I grew up.

Drinking was fine as long as you didn't do anything stupid.

In time, I learned what the disease can do to people, spent years helping people enter recovery or opting not to, witnessing incredibly ruthlessness and unfathomable kindness, miraculous resurrections and bittersweet tragedy.

Just last week my friend Jimmie Chambers died.

Some of you may remember Jimmie as he lived on Tybee for a while, often looking like a passed out, white whale washed up under the Pier.

A true miracle of a man, Jimmie outlived himself for decades.

The stories he leaves are many.

An EMS worker tells me he has a delivery so I follow him to the ambulance, the door opens and Jimmie waves from the stretcher.

"Medically, he's dead," I'm told.

"He doesn't look dead," I answer shaking my head.

"Well, he should be," he explains unbuckling Jimmie.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Releasing him to you," he tells me.

"I don't want him" I say.

"We don't either," he responds releasing the patient.

Jimmie stands on wobbly knees, reeking of God knows what, puts his arm around me, burps and asks, "Hey Rev. You got a Bible I can borrow? I could use one about right now."

As the ambulance peels out, Jimmie follows me inside.

Last year, I'm pushing our baby Che in her stroller across the Pier making our way to the bait shop to hang out with Tennessee and Evelyn and watch the sun rise.

"Rev," I hear. "Slow down!"

It's Jimmie, sitting at a picnic table drinking a beer.

"No," I answer, pushing Che faster.

"Fine," he grins, "I'll walk with y'all," and he catches up but, out of breath, puts a hand on my shoulder and pulls me to a bench.

"Did you ever find my Bible?" I ask.

"Naw," he laughs. "You should have never lent me your personal Bible. Why'd you do that?"

I shake my head and give Che her bottle.

"Anyway, I just want to say thanks," he says seriously. "You've saved me a thousand times ... wait a minute! ... is that a baby?"

Jimmie was a master carpenter but, like a lot of  not very observant person, unless he needs a drink then he knew where and how to find one.

"Meet my daughter Che," I say.

Jimmie burps in disbelief.

Che giggles.

I could go on. I've been blessed with lots of people in my life who drank too much and some, though by no means all, died too young.

In that respect, I'm also blessed with those who didn't drink at all, or barely at all, who died too early or are still around.

Medically, there may be rhyme or reason to it, but not theologically, which is the point of Ecclesiastes in the Bible.

You can't figure out good and bad in life, Koholeth (the Preacher) argues. Stupid people are rich and the wisest live in poverty ... mean men live forever it seems while good women die young ... and no matter what you do, everybody dies.

So, "as you make your way in life, eat your food with joy, and drink wine with a good heart, for God accepts who you are" (Ecclesiastes 9:7).

That's the Good News of the Gospel!

Your life may be good or it may be so damn bad you can't help but cry, but either way you're going to die but that's not the point!

It's just the reality of living ... it comes to an end.

So, God says, eat ... drink ... and be merry ... or have fun in your life!

Enjoy it as best you can because it's a gift from God ... you life ... and there's going to be good and bad in it ... but do your very best to enjoy everything as best you can!

Don't get too smug when things are going great ... and don't beat yourself up when things are terrible ... it's life ... and it's the most incredible gift from God ... so the key is to enjoy it the very best you can!

Don't go too crazy enjoying things, the Bible goes on to say ... remember to be nice to others while you're being nice to yourself ... and God so loves you he gave his only son that if you remember you won't die while you're living but have this crazy, wonderful life that's celebrated.

So ... I'd like to take a moment to raise a toast.

Here's to you Bruce ... thank you for the wine that night ... the ladies loved it after I told them what had happened ... and I never did see you sober again after those 72 days ... but I heard you were happy walking across the bridge that night you fell into the Ohio River and ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven working part time as the wine steward every time they have the Lord's Supper.

Here's to you Jimmie Chambers ... thank you for letting me be one of the many witnesses who watched you raise himself from the dead ... again and again AND AGAIN ... if cats do indeed have nine lives you put every one to shame and leave them envious as Hell and, again ... I don't know but I believe ... you're in Heaven fixing things that break when you're sober and singing off key with choirs of Angels when you're not.

