What's wrong with the Church.

The purpose of church is so people can get together and remind themselves to think about something other than themselves.

Most churches fail miserably!

We take ourselves to church often knowing what we want to get out of it before we get there.

We want God to do this or that ... heal something we can't manage ourselves ... forgive us when we can't forgive ourselves and curse those we can't forgive ... we seek refuge from guilt, fear and loneliness.

Or we come for the entertainment!

We want good music ... funny sermons that can also make you cry ... great people watching ... wonderful gossip ... fervent political rhetoric ... opportunities to pass judgment ... to be part of a mob.

We go to church with so much agenda!

God help the clergy because most try to deliver on all of these things. They script the service with the precision of a Broadway musical or a military campaign. They ensure their people have the latest popular trend in worship ... excellent sound systems, large flat head television screens so everyone can see, elegant robes and mood lighting. They steal blindly from their peers for the best material. Some even orchestrate valet parking.

Often the result resembles an addiction. The junkies want their fixes and the minister is happy to serve them as the dealer.

Lenny Bruce, of all people, once quipped, "Every day people are straying away from the church and going back to God."

It's little wonder.

Love God like you love yourself. And love others like you love yourself.

That's what it's suppose to be about.

It's a shame its about so many other things.

Dreams and Visions

"Hey God! You listening?"

The house is silent.

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

God doesn't say anything in response.

"Anyway I want to talk to you for a few minutes."

God doesn't tell me to shut up or go to hell so I take it as a good sign and move ahead.

"I had crazy dreams last night that kept waking me up. I'm talking really stupid stuff! My son Jeremy goes missing and my brilliant daughter-in-law Marie keeps demanding that I go and get him. Sarah and I bump into my Granddaddy Carver who wants us to help him drive a tractor to New York and I just can't see him in New York for anything! Winston, the little gay dog, joined the Mormon Tabernacle Choir. Crazy stuff!"

God keeps listening without interrupting.

"Listen will you do me a favor. I know you said that 'old men will dream dreams and young men will see visions.' I also know I'm 56 but I don't think that's old enough for me to be dreaming all of these dreams. I liked having visions better and as you remember I was pretty damn good at it."

I can tell God is mulling the point.

"I envisioned a little broken down church becoming a haven for homeless people and radical Seminarians and the place took off. Then I had visions to start Phoenix Place, the J.C. Lewis Health Center and the Starfish Café. Those were all pretty good visions that all came true! I had visions of Sarah in and out of a bikini way before it actually happened! God, I want to keep having visions and ask that you cut off the dream machine until I'm into my 60s at least."

God doesn't say no.

"Thank God," I rush to conclude. "You're great! OK, I know you're busy so I'll stop bothering you. Bye."

I get outside as fast as I can.

The sun is blazing bright in a brilliant blue sky. A breeze blows from the west, across the marsh bringing the delightful aroma of sex in the Tropics. The grass is green, the ocean flat and flowers bloom everywhere.

I always feel better when God and I talk.

I hope that you do too.

A Bible and a bone

Winston, the little gay dog, pranced into the kitchen wearing a sleeveless tee shirt that read "Too cute to be straight" over a multicolored rainbow. He's wearing sunglasses and has his doggie Bible with him obviously ready to go to Bar Church.

Goddess is passed out in the floor between the kitchen and the living room, snoring loudly and reeking of medical marijuana. She isn't budging so Winston, the little gay dog, lithely jumps over her and makes his way to the doggie treats, picks out a big bone to suck on and lays it on top the little doggie Bible.

Sarah is wearing a bikini and is lathering herself up with suntan lotion as I pack the cooler. We're planning on spending the day at the beach. Goddess doesn't care that we're skipping Bar Church to go to the beach but Winston, the little gay dog, is pretty indignant and told me that I'm going to hell.

I gave him the finger and continued getting ready for the beach. He got all miffed and hasn't said anything since.

The other day I couldn't find any of my bandanas. I wear them when I run in the mornings but every single one had disappeared. Eventually I got down on my hands and knees and looked under our bed which Winston, the little gay dog, has made his own.

I was shocked at what I found.

A tiny disco ball revolved from one of the slats reflecting bright colors from the little Christmas lights hanging on the other slats. A tiny Chaise Lounge lay to one side covered by my bandanas. A lava lamp rested on a coffee table beside a stack of doggie porn.

I yelled at Winston, the little gay dog, and ever since he's gotten all religious on me.

I don't care that he's created his own space. Everybody needs there own space. I don't even care that he has stacks of doggie porn but He SHOULDN'T HAVE STOLEN MY BANDANAS!

Walking out the door, Sarah and I grab our beach chairs and take a right. Winston, the little gay dog, totes his Bible and bone, takes a left and prances down the street towards Bar Church where Psalmist Stephen can try to knock him off his Holy throne.

I let Sarah walk in front so I have something else to focus on.

