One sided Prayer

"Hey God! You listening?"

There is only silence.

"Of course you're listening. You're God! You're always listening."

More silence.

"I'd like for you to talk a little more."

Nothing.

"Fine. You don't have to talk but I have a few things I need to share with you."

Sarah's in bed reading an inspirational book she ordered from somewhere. Che's watching a movie about a bear and a baby on television. Laurel, our 16 year old, is still asleep upstairs. This may be my only uninterrupted moment I have today.

Every day is insanely busy at our house. From the moment I get out of bed, Che and I interact by snuggling, tickling, singing, taking or giving a bath, eating breakfast, getting dressed, taking walks or playing in her room.

Sarah crawls out of bed already focused on fighting numerous battles at the same time in a complicated war against injustice for patients with disabilities, productivity during a pandemic, structure for three teenage girls, potential financial destruction by the American Health Care system that values profit over physical fitness while caring for a husband with pancreatic cancer.

Laurel will sleep until noon oblivious to these things.

Diving back into the silence by drowning out the bear, the baby and Che's squeals of delight, I get back to the one sided conversation which is prayer.

"Anyway God, I don't understand what's happening. I mean the last couple of years we were hit by two hurricanes, a costly lawsuit, job losses, ongoing sickness, a move and a pandemic. Don't you think adding pancreatic cancer right now is a bit much?"

God doesn't say anything.

My prayer runs out of steam with the silence so I mull things over trying to feel my way through.

From the bedroom I hear Sarah talking to her Mom who lives in New York. Che contently eats a Rice Krispy Cake staring intently at the bear and the baby decorating a Christmas Tree. Laurel's still sleeps.

"It just doesn't seem fair," I say to the silence.

Life will not be the same after Friday. At least it won't for me. Probably not for Sarah and the girls either. This is assuming I survive which the Doctor assured me is bound to happen ... unless something goes wrong. If that happens then the chances of me dying increases greatly.

I had no idea they teach Murphy's Law in Medical School!

But if everything goes right, I get to keep living, albeit in a drastically different way ... at least for the foreseeable future.

"You know God," I say staring out the windows, "this is all far worse to Sarah than me and that really doesn't seem fair either! She's done nothing."

I feel God agreeing but nothing's said one way or the other.

"Dada," Che interrupts. "I need Red Juice."

Red Juice is Hawaiian Fruit punch which our 3 year old drinks by the gallon. Grabbing her empty cup, I stumble into the kitchen, fill her sippy cup and hand it back to her.

"Sit with me Dada," she asks. Che knows I'm sick, starting every day by asking if I have to go to the Doctor. We're honest with her and she struggles to understand knowing something's wrong. I slide beside her on the sofa and she resumes watching the bear and the baby.

"It's not fair to her either," I tell God.

The noise from the television fills the room.

I reflect of the times I spoke in front of congregations ranging from grand city cathedrals to one in the church in a bar on an island ... conventions of thousands to one person sitting across the table ... in homes and hospital rooms ... blessing newborn babes or laying old bodies in the ground ... in every setting, I've presumed to speak for you while you're content keeping silent.

I said you are love personified ... always with us ... that you're not loud, boisterous or sound like clanging cymbals ... but that you're still a small voice, barely audible, only occasionally needing words to make your point.

Sarah meanders from the bedroom to check on us, sees me sitting with Che watching the bear and the baby and quietly joins us.

My phone vibrates and, hitting the icon, I read several new messages adding to the hundreds already received from people I've known all my life, scattered to and fro on the face of the earth, most I haven't spoken to in years, often decades, all sending love, prayers, words of encouragement, arranging times for meals to be delivered or get our address to send gift cards or money.

It suddenly strikes me that while I may not understand why things happen to me or see any justification in any of it, I'm certainly not alone in facing them.

Salt water wells in my eyes as I understand that without saying a word God has been letting me know all along.

I'd simply made the mistake of looking up instead of around.

It's a common mistake when it comes to God and, especially, religion.

Che lays her head in my lap.

Sarah reaches her hand out to hold mine and we exchange phones  to read messages from people who are sharing love with us as best they can.

The bear and the baby sing a song and Che giggles.

The room seems full as the three of us cuddle in a corner.

"Amen," I softly say, wiping my eyes.

My Community of Believers

Learning I have Pancreatic Cancer is overwhelming, crashing into my world of schemes and dreams with a cold, hard slap of the reality of mortality.

Immediately, I think of life without me.

Sarah, Che, the girls, kids and my grandchildren fill me with visions of what it'll be like for them when I'm gone loading me with melancholy.

I see lives without me, after all the world goes on as I've witnessed hundreds of times already when people I love and respected died and, life goes after they left ... as it will when I finally leave.

A believer in spiritual things, I'm convinced it doesn't simply end, though it may and that's okay if it does because it's been a rich and wonderful life I've lived, so who am I to ask for more, though I do and am convinced God's got plans.

We'll see, as I'm fond of saying about most things promised.

Things settled though and now I'm living with Cancer which is a whole new way of getting through days, using all my energy to fight the unwanted squatter inside my body and give every ounce of love to Sarah and the kids NOW, because there may not be a THEN.

Still, there are marvelous distractions.

Sarah's the biggest as she embodies love amidst chaos, craziness and the cacophony of demands placed on her every day.

Living with Cancer means I appreciate the beauty of the earth in deeper and more immediate ways than I ever have before.

A full white moon in a deep blue sky stops me dead in my tracks, Fran's thousand shades of green are lusher than I've ever seen, the pungent aroma of the Marsh is orgasmic and the majesty of the Ocean has never been more regal filling my eyes with its salt water.

And every single day since I learned of the Terrorists hostile take over of my body, there's been an constant outpouring of love, good karma, good wishes and prayers on mine and Sarah's behalf.

People have stopped what they're doing, purposely interrupting an already busy day, to post a message, send a text, write an email, mail a card or letter, call, cook or buy and deliver a meal, give money to help or even drive all the way to our house to make music in the front yard just for us.

They are hundreds of them, encompassing every facet of my life ... childhood chums to recent acquaintances  ... old friends I haven't heard from in decades to the constant companions ... co-workers and professional peers ... and confidants I had no idea hold me in such regard.