And here's to each of you today ... thank you for taking some time to worship with me ... in a way that works for us though it may not for others ... I know lots of your stories, the good and the bad that's happened ... and you know mine too ... and here we are making a congregation in a bar ... and, I don't know but I believe ... we're the kind of church you meant when it began all those years ago and because of it, Heaven comes on earth for a little bit at least on Sunday mornings here.

Finally, here's to you God ... thank you for this gift of life! ... These gifts of life! ... thank you for coming down from Heaven to hang out in the back room during Church and in our hearts during the week ... and, I don't know but I believe ... you're just getting us ready for the next gift after we're done celebrating this one.

The end of it all is this last raising of the glass and to say, in the words of our dear Saint Gordo, SALUTE!

Amen!

Exorcism and me

I know all about Exorcism because in 1973 my girlfriend and I went to the Lucas Theater and saw "The Exorcist."

You can say what you want, "The Exorcist" is the scariest damn movie ever made.

Forget about "The Shining", "Halloween", "The Texas Chain Saw Massacre." "The Silence of the Lambs," and even "Jaws" ... they're not as scary.

If you've never seen it, or don't believe in the Devil (who happens to be the star of the movie though he never makes an appearance) ... it's so easy to watch it on your television or phone tonight ... and I'll do my best to stay up and take your call when you can't sleep and need someone to assure you everything's gonna be alright.

This is what Billy Graham said about "The Exorcist."

"There is a power of evil in the film," the world's greatest televangelist said, "in the fabric of the film itself."

Oh man! If you can scare Billy Graham, you can scare anybody!

It's based on the true story of two Jesuit Priests in St. Louis performing an Exorcism on 12 year old Ronald Hunkeler, who's bed shakes as he yells obscenities in a guttural voice unlike his own, with markings on his body spelling words and urinating on the service.

That's scary enough but the movie takes it to a different level with turning heads, green vomit, the sexual use of a Crucifix and ... the deaths of the two Priests ... one beaten by Satan ... and the other ... well ... may have killed a Demon with himself.

Let me tell you, when I held my girlfriend that night ... thoughts of teenage sex were not involved.

I was a religious kids growing up, a crazy combination of Southern Baptist and rock-n-roll, mini-skirts and Church youth camps, sexual revolution and teenage hormones ... Richard Nixon in the Oval office and a poster of Raquel Welch on my bedroom wall.

I was doomed to be easy pickings for Satan.

"The Exorcist" just let me know how serious it all was.

By the time I got to Seminary I had lots of questions about exorcism.

Unfortunately the Professors weren't interested in answering any of them because they're indoctrinating me with anti-sex, anti-gay, anti-dancing, anti-drinking, anti-tobacco, anti-women ... pretty much they're against everything.

I even learned it's a sin to put amaretto in cake!!

It wasn't long before the only thing I cared about excommunicating myself from was them!

So, I hired a woman to be the Associate Pastor at our Church ... got heavily involved in helping people with AIDS ... was quoted in the paper saying "Homosexual the most Christian person I know" ... chewed tobacco ... drank rum-and-coke in Hebrew class (it greatly helps pronunciation) ... kid-napped a woman professor once ... had a lot of sex and ... put amaretto in the cake.

In no time at all they excommunicated themselves from my life.

I didn't have to do anything except ... be myself.

{Okay, I can't tell that true story without telling this one ... a few years later, the Baptists call to ask if I'll attend one of their conventions and give a speech titled, "A Baptist's Response to AIDS."

"What you asking me?" I ask.

"Well," he hemmed, "you are Baptist and ... you have one."

HAHAHA ... nobody every said Baptists aren't funny!}

Through the years though I've learned about excommunication ... and it's nowhere near as bad as I thought.

The other day, Sarah and I are fighting through conversation like all people in love sometimes do ... when we got married she brought baggage and I brought baggage ... and none of our baggage matches ... and sometimes we have to point that out ... and it's one of those times.