A Bible and a bone!

Give me a break.

The Last Time with my Dad

I'd call and say, "Happy Father's Day."

"Same to you," he'd shoot back and quickly move on to talk about other things. He'd tell me about lunch with the boys, the latest jokes he'd heard, Georgia football or about the kids.

Those last years I talked to him pretty much every day.

If I didn't call him, he'd call me and God forbid we didn't hook up because he'd take it out on Mom who had nothing to do with any of it.

The other day my son Jeremy posted on his Facebook page, "Today would have been a good day to head over to Dutch Island and watch golf in the basement with Granddad. Wish he was still around on this Father's Day weekend."

I burst into tears when I read it.

I miss my Dad.

I drove him nuts as a kid. He never anticipated a long haired, music loving, hippy looking, girl crazy, marginal student who forever got in trouble.

That's not all true.

I inherited being girl crazy from him.

For reasons David and I could never figure out, Dad was crazy about Angi. When Kristen was born he was beside himself and Maggi and Chelsea made him a very proud grandfather. He would laugh that I live in a house full of girls now.

I utterly confused him when I went to Seminary though he made regular treks to Louisville, Kentucky where we'd drive to Brown County Indiana and drink beers together. Once he realized I was still going to drink beer with him he was OK with Seminary.

He'd call me all of the time at Union Mission asking me to do something for a bartender he liked or a Maintenance worker who needed counseling. He'd already told them that I'd do it so of course I had to do it. He was getting me back from driving him nuts as a kid.

The last time we had beers together was in Sandfly where he went every day to the Drift Away Cafe to spend time with his mates. Bob Colvin and I met there because we were working on lots of things together at the time. Dad was elated and bought whatever we had.

He'd asked me to hang around after we were done so I walked up behind him. Whoever was sitting on the bar stool beside him was asked to move.

"This is my son," Dad explained. "You probably know who he is."

He probably didn't but in Dad's mind he did.

The guy left and I sat beside Dad. He ordered us two beers which was funny because he didn't drink beer any more.

We clicked mugs together and sipped quietly, talking about things we'd already talked about.

Today, I've got two mugs in the freezer. They'll frost over when I pull them out in a little while. I keep his picture in the kitchen where I spend most of my time when I'm inside. He's looking at me now. Then I'm going to pour us two beers.

I'm going to toast him and wish with everything inside of me that he was toasting me back.

I love you Dad.

Happy Father's Day.

Already Home

Four miles into a five mile run I stopped.

I don't know why. I had every intention of finishing and have been on a roll lately but it seemed like a good idea so I gave myself permission to stop. I bent over and untied my shoes, pulled the socks off and strolled in the surf.

It's one of those picture postcard kind of days. The ocean is flat with soft rolling waves. Pelicans make splashes as they dive for fish. Shrimp boats drag green nets on the horizon. There's miles and miles of blue skies dotted with white clouds. The sea breeze is pleasant and the humidity is low under the blazing sun.

Grabbing my I-Pod, I find Jim Morris music to enjoy "the hellacious floating opera going by."

The cool ocean water was intoxicating to be toes.

"God I'm blessed," I say out loud.

Not a word is said in response but I can feel God smiling.

I wade out to my waist and am suddenly flooded by thoughts of people I care about. D-Luv, Michelle, Conner and Hania, Jimmie, Linda, Carlos and Robin all seem to be with me though they're all somewhere else. The ocean and me are holding them in our hearts.

Making my way back into the white sand, I smile at the runners and the walkers. Couples hold hands and return my smiles. A little boy runs naked around his mother.

I'm in no hurry.

I'm already home.

A Godly Use of One Finger

I was multitasking ... watching Sarah's girls splashing in the ocean, having a conversation with three different people at the same time on my I-phone and working on my tan. There was lots of space around me at low tide though lots of people were strolling in the surf, throwing a Frisbee or sipping beers while they talked.

The phone conversation was pretty intense as I read texts that were flying through cyberspace.

In the distance, a man stood from his beach chair and finished off the cheeseburger he'd bought on the Pier and threw the Styrofoam container in the air. The ocean breeze blew my way and it eventually landed in the ocean where the waves ended their journey on the shore.

He just watched it and shrugged his shoulders before resuming his conversation with his friends.

I couldn't believe it!

Jumping out of my beach chair, I stormed to the surf and retrieved his trash. As I stood, he was watching me. I held up my hands as to ask, "What the hell?"

Laughing, he shrugged his shoulders with a smirk on his face.

So I did what any good Christian who loves the beach and others would do ... I flipped him off and said, "Asshole."

He sat back in his chair not giving a damn.

BUT ... I sure felt better.

It's amazing to me what people are capable of doing to the earth and to themselves. Living at the beach, I care deeply about the environment because daily I watch how people are so cruel to it. Mornings I ride my bicycle down Tybee Island's main drag as City workers blow mountains of cigarette butts, plastic cups, articles of clothing and paper wrappers on to the street. At the same time a platoon of workers are walking the beach picking up the same items that were left behind by yesterday's crowd.