They share stories of things we shared, most of which I recall though far too many I have no recollection of leaving me full of wonder how I've lost something so meaningful to them yet forgotten to me.

Most things shared open damns long shut in my head unleashing fond memories of times together, adventures enjoyed, demons exorcised and laughter raised from the dead like Angel songs filling me with joy.

There are people unknown to me completely but who have known Sarah at important crossroads of her life as she's been there for them or they for her and somehow pancreatic Cancer has reunited them and made introductions of me.

The wonder of this eclectic collection of people is nothing short of miraculous, leaving me to consider this community of believers in Sarah and me, each individually pausing to reach across time and space to do Holy acts, rooted in love and giving.

I'd thought most had dropped out of my life, moving on to make the best of their own, yet for a moment anyway, they've stopped to become ... a church.

Most mistakenly believe Church is a building, fixed order of worship or some adherence to creed or doctrine.

It's not.

Individuals coming together to perform acts of giving and love make Church happen.

And a few hundred is a good size Church by anyone's standard.

How does one say thank you to unadulterated kindness, support and love?

We are overwhelmed with appreciation, gratitude and are sustained because of the community of believers.

I can only illustrate it be sharing part of the offering once received in the bucket at Bar Church where there are no offering plates and if someone's moved to give, they quietly drop something inside.

My favorite every was a note scribbled on a cocktail napkin that read what I'd like to say to each and every one of you, my beloved community of believers.

"Thank you Lord for thinking 'bout me, I'm alive and doing fine."

Happy for Sarah

Even when she's sitting still her mind's in constant motion, plotting, calculating, searching, researching, remaking plans into something better and forever finding deals.

Sometimes she stops all of the external agendas to focus within to think, feel, write, let her fortifications down and share with others.

Most of the time she's a master juggler of teenage girls, a sick husband, full time work from home job with 40 fragile people she ensures are getting what they need to survive, daughter to pastoral parents, committed to running and exercise routines preventing her body from showing her age as she fools everyone who exclaims, "WHAT? THAT BODY GAVE BIRTH TO FOUR CHILDREN?"

It's an impossibly busy and complicated life she rules rather than reacts to as she's forever changing course to keep steering the boat in the right direction to reach the goals of ... simplicity.

Life will be unplugged,  disconnected, lacking technology and complications where home is a shack on a Palm Tree Beach with sandy floors, open windows and trade winds for air conditioning. Friends are good but few and there's plenty of time for long walks, longer talks, learning the new language, making music, great food and love.

She never loses sight of where we're going regardless of the obstacles in our way.

Of course it's BOTH Mother's Day and her Birthday!

She's far too much of a woman to be contained into one celebratory day!

We'll do as much as we can to make it special for you though we're doomed to never come close to what you make every day for us.

Happy Everything Sarah!

You deserve everything because you are everything!

I love you,

ME

My Squatter

Regardless of how large your world, hearing it's "pancreatic cancer" everything is suddenly very, very small.

It never, ever, dawned on me Cancer would be in the same sentence as "me".

"It's surreal to hear you say that," our daughter Chelsea says reacting to something I'd shared.

It gives me pause.

Ever so matter of fact, Dr. Carpenter tells me what's inside my body; the source of my problems.

"You have pancreatic cancer," he says like a talk show host.

The first thing I do is look pass him with a three-mile-stare into the face of my wife Sarah, who's not in the room because the Coronavirus prevents her from entering the Hospital with me.

"It's not fair to her," are the words I hear in my head because Sarah and I have endured so much and she doesn't deserve more.

My mind shoots to Che, our three year old daughter and, I can't imagine life without her ... hers in mine or mine in hers. We're two pearls in the same oyster enjoying every bit of life coming our way!

But, as a matter of fact, I have this tumor.

Pancreatic cancer's bad enough during the best of times but we're doing it during a pandemic.

Sarah's always saying how she loves a challenge.

Perhaps we've gone overboard with this time.

I spend a lot of time listening to my body now instead of others, getting to know the squatter sucking life and energy rather than paying rent. At first it was easy to notice because the cancer made me jaundice, evaporated 50 pounds from my body and left me perpetually exhausted.

Thanks to a biopsy on a Friday, followed by a stent implanted the following Monday, two weeks later those symptoms are gone. My skin's pink, I've gained 4 pounds and I make it through some days without sleeping away the afternoon.

I have a reprieve of two weeks before the major surgery forever transforms my body into plumbing God never intended though, we're promised, the cancer disappears with other body parts.

"You have less than a 1% chance of dying on the operating table," the matter of fact Doctor explains, "unless something else goes wrong."

You gotta love Doctors. They're like professional gamblers in Vegas always hedging the bets.

Each moment is focused on Sarah and Che, trying to squeeze each drop of juice from the Lemon I'm managing.

Meaningful distractions take place daily ... I spend more time Face Timing Ethan and Lily, our grandchildren ... Laurel our 16 year old strolls in wearing a "My Dad's Stronger than Cancer" tee shirt leaving me in tears ... a carnival of friends bring food and gifts almost daily breaking the monotony of quarantined living ... Che lays her head on my chest at night to softly ask, "Daddy, why are you so sick?" ... Sarah dutifully prepares for the new normal after surgery.

There's no time to think about it, save perhaps on sleepless nights.

Every day is filled with a quarantined 3 year old bouncing off the walls ... a wife working from home surrounded by three other teenagers, a sick husband, the insanity of the American Health Care system to navigate ... and the almost daily loving expressions of friends giving love in various and sundry ways.

Otherwise I've let go of most everything that used to occupy me.

I've resigned from Bar Church, released the constant communication from people wanting something, don't initiate much as I try to conserve all of my energy for Sarah, Che, the kids, the family without bloodlines and my squatter.

I don't like my intruder very much and look forward to his eviction.

It costs a great deal to get anyone evicted these days.

It's certainly costing Sarah and me.

Meanwhile, I bide my time, eating like a horse, tanning with Sarah and Che, feeling deep things and thinking thoughts that don't have words.