She brings up my past and I bring up hers and I say, "You know, there have been some bad people in my life who did bad things to me ... even when I was trying to love them ... especially when I was doing my best to love them."

She stops and gives me the intense concentration only she does through crazy aqua-blue eyes.

"I can name my Demons," I softly continue and name them."

Sarah nods because she knows.

"Whenever they pop into my head," I continue, "I excommunicate them."

They were friends, co-workers and a wife ... and each hurt me horribly.

If you've seen "The Exorcist", read the book or actually been to an excommunication ... it's not easy to do.

The big scene in "The Exorcist" is the ... exorcism.

Oh man, it is scary stuff!

Demons don't easily leave.

Their mark stays on you.

I can show you their scars ... they're all right here ... on my heart.

Of course if you ever talk to my Demons, they'll likely explain that I'm the evil one.

That's what makes excommunication so damn hard.

Sometimes you're not really certain who the Demon is.

You can never really come to terms with the fact that you did everything you knew how to do, in the best ways you knew at the time, to show them how much you loved them.

Demons, though, are not about love.

They're anti-love ... kinda like the Baptists.

So not matter what ... it's your fault.

But, here's how excommunication works.

If you know in your heart you gave it your very best ... loved as much as you were capable at the time ... carried them when they couldn't, or wouldn't, carry you ... kindness was taken advantage of and your love you gave them was rejected.

You have to let them go.

Keeping them and the memories of failure, hurt and rejection eat away at the time, energy and love needed to live fully in the present.

You cast them out of your life.

If it makes you feel better you can do it with a prayer they'll learn to accept love without manipulating it ... a wish of good luck or the hope good karma replaces the bad.

But that's really for you more than it is for them.

You can also say, "God bless their tiny little black hearts" and give 'em right back to Satan himself.

Whichever works.

The important thing is to get bad people out of your life and replace them with good ones.

And you don't have to be nice about it either. Take off your flip-flops and shake their dust from your being ... is how Jesus put it.

It's not as easy as it seems because you never really get over or forget the hurt they inflicted on you ... and they're good at visiting in night time dreams, day light memories or silly reminders.

Sarah seems to understand when I tell her, "I'm excommunicating them," and Lord knows she's the biggest reason my life has, and is, continuing to move on in new and better directions.

A few moments later, I kiss her cheek.

The movie ends with the once Demon possessed girl is leaving for a new place to live when she passes a Priest and is moved to kiss him on the cheek.

She has no memory of the Demon who'd possessed her but something of the two Priests who gave their lives so that she could live again is now part of who she's become.

The final step of exorcism is showing love for who loves you while deliberately walking away from those who don't ... and never looking back.

White heads and Black heads

I remember the night Martin Luther King was shot.

I was 12.

My Dad flies inside the house like a madman, scared out of his wits, talking about rioting in the streets, tossing a pamphlet on the kitchen table, hugging Mom.

He's so loud I can't concentrate on Gomer Pyle, U.S.M.C., the television show I, and a majority of Americans are watching.

Dad's a former Marine, loves Gomer like I do, so I can't figure out why he's not watching.

Walking the eight steps from the television to the kitchen table, I pick up the pamphlet and read about the three greatest men who've ever lived ... Jesus in black and white ... Abraham Lincoln in black and white ... and Martin Luther King in color.

I find that funny now but there's nothing to laugh about on Thursday, April 4, 1968.

I recall not having any particular problems the three greatest men who ever lived but, then, I would have placed John Lennon in Abraham Lincoln's slot.

I was, and am, a tremendous fan of the Beatles.

That's all I remember about that night.

Sometime that year though ... I'm at Mercer Middle School for a dance.

Mom and Dad are chaperons.

There's a record player in the Gym and white kids dance on one side of the room while black kids are on the other.

Occasionally we cross the imaginary line and talk to each other.

Sammy Childs and I cross it.

"Hey man," he smiles ... Sammy has his infectious smile ... on a black face with white heads ... and I'm a white kids with black heads ... "you people can't dance."

"Yes I can," I counter.

"Well you can," he says flashing the infectious smile, "but they can't."

I look at what he sees.