He could be the world's greatest brain surgeon for all I know. Perhaps a generous philanthropist ... minister of a great church ... fabulously rich investor ... or a redneck from the country! He could be all of those things.

What he is at this particular moment is an asshole.

Somebody needed to tell him and I'm glad it was me.

While it was a physical act on my part, it was also an emotional one. I shared my feelings, letting them out rather than stuffing them inside of me which is extremely unhealthy. It's better to let it out.

I figure that God placed me there watching Sarah's girls play in the ocean, texting with friends in real time cyberspace, getting darker by the hour for that moment.

"Asshole," I said again, sitting down with his trash.

Then I returned to the conversation with my friends.

You've got to have friends!

"Crawl inside and I'll take your picture," I said.

We were standing in front of the ovens at Dachau, the Nazi concentration camp outside of Munich, Germany.

 Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, looked at me as if I'd lost my mind.

"You're sick," he replied and then shrugged his shoulders and added, "It would be a funny sick picture."

We'd already gotten in trouble with the keeper of Nazi things on this trip.

A few days earlier we'd been in Berchtsgarden where Hitler had a summer home on top of a mountain with sweeping and stunning views. A section was fenced off so, having come that far anyway, we jumped it and made our way to a bombed out bunker. It had been turned into shrine of sorts by people who still harbor anti-Semitic feelings.

We weren't able to stay long because of the guards who, as luck would have it, spoke no English so we played dumb and they ran us off.

If that wasn't enough, I was detained by Immigration in Amsterdam. I still don't know why but this very day blond, long legged Nordic security guard plucked me out of line. She wore a tight dress with a Pill Box hat right out of the 1950s. I wore a University of Georgia Sweatshirt, blue jeans and had a back pack which she went through.

When she started studying the picture on my passport and then staring at me, I burst out laughing.

On the other side of a glass wall, Bill hung his head, shaking it from side to side, which made me laugh even louder. Of course this infuriated my guard who was saying something to me in a language I did not understand.

Bill made his way to our side of the glass and explained to the guard that I was mentally ill and he was my caregiver. This made me stop laughing and the guard nodded sympathetically. She placed my hand in his and he led me to the plane.

"How did you ...?" I started as we were walking.

"Shut up," he said. "Just act mentally ill. It shouldn't be hard."

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

You got to have friends.

A Jazzy Funeral

Poolside in a private courtyard in the French Quarter of New Orleans, I nursed a beer while working on my tan. I had a day to kill before Guy Sayles, America's greatest minister, was due. We'd planned to rendezvous and prop one another up for long weekend.

He was changing churches again and professed he needed a break though I've long known that Guy loves church more than most anybody. Guy, Bill Berry (not the former drummer for REM but the other one) and I spent a weekend in the woods outside of East Dublin, Georgia years earlier. We drank beers and smoked cigars throughout the night, talking about where we thought we'd end up. Guy made it clear he loved the church and was giving his life to it. Bill and I weren't so sure.

Shortly after that weekend, Guy figured his career would be significantly enhanced if he stopped hanging out with Bill and me in the woods, smoking cigars and drinking beers all night long.

So he said we could both fly into New Orleans, far away from his church and hang out where nobody would know who he was. I think he told his wife Anita that he was going on a church retreat or something. He didn't want her to know we were hanging out.

I was flat broke and trying to figure out what to do next in life. I was living in a borrowed Cottage as my divorce was being finalized. The pain of not seeing my kids every day was killing me. I needed a break from it and had a credit with just enough space on it to buy a plane ticket and book a room after calling Guy and saying I needed a friend.

Music hung in the air at 10:30 in the morning and I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I was the only occupant of the tiny guest house and was taking advantage of it laying naked by the pool.

But the music hung there.

Getting up, I threw on some clothes and opened the door to walk out on the sidewalk.

And there it was!

A funeral was passing before me. Women in long dresses with parasols wiped their eyes with lace handkerchiefs. A black man wearing all black beat a drum in a slow hypnotic bang. Two saxophones blew sadness. A lone trumpet harkened the Angels. Behind them was the casket being carried by six pallbearers and behind them were the family and friends weeping in their cocktails.

Standing on the sidewalk wearing black running shorts, a University of Georgia tee shirt, flip flops and holding the beer in my hand, I was mesmerized.

There are times in life when you have to make an instant decision. An opportunity presents itself and you either grab it or let it pass never to come again. This was one of those moments.

Stepping into the street, I joined the family and friends.

An old woman toasted me.

I cried with them all the way to the graveyard.

As the casket was covered with dirt, the music changed and upbeat Jazz filled the air. The old woman grabbed my hand and we danced among the tombstones. People clapped and joined us. Life was conquering death.