I get frustrated with myself when I grow short, trying to turn negativity back into joy ... caressing Sarah, hugging Che, laughing at Laurel's supply train of medicinal medications, a white moon in a deep blue sky and unexpected expressions of love from people I'd never have thought.

I'll take this reprieve because God knows I can use it but, more importantly, it gives me time for the fight of my lifetime anyway, with this son-of-a-bitch squatter inside of me.

"You're like a lot I know," I tell the bastard late at night. "Forever taking and never giving. I've known a lot like you. You're up against love this time! You should know now ... you don't stand a chance."

Cancer Comes to Church

"Jesus Christ!" Monty spits as we lug equipment from his truck into The Sand Bar, "You look like you got Hep-C!"

It's true my skin is a florescent yellow and my blue eyes swim in yellow.

"Mother of God," Elisa Dunnibeier exclaims, "you're green!"

Aside from looking bad, I feel awful and have to sit throughout worship that morning but it's not just me.

Monty's off kilter about something. Gordon's emphysema is flaring up and as he blows the harmonica he explodes into fits of coughing. Eric's got band aids all over his fingers as he plays his guitar. Only perpetually good nature David Dunniebier, our bass player seems the same.

Lead guitarist Chip is off in Tennessee visiting his mother and Davy, the drummer, has disappeared as drummers often do. If he's not back by next Sunday we'll start to worry.

I didn't know then but it was the Sunday my pancreatic cancer came out in Bar Church.

My protective wife Sarah is mad as Hell because I'm too sick to go but, like most clergy, I have a morbid suffering servant complex baked in giant ego that God can't possibly succeed without me.

Yet in spite of everything wrong, something Holy happens and ... Gordo finds enough breath to blow magic ... Eric finds a voice fuller than his rich baritone already is and plays perfect guitar through band aids ... David, who never sings harmony, sets up and sings perfectly.

And I swear, tiny pillars of fire rested atop each of Monty's stubby fingers, and he played lead guitar like we've never heard him before or since and ... the Holy Spirit settles in.

Bar Church was crazy packed that day.

Towards the end of the video, you see Monty smile at me, as we all briefly comprehend, we joined the choir of Angels for a bit.

The song is "Clouds", Zach Zobiech's masterpiece of hope after diagnoses with cancer.

I fell down, down, down into this dark and lonely hole.
There was no one to care about me any more.
I needed a way to climb out and grab hold.
One the edge you were sitting there, holding a rope.

When Sarah and I agreed Bar Church would become a major part of our lives, I felt this was the song that says it all about who we are as a church.

The "you sitting there holding a rope" is Sarah of course ... or God ... maybe the communion of Saints ... certainly Sarah ... certainly God ... Lord only knows who else?

Today, even months later, we know it's pancreatic cancer I have and though, thankfully I'm not yellow this morning, Sarah and I have massive life changes we're managing and so, we resigned from Bar Church a few days ago.

It'll be fine.

It's bigger than Samuel Adams ever was and certainly much larger than me.

But we wanted to thank you all for the past, almost seven years of Church in a Bar and daily exchanges on this Face Book page.

I've grabbed hold of the hope with plans to fly a little higher.

Our prayers are, you do too.

Love,

Micheal and Sarah   

Treating Slime

As screwed up as the American Health Care system is, predicated on income generation more than health outcomes, there's sometimes a nurse ... rarely a doctor ... who will shoot straight with you in your darkest hour.

I've had a bitch of a month!

First I expressed all the symptoms of COVID-19 and spent a week in bed sweating and sleeping until it was figured out I have pancreatic cancer instead.

"It's why you're so damn yellow," the straight talking Angel told as I lay on the operating table waiting on the doctor who is late.

I've been yellow for the better part of six months, itch like a mutha and and urinate every five minutes.

"We getting rid of all that shit right now," she says stuffing my long hair under a net.

"Believe me! You gonna want this or you're hair's gonna get messy like you never seen messy before."

"Why's that?" I softly ask.

Green eyes peer at me upside down from above my face and she smiles.

She has lots of freckles and is smiling.

"After we get this stent in you, we gonna turn you over on your stomach! The stent's gonna loosen the bile held captive in your body and it's gonna flow like the River Jordan."

I'm picturing my surgery as a raging yellow river.

"There's a hole in the bottom of the table where your head's gonna be and a bucket under the hole. All the sludge is gonna run straight to it."

"Sludge?" I ask.

"It's a medical term. All the bile cooped up in your swollen gallbladder turns to sludge ... like in your oil pan."

"Who knew?"

"Then we're gonna keep wracking you on the ass until it's all out."

"Wow," I say, not knowing what else to say.

The Doctor arrives frustrated the other Hospital delayed him for no real reason that lousy scheduling.

"Ready?" he asks.

"He sure is," my Nurse answers.

A few hours later, my sweet wife's face stares into mine full of love and concern.

"It went well," she tells me.

At least this is the version of waking up I remember.

She recalls it differently saying that I was awful.

But the itching's dissipated.

Yellow skin is already fading.

I don't have to pee.

"Good," I say squeezing her hand.

"Why's my ass sting so badly?"
_____________

TOTAL HOSPITAL CHARGES - $4,300
ACTUAL HOSPITAL COSTS   -  $  800

AMOUNT TURNED OVER TO DEBT COLLECTORS - $100%

Hard times for Musicains

Sarah and I have the incredible good fortune to have lots of friends who are musicians and during this time of Quarantine and social distancing, they've taken to streaming live concerts.

Roy Swindell streams shows from his house every night at 7 and it's a rocking good time with tons of great comments by an audience scattered everywhere.

Joe Jarka broadcasts weekly porch concert and added 5 minutes of Beach time music from a dock overlooking the Beach that is closed to the public during this time of the Coronavirus.

Tracy Merrit and her daughter Emma are onscreen with some great harmonies from their living room to share old fashion Gospel.

Kyle Shriver plays slide guitar and acoustic Led Zep tunes to the glee of all!

Even my shy wife was challenged by a friend to share her music and, though she's shy to be on camera, Sarah loves a challenge and she's there for the world to watch playing "Sonatina" on piano.

She helped too as I got in on the act Live streaming Bar Church from our backyard and Che, our 3 year old, is seen singing and dancing as Sarah's Angelic voice floats in the air from behind the camera.