"Yeah, they can't," I agree.

Later I'm the one crossing the imaginary line to ask a girl in a purple saffron dress to dance.

We're surrounded by her friends, all black, Sammy smiling, and to this day, I see her black face flash the whitest of smiles, take my hand and we dance, on the other side of the imaginary line.

The following Monday I'm beaten up for dancing with a black girl.

Years later I remember ... sitting in the office Martin Luther King once called his, staring at his stuff ... meeting his wife alone in a hallway of the Ebeneezer Baptist Church ... hanging out with Will D. Campbell who was there the night Dr. King was shot and wrote the preface of my first book ... conquering the racial divide until resentment erupts and the beloved community collapses on top of a dream.

On this day there are parades, sermons, cookouts, white racism, black-on-black murder and white kids from Kentucky wearing "Make America Great Again" baseball caps and Native Americans called racists by Black Hebrew Israelite's.

I've come to believe that Martin Luther King Day in the United States will soon be like Pearl Harbor Day ... except for those who were there ... no one will care.

The Last Page

"WHAT?" I hear her scream.

"No, NO NOOOOO!!!!" she continues from the apartment next door.

I smile.

"Where is it? Where is it?" she asks, rummaging around the chair I know she's sitting in, picking up the books from her desk and then throwing something against the wall.

Sitting on the sofa in my apartment, I hear everything through walls as thin as toilet paper, on the top floor of the Inner City complex we call home.

Shifting my position on couch, I wait and giggle when she pounds on my door.

"Come in," I sweetly call. "It's unlocked."

It's unlocked because there are three apartments on the third floor of the Church building we live in, and there are three heavy steel locked doors to unlock before reaching our paradise.

Kicking the door open, she rushes in huffing and puffing ... red faced with shoulder length red hair, the angry look of a serial killer ... which is hard with the smattering of freckles on her face ... she's barefoot, wearing a blouse as white as an Angel's robe and skin tight blue jeans that'd make Satan proud.

"What have you done with it?" she demands.

"What?" I innocently ask.

"You know damn well what I'm talking about!" she hisses.

"That's no way for a Seminary student to ..."

"Shut the Hell Up!" she snaps. "Where is it?"

"You can't just storm in here accusing me of something I have no idea about," I calmly offer.

She angrily huffs but finds no words.

In silence I explain, "I'm literally sitting her studying my Sunday School lesson," holding up the monthly pamphlet I've taken from the unused thousands the Baptists send us every month ... except for five ... studied by the five little old ladies who actually attend class.

"Don't give me that shit," she yells knocking the religious indoctrination from my hand.

Standing, I place a hand on her shoulder, saying, "You want to have prayer or something?"

"I was finished!" she stammers, "but the last page of the book I'm reading ... that I have to read ... AND FINISH ... is missing."

"Really?" I ask full of pastoral concern. "I don't know anything about that."

"It was you!" she snaps, sticking a pointed finger in my chest.

"I swear on a Bible," I say with a grin, "I didn't ..."

"I HATE YOU!" she screams leaving and slamming the door behind her.

Tossing the Sunday School book in the trash, I collapse on the sofa laughing.

Of course it was me.

Knowing how important the assignment is to first year Seminarian, it means the Second Coming occurs if she doesn't complete the assignment, I'd sneak into her apartment and ripped the last page out of her book.

Later she tells me it's one of those books where you learn everything on the last page.

Who knew?

A couple of days later, when I can't take the sound of her crying any longer, I stroll inside her apartment, retrieve her Bible, flip through the pages until I find what she's looking for ... where I'd stuck it for safe keeping ... figuring she'd never look for it there ... and hand her the last page.

Tremendous relief flushes her face but she composes herself before hissing, "I will get you back."

Cindy goes on to complete the assignment on time, gets an "A" and moves into another apartment as soon as possible.

Seminary will test you in lots more ways than spiritually.

The last page ...

Over coffee the other morning, I'm scanning the news on my laptop while Che eats a bowl of colored rainbows, hearts, stars and clovers from her Mom's box of "Lucky Charms" and find a story about a man I admire, who's shocked many by suddenly retiring.