Smiling, I returned to the tiny guesthouse with the pool in the courtyard. I threw the clothes in the room and baptized myself in the pool.

I'd thought this was going to be a sad trip, filled with me crying to my friend about everything that was wrong.

I knew better now.

Everything was going to be fine.

Tybee Island Normal

Every fall Mike Hosti puts on the sign at the IGA "Back to Normal" because the tourists supposedly have left. The letter "R" is always backwards. Tybee Island could then slip back into its normal, laid back lifestyle.

It's not that way now. Tourist season is upon us and for those of you who aren't here but have any interest whatsoever of what's going on, here are the things that happened on Tybee Island yesterday.

Cheryl Sadowsky, owner of the world famous Breakfast Club was accosted by Honey Boo Boo's body guard at The Crab Shack and her drink was knocked to the ground causing lots of locals to burst into tears. A prayer vigil for the spilled drink is currently being planned. Cheryl is shaken but word is that a full recovery is expected.

Honey Boo Boo is apparently on the island though nobody gives a shit other than her body guard.

The Tybee Island Parking Service Nazi-mobile drove through a Pedestrian crosswalk full of people at 35 Miles per hour apparently in a rush to give someone a ticket.

Morning beach combers discovered that at least twenty-seven couples made love in the sand dunes last night and collected left behind articles of clothing and condoms (we recycle!).

My friend and partner Wen McNally did a Zombie photo shoot on the Pier last night during one hell of a thunderstorm which is something you just don't see every day. As her husband Sean points out though, the state of Georgia produces more Zombies than any other state and I agree with him. TO find out for yourself just visit the Georgia State Capitol in Atlanta when the legislature is convened.

My friend Keith was hit by a truck and taken to the Emergency Room where he immediately called Ken Nugent whose motto is "One Call! That's All." He didn't call his family because he doesn't want them to know if any impending litigation is successful.

There was a long line of tourists at The Breakfast Club at 6:45 this morning prompting the astute observation, "If I'm on vacation the last damn thing I'm doing is getting up early to stand in line to have breakfast."

Obviously having stepped away from the pipe, Johnny O went to work ten minutes early.

That's a lot of activity for twenty-four hours.

Let's see what happens today.

When it all goes wrong

"Will you just give me a break," she exclaims in exasperation, "I think I've lost my boyfriend and my job."

She was much too thin, greasy black hair, vacant brown eyes that were misted over, a white tank top with pink bra straps slipping over her shoulders, and cut off blue jeans. A tattoo of Celtic letters were painted in black on the base of her neck matching a circle of them around her left arm. A trampy Olive Oil, chain smoking, was doing everything wrong and someone had called her out on it.

Sarah and I had stumbled in for something to eat after attending the Savannah Singer Songwriter Series on the island.

"Will you please just leave?" she begs her customer and he does.

Everything she does seems to keep getting worse. After giving up rewriting the menu board, she grabs a dollar from the cash register and plays a sad song, very loudly, on the juke box. This ran off another customer.

When the song's over, the only other person in the bar besides us walks to the juke box and feeds it money. Country music blares over the basketball game that's on the television. We watch because there was no way we can hear anything that's said.

The greasy Olive Oil lights another cigarette and cries as she stares into place.

She took our order but never gave it to the cook. When the songs finally finished we tell her.

Everybody has those kind of days. Everything just seems to turn to shit. The harder you try, the worse it gets. Your roof may as well leak, your house have fleas and your car won't start. Broken hearts break a little more, loneliness grows, your best of friends give stupid advice and you just want to cry.

Our food arrives and Sarah asks for napkins.

She rushes, apologetic for the tardiness of our meal, grabs one a Coca-Cola napkin dispensers and places it before Sarah. It's empty.

We leave her a nice tip. There isn't anything else really to do.

And we both throw her prayers. We've had those kind of days.

The prayers may not help.

They sure as hell couldn't hurt.

My Ministry

"What everyone wants to know," explains the very famous Dr. Jim Withers, "is how you possibly defied the laws of physics and social expectations to live the life that you're living?"

"Hold on," I say into the receiver.

His question constitutes a beer. I walk inside to the fridge and grab one and stroll back to the Beloved back deck and pick the phone back up.

I'd called Jim, the founder of the International Street Medicine Movement, because Dr. Andrew Chapya in Africa had reached out to me for help. After talking about Jim for a few minutes we'd moved on to catching each other up on our personal lives.

"We missed you at the Flotilla," I'd said.

A few years ago I'd convinced Jim he needed a break for the world and there is no better place to leave the real world than Tybee Island.

"Sarah looked good," he replied. "I saw the pictures."

"Yep," I answered, "you should have joined us."

Then he paused and asked me his physics question.

"Beats me," I answered.

"Me too," he replied.

We hung up and I plop down in my chair and prop my bare feet on the railing. My feet are a golden brown, in no small part, because I work mostly naked on the Beloved Back deck everyday. I think about his question.