I find this all tremendously rewarding and fun.

These are sobering times for musicians.

Our friend Stephen O'Connor, aka Savannah Steve, lost 21 paying gigs on the day the economy slammed into a brick wall.

This rings true for all of our friends.

On a day when claims for unemployment insurance tops 6.3 Million, twice what the Government projected which shows you the accuracy of our elected officials, I'm grateful there's a new category that includes self-employed musicians.

They all deserve 10 times what the Government will give them.

Government doesn't believe in music and the arts anymore as demonstrated by the rape of funding for the these things.

Yet during these times of isolation and quarantine it's the musicians leading the war against loneliness and despair.

From Italian Balconies to families in living rooms perfectly singing "One More Day" from Les' Miserables to Roy Swindell's nightly concert, they're all making the world keep spinning come Hell or High water.

Even Garth Brooks and Trisha Yearwood got in on the act but it was way after the local players stormed out of the gate.

Sarah, Che and I want to say thank to the boys and girls in the band!

You're the first lights we all see in these dark times.

Quarantining Pirates

Che and I are playing Pirate for the umpteenth time today, a game her Mother started as a way of keeping our 3 year old daughter in bed a while longer in the mornings.

Che springs to life when she wakes and many hours later passes out while still putting up a valiant fight with sleep.

"DAD-DEE" she yells though tucked in for the night, so I climb the stairs leaving an already collapsed Sarah on the sofa, stumbling into Che's dark bedroom where the issue ranges from the need to potty to ghosts hiding in the dark to one more kiss and hug.

We have no idea how she keeps going but her boundless energy could light the entire Western Hemisphere.

We're quarantined in a playground because Maddie, home from her freshmen year in College to isolate with us, has promised Che to take her for days but can't find the time to do so.

Sarah's close to exploding because her work expects her to care for 41 clients without actually seeing them during this pandemic.

I'm sick of the house and Che desperately needs to run around so we at the playground.

The gnats were too bad at the first so we're at another, tucked away behind a Church that's closed for business.

"Pirate Daddy, what do you see?" she asks holding a pretend telescope.

My bare feet dangle in the air from the top of a plastic blue jungle gym and she stands behind me with an arm on my shoulder.

The phone buzzes with a text from Sarah detailing the Governor's latest round of restrictions to save us from being infected with the Coronavirus.

"Let's show Mom what we're doing," I say.

"Okay Pirate Daddy," she smiles and I snap this picture.

The photo clearly shows our little girl in pure Pirate mode while her ol' man looks okay behind the smile, sunglasses and weathered cap.

Truth is, I'm exhausted.

Sarah is too.

None of the girls are.

I feel every bit like a 63 year old man after an almost full day of being primary parent to a 3 year old.

The phone buzzes again and Sarah's sent a completely unintelligible message having something to do with Cassidy, but my mind's turned to dinner and I'm thinking about picking something up before coming home because I don't want to cook or clean.

Quarantine is hard work, especially with small children and indestructible teenage who challenge every decision, though I know it's hard for everyone.

Every moment there are between four and six of us in a house too small for everyone to have private space.

The other morning I got up at 4 am just to have time to myself.

It's a brave new world we suddenly find ourselves managing pretty much alone though we are a society built upon social gatherings ... in Church, at political rallies, in Bars, restaurants, music venues, the park or a thousand other places we interact.

Such things may kill us.

Sarah sees the pandemic as a way of hitting reboot ... for our family first and, maybe if everyone else takes this to leave the past and build a new future, the world can start over too.

The muddy waters of Venice, Italy are suddenly clear again because of the Quarantine.

As hard as all of this is, and it's very hard, it's the image I keep in mind in hopes that it's me too that cleansed of old rotten ways of doing things through self discovery of my self, loved one and friends I now have to deal with virtually.

In the Bible, the Apostle John was sentenced to live out his life quarantined on a deserted island. While there he wrote the book of "Revelation" which is the end of the Bible,  where he saw "a new Heaven and a new Earth" because the old had passed away ... and God dwelt among the people.

I take this to mean the incredible and great good that can come from being Quarantined.

As hard as it is.

Because it's very hard.

God or Government?

What it boils down to is, of course, trusting the Government or not?

Does fear of the Coronavirus justifies closing most everything to dictate "social distancing" in a society predicated on coming together?

Many blame the media but they're merely reacting to the Government's news with each outlet's own spin.

Inside the Government is the question is who's in charge of a system built upon reacting to itself?

Local Governments look to State Governments which looks to the Federal Government for direction as the Feds gauges the winds of the states who desperately try to get a feel for the general consensus of the masses.

It's an endless circle of leaders searching for where the buck stops and, these days any way, it doesn't stop with anybody.

"Render unto Caesar the things that are Caesar's" is the only real Biblical instruction there is, "and to God the things that are God's."

It doesn't help much.

Is the Coronavirus a Government plot to further take rights away from citizens or is it a plague sent from God as punishment of how far we've distanced ourselves from things that are holy?

Everyone has strong opinions one way or the other.

So far most every public gathering has censured itself to protect the greater good waiting on someone to take charge.

A tiny few say "Fuck it! Let's have a parade! If we're all gonna die let's make it a party!"

As with most things of huge consequence, the Church is silent as it waits on God or circumstances to sort things out.

It leaves to to capitulate to fear or live like there's no tomorrow.

Strong and compelling arguments are being made on both sides of the equation.

On a global scale, I don't know Government's are strong enough to dictate singular courses of action. Circumstances appear to be driving leaderless Governments mimicking one another in face of pandemic.

At the same time, regardless of your belief in Divine Beings, I don't believe God's out to get anybody.

History's proven creation is a flawed system filled with mutations of weather, climate, environment and the health of all living things.

These mutations are the price everyone pays for the privilege of being here.

So what are we to do in the middle of something that's literally scaring the Hell out of everyone?

"Love the Lord your God with all your heart mind and soul," Jesus says, "and LOVE your neighbor as yourself."

While the Government says distance will increase the chances of limiting the spread of infection, faith indicates we're to manage mutations of health by believing in deliverance and helping each other out to the best of our capabilities.