He wasn't expecting it.

I like this guy and am surprised by the decision to end his career.

He's younger than me and am surprised at his explanation.

"This isn't how I thought it'd end. I would have another ending but we don't get to write the last page."

My mind races through all the endings I didn't write.

High School threw me out before I was done so I certainly didn't write that ending.

My parents took a cue from my former teachers and followed suit so I went to College where after five years they threw me out too ... along with my wife and son.

That's when God calls me to go to Seminary where it took the far longer for them to write my ending and I got a Masters of Divinity, a Masters of Social Work and a court order to not return.

My marriage ended poorly followed by another that ended worse and when a Judge is the author of the last page it's never a good finale.

I had a killer career until it almost killed me and, though I'd have never written that ending, thank God it's over.

There's more but you get the gist, we're not the authors of the end of much anything.

It's funny really because we're the author of most everything about how we live.

The other day I visited a dying lady and this is what happened.

The sun's setting in her brown eyes as the the green oxygen tank hisses and puffs air through the tube into her nose.

Holding her hand I ask if we can pray.

Light flashes in her eyes from the setting sun as she moves her mouth but no word escapes so, ever so slightly, she nods.

On her behalf, I thank God for the gift of her life, her joys and sorrows, good times and bad, everything that went right and for surviving the things that didn't.

Opening my eyes, the brown setting sun is focused on mine and she nods, cracking a crooked smile as her eyes close.

The green tank hisses pushing air inside her lungs offering the gift of tidying up any unresolved issues as she lets go of this life and embraces God's next gift."

I was the one who said the words of her last prayer uttered as she lay in bed with the Hospice Nurse hovering near and her significant other having a beer in the kitchen with a friend.

I'm pretty sure it's not the way she would have written her end.

I know that's not how I want the last page of my life written.

But here's the thing ... as certainly as life has an end, death marks a new beginning.

None of us know what's next but a lot of us sure as Hell believe there's more.

"For God so loves the world," Sunday School books teach us, 'that if you believe" ... there's more! ... is how I'd translate it.

As the sun was setting in the dying woman's eyes, as I opened mine from saying her prayer, she was laser focused as though I'd said something that didn't need saying or that she couldn't believe I'd said it for her.

Then she closed her eyes and with the hissing help of the green tank she lives on.

Those of you who know me know Frederick Buencher is my favorite author and has written thirty-six books.

I proudly own first editions of each.

Not long ago I was working on something and dug out one the wise old Saint wrote in 1970 and, to my horror, the last page was ripped out and missing.

"WHAT?" I exclaim!

Flipping through it I find an inscription on the inside cover, apparently penned on my 25th birthday.

To Mike

Happy 1/4 of a Century! If the next 25 years enlighten you as much as the past 25 years has, I hope to have the pleasure of meeting you all over again at 50 --- "a grey bearded caring pastor who ... you finish it!"

Love in Christ,

Cindy

"Well, I'll be damned," I laugh holding the book.

The book remains and life goes on way after the next 25 years in Cindy's inscription.

If anything, it's just getting started with Sarah, Che, the girls and the kids and this marvelous collection of crazy people making up Bar Church!

And just as Benny had killed Bar Church a couple of weeks ago, let here we are! ... still worshiping in a Bar ... and one with far more love.

And come to think of it, I really can't tell if the sun was setting, or is rising, in the dying woman's eyes.

Screw 'em! Let's worship!

They tried to kill us you know.

It's the principalities we wrestle against ... the powers that be ... the rulers of darkness in the world ... the spiritual wickedness in high places (Ephesians 6:12).

It wasn't Benny or Rose who tried to shut us down. They were merely making sound business decisions reflecting the culture of the times.

They simply believe more money's made on Sundays if brunch and alcohol are served without Church service when the Bar opens.

You can't fault their logic.

The last thing anybody wants when they're drinking is having religion shoved in their face while they're nursing a cold one.

On Sunday's people look for a good time with others ... a laugh or two ... some good ol' fashion fellowship and, well God knows, you can't have that with Church going on!