It is true that I am a technologically advanced minister-at-large with a world wide congregation that never gets together.

My study is my back deck and my secretary is a Palm Tree with oyster eyes, a coconut bra and a grass skirt.

The sanctuary is the beach which was created by God in the first place and, unlike other ministers, I see no reason to try to make improvements on the design.

There is no dress code in this church so there is little pretentiousness that comes with decided what to wear when worshipping God.

Getting here was most interesting and I wouldn't wish the things I've been through on anybody. (That's not true. There are some people I wish it on.) Nevertheless, here I am.

Sipping the beer, I notice how hot it is and decide to go baptize myself.

It's got to be the Seventh Day somewhere.

That's a day of rest.

I give myself the rest of the day off.

It's good work if you can get it.

Welcome to love

Having donned the black robe, the tarnished man at least gives an initial appearance of holiness. He stands waiting as they approach one by one. Upon reaching him, half take their places on his right and half on his left. He watches each of them, locking eyes and witnessing their smiles. He glimpses faces in the audience though remains focused on the procession.

Finally, he sees her, standing there more beautiful than she's ever been though she was already beautiful. She walks slowly, purposely, full of joy. The ocean breeze blows wisps of her blond hair, the setting sun radiates her face and a choir of seagulls sing praise.

She is standing before him now but her eyes are on the man standing to his left. Their eyes are locked as they share a smile, before holding hands, making vows and giving themselves completely away. Then they turn and stare at him in anticipation.

The ones on the right and the ones on the left turn and face him too, also waiting.

People sitting or standing around the semi-circle cock their heads or crane their necks also setting their eyes on him, straining to hear as the ocean breeze blows, waves roll onto the shore and seagulls sing.

It is the most pregnant of moments and it hangs there.

What can he possibly have to say?

He's not the most creditable person on the earth when it comes to marriage. Everyone witnessed his own heart shatter into millions of pieces and slowly put together again by the few who loved him anyway. They watched him reluctantly pull himself up and stand on wobbly knees. Surprise hit them when he began to dance and it quickly turned to shock when he himself stood where the couple are standing now.

Say what you will, he still believes in love.

He steals a glance at his wife sitting in audience reaffirming their own vows and sharing their own smile in the pregnant moment.

Then he clears his throat and gets down to business.

Looking at his little girl holding the hands of the man she loves, he says to the fishes in the ocean, the people on the beach, the seagulls in the sky, the audience sitting or standing, the wedding party and to God himself ...

"Dear friends, welcome to love."

Laid Back

It has come to my attention over the past several days that I'm pretty laid back.

That's good.

I've worked hard to get here.

My world turns very slow.

Not much bothers me.

Well ... politicians bother me. They can all go to hell. I'm non-discriminatory about it ... they all suck. They start off believing they can make a difference but in the end, the major prophet George Harrison was right when he said, "No matter who runs for office, it's the Government that always gets elected."

Television preachers bother me too. They also suck and can go to the same hell they're telling me I'm going to just because I happen to have broken eight of the ten commandments. They hang around Saints claiming to be with the "In-crowd" whereas I prefer my friends the Sinners. We have more fun and we spend a lot of time laughing at Joel Osteen and T.D. Jakes, just waiting on them to have their "Jim and Tammy Baker" moments.

Other than that though, nothing much bothers me.

My daughter Chelsea is getting married tomorrow and a Tropical Storm happens to be passing over head and everybody's in a tither about it.

"It'll be alright," I tell them with a shrug. "The sun always comes back out."

Besides I've never done a beach wedding in the rain. It could be fun, combining the best elements of nuptials with nipples in a wet tee-shirt contest.

There's also all of the drama that goes with a wedding. Who's coming and who's not? Everyone assumes the worst. I don't get caught up in all of that.

It won't matter anyway. I won't see them as I'll be crying my eyes out.

Plus I'm performing the ceremony as a former "Professional Christian" so I have to multi-task by talking and crying at the same time.

It'll all be alright.

When Sarah and I got married we decided to kidnap a party that was already going on and only invite a few friends. Two hundred people showed and the party someone else was throwing became ours. It was a magical night.

It will all work out.

It always does.

Now

Lots of people have problems with the past.

They're haunted by it, stuck in it or forever try to relive it.

I'm with Oscar Wilde on this one.

"The one charm of the past is that ... it's the past" ... meaning it's not now.

I tell a lot of stories and a many of them are from things I've done. I've happened to have done a lot doing my best to take full advantage of this gift of life that I have. I do my best to exploit it, squeezing every single drop out to enjoy.

Like everyone else, there's bad shit in my past. Much of it was self-inflicted but a far share was instigated by others. Sometimes I'll tell those stories too as a way of making certain I learned the lesson because I sure as hell never want to do any of that stuff again!