Hoarding, be it information or toilet paper, is a clear indication of choice.

So is reaching out to others as best you can.

I know which I believe is the right way to get through not just the Coronavirus, but life itself.

_____________

THIS SUNDAY AT BAR CHURCH, we gather to decide how best to help each other get through this. You can be part of the conversation if you wish but we understand if you choose otherwise.

There's no judgment.

Forever

Holding my hand with both of hers, she says, "Don't worry Daddy. I protect you. I want you to live forever."

She pronounces it "bore-ebber."

Sarah, Che and I are taking the Winston The-Little-Gay-Dog, TLGD, for a walk and ... I have no recollection of the conversation but still feel her 3 year old hands on mine.

The conviction in her voice rings in my head.

"I will protect you."

She doesn't know yet how little we're capable of protecting in life.

If it's not the Coronvirus that does us in, it'll be a heart attack because of a Stock Market plunge, a piece of a satellite falls on us inexplicably from the sky, the person we love most suddenly leaves or we literally are bored to death during a sermon.

It reminds me the old Steven Wright joke.

"I plan on living forever! So far, so good." 

And it has been good so far!

There's been some really bad spots yet here I am strolling with my lovely wife, TLGD and our love child who assumes things can always be like they are now.

Soon we'll teach her that just as every moment is a gift, so is every enjoyable situation or circumstance.

Nothing last forever.

Hell, nothing last for very long when you consider it.

It's best to make the most out of now and whatever that means for you.

If we do that then it'll be good.

And it'll get us further.

10 Reasons to go to Bar Church

An article someone posted on the Internet covers "10 Reasons to go to Church even when you don't feel like".

Pastor Tim explains Satan invented all sorts of diabolical reasons to make attending Church inconvenient such as kids soccer games, family getaways, going on your honeymoon, vacation, parents in Hospice or being invited to go to the Caribbean for free by a friend.

They seem like perfectly good reasons to skip Church but Pastor Tim says, "you're choosing the captivity of activity over what God says is more important."

Pastor Tim never states when God tells him this but quickly moves on to listing ten reasons to force yourself to be in Church when you have other places to be or people to enjoy.

Not wanting to be left behind, Bar Church has come up with it's own list to attend even though it's the last things in Hell you want to do!

1. See who's in the Band! The Duct Tape Choir's most consistent member is David Dunneibier and he's not even sure he's a Christian! Everyone else floats in and out, joins then quits or shows up at the wrong gig. It's always loads of fun to see who's actually singing at Bar Church every Sunday because only God knows for sure!

2. Pick out who's actually attending worship as opposed to who fell asleep in the Sand Bar last night and wakes up in the middle of Church! Then count how long before they realize they're part of a congregation! It's loads of fun!

3. Likewise, lots of tourists wander inside looking for a drink, cozy up to the Bar, slowly realize it's not open yet and they're in a Church service and laugh your head off as they try to tactfully get the Hell out as quickly as possible.

4. Check out the Potluck on the Pool table to see if anyone stopped at McDonald's for a sackful of sausage-and-biscuits, what Sam Sahr's casserole is and how many Deviled eggs Mary brought! (Deviled eggs in Bar Church cracks us up!)

5. Will the Rev's sermon be from a manuscript or will he be shooting from the hip? He swings both ways so when you're counting on him publishing the text on Facebook he didn't write it down and when you can less what he said, the entire text is published.

6. What are this week's Drink Specials? The Sand Bar starts serving around the same time the Rev starts preaching and there are specials. Most Church only serve grape juice in little tiny plastic cups or real wine in a Priest controlled chalice shared by all.

7. Will girls wearing bikinis wander in during the service? Will guys without shirts worship with us (for you Chuck Cox!)? Will the Rev wear a religious tee shirt (with the OM symbol on a George Harrison tee) or a secular one (like the one promoting "Pippin" on Broadway)?

8. How far away will you have to park to attend worship? Way more people come to Tybee Island than parking allows so it's possible to spend the entire service riding around hopelessly looking for parking rather than attending. This fosters both prayer for an open spot and the use of the God's name in vain both of which count as expressions of faith at Bar Church.

9. How many verses will there be to "Knocking on Heaven's Door" and how many will be made up? Depending on the enthusiasm of the congregation determines the length of the service's concluding Hymn,

10. Will the congregation call for an encore after the service ends? It happens with increasing regularity in Bar Church and you can't say that about most churches!

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This Sunday at Bar Church the Duct Tapped Choir is having open auditions.

Apprehensive Fun

I was more apprehensive than worried.

Gordo wouldn't be at Bar Church because he and Jaime are attending a wedding somewhere around Atlanta so no great harmonica fills or leads.

Chip's on a rock-n-roll cruise somewhere in the Caribbean so no lead guitar or high harmonies in today's service.

No special guests to elevate the music like Keith Rea, Ricky Stokes, Tom Cooler and their ilk can nor any of the "rotating regulars" such as Bob Fulton, Kris Nilson or Denise and Heath Holly.

No Monty Parks with all of his technical wizardry or sweet sounds from founder Samuel Adams or the heart felt earnest songs of Lona Crask who've moved on to other things.

It would just be Davy on drums, David on bass, Michel on a 12 strong acoustic and Eric inexplicably playing an electric guitar.

We had no idea what kind of music we're bring to worship in a bar.

So much was missing I could only see the holes.

As Church unfolded it became apparent the music was laid back, relaxed, filled with problems but loaded with fun!

Jesus did we have a good time.

And the congregation did too, singing and dancing along.

When it was over we kept playing and no one leaves choosing instead to enjoy themselves "just a little bit longer" as the song goes.

It was one of those rare times when everyone present was a  member of band, everyone raising the other's spirits to higher planes manifest with smiles.

Worship just doesn't get any better than that!

The Origins of Bar Olympics

Sunday is Bar Olympics on Tybee Island.

All of the bars compete in friendly rivalry in games all designed around drinking so they get funnier with each passing competition. Ending at Huck-a-poos for a fundraiser, it's a popular community event.

Bar Church will be overrun with Bar Olympic activities this Sunday but regular, even irregular, worshipers ought not be concerned.