And let's be honest ... Church music isn't the kind of sounds joyful gatherings are built around!

Church songs are about "standing in the need of prayer" ... "Jesus softly and tenderly calling us home" ... "Onward Christian Soldiers" ... none of these songs inspire drinking.

They're bad for business because Church doesn't add to the bottom line.

Worship should be confined to stained glass buildings where it belongs, not in bars or where people actually live their lives.

So in a pure business decision, it was decided Bar Church had to go.

Benny's was ready.

Bar Church? ... not so much.

We've just gotten started.

It's fun!

So here we are!

And it brings worship where people are and prefer to be.

Thank you to Jennifer Knox for giving this strange brew of faith a home.

This is how it happened.

After last Sunday's service, we were homeless as the year ended, having packed all our worldly possessions into mine and Davy's cars.

It's the Christmas season and everyone's celebrating and that's a terrible time to look for a place ... though thinking about it ... isn't that what Joseph and Mary were doing at Christmas? ... looking for a place so Jesus would come?

On the day after Christmas, I ride over to Monty's to get the lay of the land. He gives me wise council so I strike out to ... well ... strike out.

The first place I contact to house Bar Church doesn't return my calls.

The second place meets with me but with suspicion. As a matter of fact, I did all the talking. The only words he said were, "I'll get back to you."

I meander to The Sand Bar but the doors are locked and, while Jennifer and I are Facebook friends, I don't have her number so ... I go home.

Driving, I say a prayer ... "Lord, why did you send me to Monty's first? I could already be home by now."

Once home, I message Jennifer and, this is what happened.

I make the very attractive pitch ... "We're a homeless Church. You got any room in the Inn?"

This was the response ...  "Hi! Wow! I'm so glad that you reached out to me! God is very much a part of our life, and we would love to discuss this further."

We set a time and I call Monty to attend the meeting because he made me leave my house for no apparent reason so I figure it's time for pay back.

Monty, Jennifer and Pam are waiting when I stroll in ... giving a clear indication that Bar Church never starts right on time.

Monty's drinking a beer.

That's a good sign.

The four of us collect in front of the bar and I make the pitch again ... "We're a homeless Church at Christmastime. You got any room in the Inn?"

Monty shakes his head, takes a swig, looks at me rolling his eyes, and without using words says, "That's the best you can do?"

Then Jennifer speaks.

She's not feeling well. Her eyes are red and puffy and she's given us the sideways "I'm sick" hug and can't touch you which is often "I don't really want to hug you so I'm pretending I'm sick."

Truth is she is sick and growing more ill.

"I was sitting with a new five year lease spread out in front of my asking God what I should do," she explains, "when your message came."

I lean forward.

Monty puts his beer on the bar.

Jennifer says, "It's like God's saying, 'This is what you should do.'"

Her eyes are moist as she speaks.

Salt water wells in mine.

Monty takes another swig, wipes his mouth with a shirt sleeve and waits for the rest.

So I get all business like and tell Jenn everything Bar Church can does ... they'll be crowd of 20 to 60 each week ... who mostly clean up after themselves ... many of whom will order as soon as the Bar's open ... either because the Bar's open or the preaching sucks ... and there's Live Music ... a Potluck on the Pool table ... and a congregation like you've never seen before."

Monty drains his beer.

Jennifer says, "I think God's answering my question."

A couple of tears make their way down my face and ... I know ... this deal is done.

God has spoken.

And ... here we are in a place every bit as Holy as the stable Joseph found for Mary to give birth ... with Shepherds and Wise guys ... and Angels high enough to sing from up there ... and God smiling down on the gift of his only begotten son.

So that if we just believe ... concludes St. John and as Bob Marley says ... every little thing's gonna be alright.

I'm fond of saying, and believe Eli Wiesel right when he said, "God's greatest gift is the chance to start over."

We are being born again.

I'm sure  powers that be ... the rulers of darkness in the world ... the spiritual wickedness in high places ... aren't happy about!

But you know what?

Screw them!

Let's worship!