Bill Berry, not the former drummer for REM but the other one, and I have had many excellent adventures that merit retelling. We have every intention of having many more.

Carlos wrote me yesterday from St. Martin to say there are growing rumors that Conner and I will be back soon and we're bring Hania and Sarah. He already knew we're returning because I told him so a few weeks ago. Conner and I have had many excellent adventures there, both famous and otherwise, and everyone is abuzz not because of what we've done, but because of what we might do.

I love summer. I love it even more than college football season. Summer's my favorite time of year ... you got your baby, got blanket, got your bucket of beer ... and I've had good ones and bad ones. What I remember about the bad ones is just trying to get through them. Several were in St. Martin where Carlos and Verna checked on me everyday and brought me jerked chicken. But I don't want to that again either.

Now this summer is what's exciting me!

Sarah and I kicked it off this past weekend by floating from the mouth of the ocean through the Back River to The Crab Shack where we had a lovely lunch and a better talk. We've got big plans to enjoy the hell out of this one.

Jimmy Buffett is running through my head. "It's the reason for living, that's what I'm given, I don't need no history lesson to tell me why ... I love the Now!"

I'm not big on when the past comes to visit me. It's just what was. There are some good stories to still tell but the rest is best left back there. I don't want to go back to it and I certainly don't want it come back to me. College was great but I'd die if I had to go back.

Seminary was a defining part of my life but they'd shit their pants if I wanted to return, which I don't.

My days as a "Professional Christian", President & CEO, political advocate, and such were key moments for me too but it would be pure hell to do any of them again.

I'm too busy anyway.

Living the NOW and loving it!

How to make God mad

"Well, let me ask you this," I said to God sitting on the Beloved Back deck over a glass of wine last night. "Why did you make Winston, the little gay dog, gay?"

"What kind of stupid ass question is that?" God fired back.

'Well," I said, trying to explain, "Winston is a boy dog and likes other boy dogs ... and Jesus do you see what happens when I give him a bone ..."

"Listen," a very irritated Deity exclaimed shutting me up, "I created life and gave it to everybody. I made everybody a little different. I made everybody special."

"Hmmm," I mumbled taking a sip of wine. I didn't want to piss God off so I gave it a few moments and took another sip.

It was a nice night. Stars twinkled in a black sky. A sliver of moon gave just enough light. We listened as the tide rolled in and waves crashed on beach. There was just enough ocean breeze to make it pleasant.

"Listen," I began again ...

"I'm always listening," God fired, "except to stupid questions."

God was obviously still miffed.

"A gay dog though ..." I started but was again quickly interrupted.

"What about the gift of life can you not get through you're thick head?" God shouted. "It's a gift. Everybody is special? Why do want to make it boring by making everyone the same?"

"Holy Shit," I thought to myself. "I hope I don't get sent to hell on the spot!"

At that precise moment, Goddess meandered out on the deck followed by Winston, the little gay dog. Goddess immediately collapsed at God's feet and started snoring.

God smiled and leaned over and picked up Winston, the little gay dog, who flashed the smile he normally reserves only for Sarah. A large bone appeared out of nowhere in Winston, the little gay dog's, mouth. God tickled him behind the ears while he chomped down on the bone.

"Does he always ask such stupid questions?," God said to Winston, the little gay dog, who looked up and wagged his tail.

"Did you see what he's done to his Guardian Angel?" God continued giving Winston, the little gay dog, lots of love.

I sipped my wine deciding the conversation was over and did my best to enjoy the rest of the night.

Thanks Will B. Dun

"You want to be a member of the Committee of Southern Churchmen?" Vernon asked.

A Catholic Priest, Father Vernon Robertson was my friend, though he was much older than me. On Wednesday's I did the readings for the noon Mass and he would speak to the evening gathering of the Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel where I was the "Professional Christian".

The Committee was a group of clergy that worked with Martin Luther King, Jr. in support of the Civil Rights movement. In the 1980's I didn't know it was still around.

"Sure," I replied.

"Call this number," he instructed which I did, not recognizing the area code.

"Hello?"

"It's Micheal Elliott," I said.

"OK," the voice said and hung up.

"What the ...?" I called Vernon back reporting the conversation,

"That great!" he exclaimed. "You're in!"

"Who answered the phone?" I demanded.

"Will did," he answered.

"Will Campbell?"

Will D. Campbell is a famous preacher, wanna-be country singer who happened to be close friends with Johnny Cash, Waylon Jennings and Tom T. Hall, incredible author of Brother to a Dragonfly,  and was with Martin Luther King the night he was killed.

During this time Vernon and I were knocking around with Will. He'd done a concert for us at St. Martin of Tours Church with Vernon and had preached at Jeff Street which pissed Southern Seminary off because it though he should have preached there first.

"No one asked me to preach except Mike," he told them.

A few weeks later he preached in the Chapel at the Seminary and began his sermon by saying, "It's nice to be with the Pharisees again."