Bar Olympics are traced back to Biblical times in the gospel of John when at an after wedding party, they ran out of wine.

Mary, the mother of Jesus, was most upset, apparently having only had one glass of chardonnay.

Asking her son to help even though he didn't personally know anyone there, like most sons, he complained and then complied.

Water turned into wine and the party kicked up several notches.

Some claim this was the first Bar Olympics as each bar took credit for the newly restored alcohol supply and fights broke out.

Bar Church will continue as always and then give way to unabashedly cheering for The Sand Bar.

First we'll have a prayer for them.

"Father, forgive them for they no not what they do.”

Thank God that's Over

"Thank God that's over!"

I say it often after surviving some unpleasantness.

It can be anything from a bad sermon to a head on collision, both true examples in my past, because in both instances, as soon as coming to, I say, "Well, thank God that's over."

The saying's rooted in Calvinism, a brand of Christianity, that believes everything that ever happens is the will of God.

It goes like this.

A man carries the laundry downstairs for his wife when he trips on the top step and falls crashing onto the concrete floor, busting his head open and breaking an arm.

"Thank God that's over," he says, knowing it was God's will and in all likelihood that'll be the last time it happens.

I do wonder though why in the world John Calvin or anybody else prefers believing falling down the stairs is part of any Divine plan.

How in God's name does a bleeding head, broken bone and floor full of dirty laundry help inch us towards Heaven?

Obviously I'm not a proponent of Calvinist theology.

When I say "Thank God that's over" I'm really appreciative I don't have to endure that unpleasantness any more.

There's far too much unpleasantness in life already.

I don't believe God's making more.

We seem to do a find job all by ourselves.

What it comes down to is expressing thankfulness a bad time's done and I mean it when I say, "Thank God!" even though the good Lord didn't have anything to do with it.

With whatever unpleasantness now behind me, I have the real possibility of ENJOYING whatever comes next.

I believe life's to be enjoyed and not merely endured.

"Thank God that's over!" simply sets the stage for "Good God! Can you believe this?"

Sandy Souls

Che and I are cruising around listening to some of her tunes.

We're singing to the top of our lungs.

The wise man built his house upon the rocks
the wise man built his house upon the rocks
the wise man built his house upon the rocks
and the rain came tumbling down ...

We're listening to a collection of children's songs Sarah purchased containing both secular and religious songs.

"The wheels on the bus go round and round" is followed by the ditty we're singing.

The foolish man built his house upon the sand
the foolish man built his house upon the sand
the foolish man built his house upon the sand
and the rain came tumbling down ...

"Wait a minute!" I say to my three year old daughter, "there is absolutely nothing wrong with a house on the Beach! If anything it's the better investment! Even if a Hurricane blows it away, the property value remains constant."

"TURN IT UP!" Che yells unconcerned with the real estate lesson.

The rain came down and the floods came up
the rain came down and the floods came up
the rain came down and the floods came up
and the foolish man's house went spat!

The song is built around Jesus' words ending Matthew's version of the Sermon on the Mount.

"Everyone who hears these words of mine and does them, I liken them to a wise man who builds his house upon a rock. The rain came down and the streams rose and the winds blew and beat against the house yet it did not fall because it had its foundation on rock."

Sounds like home building to hurricane code specifications.

Jesus was far ahead of his times in so many ways.

"Everyone who hears my words and does't do them I liken to a foolish man who builds his house upon the sand ... and "the rain came down and the flood came up and the foolish man's house went SPLAT!"

It's a funny ending to a collection of Jesus' sayings about Judging others, asking/seeking/knocking, taking the narrow or wide gate, true or false prophets, true or false disciples and home building.

The fact of the matter though is we prefer being sand dwellers here today, perfectly willing run the risk of houses built upon sand rather than the safety and security of a solid foundation.

Islands are filled with shifty people each sacrificing security for a life not restricted to human engineered spaces and sights.

Rules are not the strong suits of people who live on islands.

Wind, surf, stretches of sand, the waves sloppily kissing the shore, sea birds and you can literally turn your back on every human being, and every human structure to have your own commanding view of creation the way God made it.

As my friend Jane Fishman once put it, everybody who lives on an island is either running to, or from, something.

Island people, sand shifting souls, catch life and ride it, live in the moment

The solid-as-rock people live differently, preferring rules and regulations in vain attempts to keep life from changing things the way things are ... building stability, order and illusions of security.

Rock people build immovable Churches out of stones where people orderly file in to worship according to prescriptive dogma and liturgy.

Sandy souls make use of weddings and funerals but don't need much else knowing the Holy Spirit blows like the wind and it's best to ride with it if you catch on.

We understand Jesus was merely using a metaphor when talking about houses built upon the sand and the first place he chose to go after coming back from the dead was the Beach (John 21).

Sandy souls are interested in finding the living Jesus today.

Rock people sing "On Christ the solid rock I stand, all other ground is sinking sand" ... believing they're the only ones singing.

Sandy souls sing, "They paved paradise and put up a parking lot."

Let's end today's service by professing our believe that "you don't know what you got till it's gone."

Amen.

Heaven

"Why in the world would anybody want to go to Heaven if you can't sin?"

It's Laurel, our 15 year old who just returned from mandated Bible study at her Grandmother's house.

"It sounds absolutely horrible if you can't do anything you like, the fun stuff, and have to hang around people who don't want to do anything except ... not do anything!"

"Next time you're at your grandmother's Bible study," I offer, "raise you hand and ask why she maintains such an anthropomorphic view of Heaven?"

I love that word, paid damn good money to learn it in Seminary and use it whenever I can work it into any conversation!

Anthropomorphic means applying human characteristics to other things ... like Heaven for example.

We have no idea what Heaven's like, if there is an actual paradise, so we use human traits and values to describe it because it's the only way we really know how.

For example, "the streets in Heaven are made of gold" (Revelation 21:21).

Nobody knows that and whoever wrote the Biblical book of Revelation did indeed say it but according to tradition, John was living alone exiled to the island of Patmos, a Greek Island with beautiful beaches, clear blue skies and great weather.

Who knows what the old Apostle was doing when he dreamed up his version of Heaven and had no one to bounce it off of before writing it down?