Not A Bad Way To Start the New Year

Sipping coffee in the glow of the white lights of the Christmas Tree, the house is quiet and dark as Sarah sleeps in our bed and Che slumbers in her crib.

In the middle of the night, worst fears and bad dreams come to life, so I've wandered in both bedrooms to make certain the loves of my life are breathing.

Maddie, Laurel and Cass are elsewhere on this predawn New Years Day, celebrating the future as only teenagers can.

Sickness has been a constant visitor in our home, touching each member of our family, passing back and forth between the girls and after a month, I suppose it's my turn.

At 2:10 I can no longer sleep because of exploding sinuses and after an hour of positioning myself in every conceivable way, I crawl in the shower for steaming hot water to loosen up my nasal cavities.

"Hello darkness, my old friend," I hum but the lights of the Christmas Tree make it seem Holy somehow and not so bad.

Snippets of the conversation Sarah and I had earlier bounce around my head.

Talking about the changes in our lives that occurred last year, the coming changes as Maddie leaves for College soon, where Che's going to school, the challenges of balancing finances with quality-of-life, we communicate as we rarely can with the hustle and bustle of a full home.

At one point I say, "In spite of everything we don't have, lots of people would kill for what we do have ... mostly a house full of crazy love and non-stop madness."

I got a lot but sometimes I wish for more than I got.

I suppose it's human nature to be selfish.

Sitting here I focus on being thankful.

I'm married to a remarkable woman, a strange brew of toughness, uncompromising standards, laser vision on what she wants, spontaneity and a love for me so deep it defies comprehension.

She keeps me on my toes.

I have no idea what or where or who I would be without her.

Two year old Che is non-stop delight, learning her words ... "Daddy no Mom" she says to Sarah handing her the piece of candy I refuse to open because I'd already opened too many ... and the way she looks back at me, as though to make sure I understand that she understands she has options ... makes us explode in laughter.

When we laugh, Che bends over, puts her tiny hand in front of her mouth and laughs too.

It's pure, unadulterated joy!

Most people live years without having such a moment.

Maddie's away celebrating the New Year with her boyfriend. She's as screwy as any teenager ever born, part brilliant ... part clueless ... but before she leaves, she hugs me with wet hair and says, "I love you" and ... well, lots of people never experience such moments.

Laurel is my kid because she's forever getting herself in trouble like I do and she enjoys every second of it.

Driving her to the sleepover yesterday, she sips Starbucks and asks, "What are you and Mom doing for New Years?"

Taking the turn out of the parking lot, I reply, "Well, tonight I'm tying your Mom to the bed, gonna have my way with her and then she's going to have her way with me."

Focusing on her latte, she asks, "Does Mom know about this?"

"Naw, it's a surprise."

She laughs, spewing whipped cream on the dashboard.

"I love you Mike," she says getting out.

Driving home I ponder all the lonely people.

Cassidy's with her Dad, meaning there's no sink full of dirty dishes, her room's mostly clean, she's not biding her time through supper so she can sneak a gallon of ice cream to her room and spend the night on Instagram.

Her absence exacerbates the silence.

"What are you doing?" Sarah startles me, standing in the soft glow of the Christmas Tree, hair askew from her pillow.

"Go back to sleep. My sinuses exploded."

"It's the alcohol," she mutters crawling back in bed. "It makes it worse."

Pouring another cup of coffee, I suck the steamy aroma up my nose, wonder about our grandson Ethan and the coming granddaughter Chelsea's giving us soon.

I'm grateful my children are healthy, doing well and seem happy.

Returning to my seat, I'm glad it's warm outside.

Yesterday, Sarah and I strung up outside lights for Che so I turn them on and find myself looking forward to the hours I'll spend watching her play under them.

I do have a lot and I know it.

Still, I want more.

Travel ... time with old friends ... making new ones ... seeing and doing things I've never done before ... tying Sarah to a bed and having my way with her.

Then I think, it's God who wanted me to get up when it's dark and quiet, in the soft glow of the Christmas Tree lights, without the hustle and bustle of a house full of moving parts, so I have the time to appreciate everything I've got and to fully consider what else I want.

It's not a bad way to start this New Year.