Will cracked  me up.

I visited his Mt. Juliet, Tennessee cabin several times and we'd chew tobacco, have long talks about "Steeples" his term for churches and go to Gassers for lunch. Gassers was a gas station restaurant adored with floor to ceiling country music album covers.

Will also wrote the preface to my first book "The Society of Salty Saints" which propelled it places it never would have otherwise gone.

When I learned that Will died last night my head and heart were flooded with memories. A great man graced by life for several years for which I remain grateful. What a hell of a life he lived! What a hell of a difference he made!

So thanks Will! Thy Will B. Dun.

Religious Rules

"Dear Lord, I plan each day with what I will not do or say ..."

It's how a lot of people approach their religion, thinking its a bunch of rules that you follow. Sure there are Ten Commandments of which I've broken eight. Most everybody has broken some of them and its best to be honest about it and say so.

I've done a much better job with the Greatest Commandments, "Love God with everything you got and Love the people in your life like you love yourself" (Micheal Elliott Revised not-so-standard version). God and I have a pretty good relationship. We have wine together most every night on the Beloved Back deck. I say all sorts of things though God keeps pretty quiet. I'm convinced I'm heard though and every once in a while God actually speaks.

Most of my neighbors like me and I like most of them. Oh sure, the Kat Lady drives me nutty sometimes with her "Here Kitty, Kitty, Kitty" screeching and across the street a fat lady gardens in her underwear which is not a pretty site. But we speak and get along all right.

I don't pay any attention to all of those church rules. Attendance for example. If's hard to even remember what the rules are if you never go. Consequently, I'm not too bothered about what I'm not doing.

Even at Bar Church, I've taken to stopping by sometimes before it starts to talk to Psalmist Stephen. He'll tell me what's happening and I'll leave before it starts. That's pretty much enough for me these days.  If I need more organized religion I visit Psalmist Stephen at the Sugar Shack to get sprinkles of wisdom.

I've noticed lots of people discussing how there are too many religious rules these days and how lots of them are made up things that somehow got inserted into God's rule book. God knows nothing about it.

America's Greatest Minister Guy Salyes wrote a great piece on "Being and being Loved, Before doing and duty" which is a crazy title. Then again he's always been a wild and crazy Guy. He goes on to dismiss the majority of rules Churches have as they get in the way of a real relationship with God. He doesn't come right out and say "To hell with these rules" like I do but it's pretty close.

Plus I've been working on the Micheal Elliott Revised Not-So-Standard Version of the Bible which will soon be available in paperback for $666. It's a much more accurate translation accentuating the sex, murder and debauchery of the Bible which is glossed over by most churches. When's the last time you heard a really steamy sermon from Song of Solomon?

If that wasn't enough I'm reading Georgia's Greatest Christian runner up Michael Ruffin's "Prayer 365" which is a bunch of prayers. I really distain bad prayers and have heard way too many when both God and I fell asleep. Mike has really good prayers that get to the point where its like he's sitting here on the Beloved Back Deck with God and me having wine. I like that.

All of that to say, I do not get up every day promising God what I won't do in order to be religious.

I do get up every day and say, "Hey God. What we doing today?"

Book Covers

"I'm a part time meat cutter at Walmart," he said in his country twang voice sitting on the stool next to mine at The Breakfast Club, "and a writer."

Everyone turns to look at him.

Short cropped white hair and a white goatee on a white face marked him his as a tourist.

"Any of y'all write?" he asks.

Johnny O, Whitley, Phil, Car Queer, and Caroline all point directly at me.

"He does," they yell in unison.

"I got 9000 followers on Twitter," he says looking straight at me. "You?"

"What?" I ask. There is no way in hell this country bumpkin has that many followers. "Couple of hundred," I answer with a shrug.

"I'm a poet," he continues. "You?"

"Ummm," I mutter, not really wanting to talk. "I'm all over the place."

"I've got one book published," he says plowing ahead. "You?"

"Eight," I answer.

He sits up straight exclaiming "Eight?"

Caroline places coffee in front of him and asks if he wants to order.

"Naw," he dismisses her, "we gonna eat at the Ocean Plaza where we're staying. My wife loves it. HEY, you work there!" he says to Johnny O. "Maintenance?"

"Front Desk Manager," Johnny replies.

"Y'all got pizza? My wife loves pizza."

Johnny gets up and leaves and Caroline jerks the menu from him.

"I've only made about $2 off my book," he says returning his attention to me. "You?"

"A little more than that," I tell him.

"You on Facebook?" he asks, returning his attention to me.

"Yep," I answer.

"How many friends you got?"

"Couple of thousand," I say.

"Couple of thousand!" he exclaims. "I want to be Facebook friends. You?"

Caroline immediately handed me a pen and paper with a devilish smile. I could kill her.