What John, or whoever it was who wrote Revelation, was envisioning is finally getting to God and living where God lives ... all of the time!

The old prophet or his Disciples used the language they knew to convey what it'd be like.

The importance is not in the details but the fact that we'll end up with God and that's a whole different kind of party altogether!

"Whatdayamean?" I can hear Laurel asking.

"Take the best parties you've ever been to, the best times you've had so far, the party's God's throwing will blow your Grandmother's mind and I'm certain she'd be uncomfortable as Hell if she chooses to attend."

Juggling Faith

My favorite, of course, is when Roma and I are shooting pool and exasperated with the banter, she slams the fat end of her stick on the floor and demands, "What kind of preacher are you?"

"A Damn good one," I answer lining up my next shot.

Roma bellows.

Next favorite John Ferguson, the very epitome of a "southern gentleman," leans forward in his chair to tell me, our noses almost touching because we're so close, "You'd be a very fine preacher if you ever got saved."

There's no question that when it comes to my religion, I prefer making hamburgers out of sacred cows.

For more than 30 years now a common description of me as ... a minister, although I much prefer calling it how it really is ... a fellow stumbler towards a light I believe is there ... as emerged.

Last week in a lovely message from our friend Chuck Cox, he used the term opening a flood gate of other people using the same words to describe who ... and what ... I am.

"Irreverent," is the word but "in a reverent sort of way."

A former Jewish friend, Philip Solomons, said it this way, "You successfully juggle reverence and irreverence in perfect tantrum."

I don't know if that's what I do but it's a Hell of a good description.

He said it after I'd conducted the funeral of Jerry Robinson, a very successful businessman and recovering alcoholic, making him another perfect juggler of things in tantrum.

I have no recollection of what I said that day, but do remember Philip smiling while putting his arm around me in the parking lot of Fox and Weeks Funeral Home on Whitemarsh Island to say, "Even at a funeral you successfully juggle reverence and irreverence in perfect tantrum. Jerry would have loved it."

I can certainly conjure Jerry up from the grave right now, smoking a never ending cigarette over the bottomless cup of coffee he perpetually drank, immaculately dressed in a three piece suit, thinning brown hair perfectly combed, grinning and saying, "Thanks for making it funny. I'd hate for my funeral to be dead."

It's true I suppose most funerals are not funny and there's no question laughing helps us get through them.

My favorite funeral was Chicago Bob's, an impromptu affair on the Pier.

John O' Neill calls to say, "Meet me at the Pier. Bring your robe."

He hangs up without telling me why.

Riding my bicycle, I'm met by a crowd who explain I'm officiating the scattering of Bobby's ashes, which is of course illegal on Tybee Island.

"Where is he?" I ask.

Margaret his widow looks around and exclaims, "Oh shit. I forgot him. Be right back."

And she scurries away.

"Beers for everyone," Dean Morris says.

In those days, Dean ran the Pier.

When Margaret returns she carries a Target Bag and hands it to me.

Sure enough, inside is Chicago Bob.

The Pier's crowded with people fishing but our crowd muscles it's way into northwest corner facing Hotel Tybee and a thousand people in the water.

I say a few words, pray a prayer and open the Target bag just as a gust of Ocean breeze blows from the east and throwing the ashes up, the wind catches and splitting them into two directions ... one raining down on the swimmers in the surf and the other into the Pier where tourists eat cheeseburgers, pizza and ice cream.

A collection of Hispanic fishermen watching, pull one hand from their poles to make the sign of the cross without putting any slack in their lines.

"Hmmm," Roma huffs, holding her Miller Lite, watching Bobby's ashes go this way and that.

"What?" John asks.

"Bobby's schizophrenia," she laughs with dancing eyes.

That's irreverent reverence right there and it really is how I prefer my stumbling towards the light I believe to exist.

I stick to the basics and don't take the layers of theology, christology, dogma, religious expectations too seriously, spending most of my time poking fun at the faith I hold so dear.

Jesus lived historically and lives still though I have no idea how.

His main message was "this is what it's like to be the son of God and you can be adopted into the family and do it too if you wish."

The reason you can is because God is love you can be love too if you keep at it.

Love conquers all!

That's what I believe and how I try to live.

The rest is unnecessary fluff and we all have far too much of it in our lives.

I deal with it by poking fun at it in an effort to keep me from taking it too serious.

It's because I start with Jesus' historical life and, God knows, he lambasted the religion of his day,

"Tear down this Temple," Jesus said pointing to the epicenter of the Jewish faith and I'll build it again in three days" (John 2:19).

He says this after criticizing the ways people were making money off religion, at the expense of the poor but completely accepted by the Church!

It says everything Jesus had to say about organized religion ... he had no use for it.

Though I've been in and out of it throughout my life, I've come to have a complete lack of trust when it comes to the organized Church.

Institution exist to perpetuate themselves.

That is their sole purpose and this includes the Church.

Given a choice between helping you or perpetuating it's own existence, any institution, even the Church, will choose itself over you.

That's why Jesus was crucified.

Other things may have come out of it but make no mistake, Jesus was killed because the institutions of his day were threatened by him.

I think he knew he'd be killed to make his point that God transcends institutions and chooses personal relationships rather than institutional, organized ones.

Want to hear my current favorite joke on all this?

Overheard from Jesus as the soldiers are nailing him to the cross ... "Oh c'mom! Your Momma hits nails harder than that!"

If you think that's bad, imagine the horror of the political and religious leaders of his day heard the words of Jesus, "TEAR IT DOWN" and it's presumed he's challenging his followers to do so ... "AND I'LL REBUILD IT IN 3 DAYS" but it'll be without walls because love can't be contained.

So they killed him rather than run the risk of having their money making Church destroyed.

Yet true to his word, three days later Jesus returns without a building, and carries on as though nothing had happened.

Seventy years later the Temple was torn down by a Government no longer needing it but Jesus carries on still.

I think it best to follow that example.

If it's God you want to be with then you start by ruling out the places he has little use for ... Temples being at the top of the list.

It's best to look in more immediate places for God, like in front of your face.

A Sunday School teacher asked her kids class, "Where is Jesus today?"