So we swap names and later in the day become Facebook friends. Sure enough, he's a poet and writes daily. He also has 9000 followers on Twitter which blows my mind. He manages a Facebook group called "Poetry Pad" of which I'm now a member. He has endorsed me on Twitter and I'm reading his poems every day. He and Sarah are now Facebook friends.

All of which goes to prove ... you really can't judge a book by it's cover.

Hooters and my wife

It has been suggested by my friend Bobby that my wife works at Hooters.

She does not but I am all for it!

I'm not just saying this off the cuff.

I've done my research. I checked out her qualifications and HOO BOY! She has the perfect qualifications to be a Hooters girl.

Sarah also has experience as a waitress so that part of the job should be a breeze. She can read and write while standing up.

People like her. She's easy to talk with. She's very confident, cocky and competitive. The other Hooters girls don't stand a chance.

She's also grown accustomed to people having a conversation with her never looking her in the eye.

Oh sure, sometimes I've watched her grab them by the chin with one hand, spread her first two fingers on the other hand pointing them at her eyes and then at his eyes and then at her eyes again ... but I don't think she is too bothered when this happens.

I also went to check out how she looks in the Hooters uniform but we don't have one. Sarah does have an orange bikini which is close enough and her assets were definitely accentuated.

The final test came when I drank a few beers and ate chicken wings. I asked Sarah to wear the orange bikini top and bring me a beer and the wings. When she leaned forward to place them on the table I missed my mouth because I was ... preoccupied.

Finally, I asked for her phone number and she just rolled her eyes and walked away. As she did so I realized she additional assets she will bring to the job.

I don't know how many wives work at Hooters but its probably not enough. So I'm working with Sarah to start a movement to place more wives at Hooters with her leading the charge.

She'll be the one in the forefront on this.

I'll be working on from behind.

Finding Hope Again

Tears welled in the beady eyes of the tiny bald homeless man who had just burst into the kitchen in the basement of the church where I was cooking. Turning from the sausage gravy I was making for the hundred or so homeless people who were waiting for breakfast, he went to speak but only a sob came out.

"It's ... it's ...," he tried to say but couldn't so he grabbed my hand pulling me up the stars and out into the street. Dragging me along we went half-a-block and he stopped pointing at the open door of a two story shotgun house. No one lived downstairs save the homeless men who drank and slept there.

Upstairs was occupied by Florence, an old tiny mean woman who called me "Mr. Mike" in a sweet little girl's voice when she wanted something and most everything else when she didn't. She let the homeless men live there so anyone wanting her would have to get through them first.

The little man covered his mouth with his hands and tears flowed freely down his weather beaten face. Walking passed the trash and empty bottles to the stairs I climbed up and her door was open. I called but no one answered so I went in and there she was, laying on the bed, arms up over her face but feet still on the floor. She must have died as soon as she sat down.

Back outside, I grabbed Sonny and drug him back to the church. After calling the Police, I sat down with him, focusing on the living rather than the dead.

"Hey Sonny," I said with my hands on his knees. "You're going to be OK. Me and the boys are going to stick with you."

And we did. My core homeless friends and I adopted Sonny, making him one of our own. By the time I left Louisville, he was no longer homeless, worked at the Church and at a Bar down the street, dying several years later clean and sober.

Working in Savannah, I got the call that Christine's 17 year old son had taken his own life. Immediately I drove to her house in the islands where she sat on the sofa, staring into space and paying no attention to those offering comfort. Her eyes locked mine when I opened the door and her pain erupted as I held her.

I was the minister at his funeral and his classmates spoke and laughed of the wonderful times they'd had with him trying to celebrate a life rather than face a death. Christine sat without moving, staring straight ahead, crossing her thumbs over and over, completely oblivious to the things taking place around her.

Afterwards, we had long talks together. She had lots of questions though I didn't have many answers so we'd sit silently. Eventually she returned to work, giving twice the love to her remaining son.

I've known and still watch lots of people living in desperate situations ... trapped in a marriage they don't want ... a job that takes their life away while they're still alive ... acting as caregivers for parents, spouses or children who can't care for themselves ... hiding their pain rather than working through it ... longing for a different life but with no real hope it'll ever happen.

Too many lose hope. You can't have faith without hope and without faith, life has no assurance and little if any conviction.

When people lose hope they become lonely, regardless of how many people they're around.

Throughout my life, I've worked to help folks rediscover their hope which is best done in groups. I've watched the homeless be raised from the dead to achieve wonderful lives, people dying with AIDS live happily and fulfilled, abandoned people form communities and the unlovely be loved.

I know, with absolute conviction, with everything within me, that pain can be worked through, hope can be recovered, Chains ... self-shackled or otherwise ... can be broken and everyone can live how and where they want!

That's why I've decided to offer group hope opportunities. It's what I've always done and have a track record of  helping people hope again, which leads to a conviction which leads to living again! Especially living the way you've always wanted to live!