"He's in Heaven!" Mary gleefully yells.

"He's in our hearts!" Sam joyfully screams.

"He's in the bathroom," Gordon explains.

"The bathroom?" the teacher asks as the rest of the class turn to stare at Gordon.

"Well ... every morning my father gets up, bangs on the bathroom door and yells, "Jesus Christ! You still in there!"

Finding Joy

It's recently been said that at Bar Church people sing over each other, blow smoke in people's faces, act unruly, don't give as much, burp when overeating from the Potluck, occasionally fart during worship, are egotistical, overly critical and just come to drink.

We're called barflies, drunks, winos, sods, needy, reprobates, felons, cheats, lawbreakers and undesirable.

We don't deny it, though some among us would fight you over calling us that.

In all honestly, there are a few in our crowd who make good money, pay taxes, don't smoke or drink, obey the traffic laws, vote and wear clothes that match.

We're an oddity.

Every Sunday Tybee Island tourists stop to laugh at the sign duct taped to window of The Sand Bar, snap a picture for the folks back home, shake their heads and keep going.

We're not their kind.

But we take solace in the fact that when Jesus started, he didn't recruit top scholars, successful business people, elected officials, Chamber of Commerce types, politically connected, beautiful people to start the Church.

He didn't insist on synchronized, complementing, Angelic harmonies in the choir, perfect sound for solos, the finest of music designed to challenge and uplift or even being in tune.

Instead he picked fishermen who smelled bad, ex-prostitutes, a midget, crazy ideologues from both ends of the political spectrum and people no one had ever heard of to start the Church.

There's no evidence any of them knew how to do a damn thing except ... argue.

The Bible's clear they were all masterful in arguing.

We don't argue much in Bar Church.

People quit rather than argue.

And if you inspect us individually, we're mostly a weekly gathering of people struggling to get by ... But ... more Sundays than not something happens ... something in spite of who we are as individuals ... because Lord knows that ain't much ... and we have no idea how it happens ... just that it does.

Joy gets made.

In spite of egomaniacs trying to be the center of attention, singing over each other, playing too loud, doing all manner of things wrong ... BEING all manner of things wrong ... God somehow takes our ugly gathering of dickheads, fuck-ups, terribly incorrect, socially unacceptable and deeply flawed people and turns us into something more.

It doesn't last long.

Then again it doesn't have to.

But it's just long enough to touch our hearts, drop the scales to see we're all brothers and sisters in the eyes of the Lord and it doesn't matter how we sing, just THAT WE SING.

And it's joyful!

We're going on a decade now and, in spite of awful leadership, eviction from two Bars, no real structure, creed, dogma, rotating musicians, thrown together services and a rich history of people who took what they needed then moved on, Bar Church continues.

It must be because God wants us too.

And as long as you're looking for it, there's joy to always be found when it's happening. 

Jesus could never get elected

Jesus couldn't get elected to public office ... any public office ... even dog catcher ... if he ran!

Can you imagine his answers at the League of Women Voter's Forum?

"Yes I have a question Jesus. You claim that you know how we can live more abundantly and fully. If you were elected how will you advise your constituents on bringing this about?"

"That you for that question. It begins with each of us individually. So if your right eye causes you to sin, pluck it out and throw it away ... same with your right hand! If you're sinning with it, cut it off and toss it in the recycling bin."

"Say what?"

"Excuse me Jesus, but I have a question. Why in God's name would we vote for you given what you just said?"

"Well, you will be delivered up even by parents, brothers, cousins and friends and some of you will be put to death; you will be hated by all for my name's sake."

"Okay, let's change the subject and talk about green space for a few minutes. Jesus, what's your stance on planting trees?"

"If they don't produce fruit for you to eat, to Hell with 'em!"

"What?"

"Let me move on and talk about the criminal justice system."

The room bursts into applause.

"Judge not and you won't be judged! Condemn not and you will not be condemned. Forgive and you will be forgiven!"

"Does that include speeders?" someone yells.

"This is the final question. Why should we vote for you?"

"He who rejects me rejects the one who sent me."

Doesn't matter if he ran as a Republican, Democrat, Libertarian or Independent ... Jesus would never get elected.

We don't dwell much on politics at Bar Church.

No one elected to office attends.

We understand and embrace we're in the minority position, the last anyone thinks about.

But, we hang on to much of what Jesus said any way. 

Like "the last shall be first and the first shall be last for many are called but few are chosen."

_________________

When God Prays

Say you're up early because you can't sleep, tired of tossing and turning, weary from trying to sleep because who can force slumber as it comes in its own time, so you're restless and a bit angry because the whole damn day's thrown off when things don't happen as planned.

Sleep's normally planned.

We're used to when it comes, between 10 and 11, lasting until 6 or 7, interrupted only when body functions demand it.

Surrendering, you shower, dress and head out for coffee before the sun's up.

It's nice outside, far warmer than January normally is, so you opt to stay out, meandering towards a view of the sunrise.

Topping a random crosswalk, the beauty of the earth slaps you in the face forcing you to stop and catch your breath.

Holiness is spread out before you.

"The heavens declare the glory of God and the skies proclaim the work of his hands" (Psalm 19:1).

Collecting yourself you find a place to lean or sit, sip the coffee, trying to take it all in at once but it's far too much.

The beauty is overwhelming and the senses can't process it all ... the canvas of colors, the salt hanging in the air, the Ocean tenderly kissing the shore, the coolness of the sand between your toes, Pelicans diving into the Sea, the songs of Seagulls and the knowing smiles of passing Dolphins.

Inside you somehow know this is way you couldn't sleep.

God needed a few moments to remind you, this is all for you, this life you have, in the place you have it, with the people you share it with, for the gifts you possess, in the time that you have.

The coffee grows cold and you have no idea how long you've stood there, temporarily transported from this world into the other one spread out before you.

In the distance a horn honks calling you back.

The things you need to do demand attention and priority.

Your stomach growls.

And you're back.

Most often it's us asking God for something or another, bordering on demands and what we get are prayers met with silence.

But sometimes it's God who starts the prayer, extending the invitation to us, to become part of everything we've been given.
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