Parental Purgatory

Maddie graduated from High School the other day and is set to enroll in College in a few weeks. She's 17, knows everything so if there's something you don't know but really need to know ... just ask Maddie, she knows.

At graduation, Sarah and Maddie's sisters take pictures posting them on Instagram.

Cassidy, our 12 year old, writes under the photos, "Congratulations on graduating. I am so proud of you and know you're going to do great in life! I love you. You're the best!"

Underneath the same images on our 15 year old's Instagram, Laurel writes, "I'm oldest now."

Of course Maddie didn't know it was coming and's mad as Hell!

Aw man it still cracks me up!

I know ... I know ... as a parental figure  you have to stay neutral with the kids which is difficult enough whenever there's more than one ... crazy complicated if your's is a blended family ... stupid if you happen to be 62 and your kids range from 41 to 2 ... and outright insane when you're the only male at home ... surrounded by five girls and a gay dog.

I know being a parent is the hardest thing in the world but I've come to believe being a Stepfather is harder!

Who came up with the lame word "Stepfather" or "Stepmother"?

What's it mean?

We've stepped into something like dog shit and now we can't get it off our shoe ... or in my case from between my toes?

I've done research and the term originated in 8th Century and means "orphan" ... and in those days a man or a woman took in children without fathers or mothers.

I don't know what the word mean today because I try with everything in me to be a real, 100% Dad, to our girls if they want.

Most of the time they don't so I'm in some sort of parental purgatory ... where my opinion and help is not necessary ... unless their Mother won't give em what they want.

Luckily two of the four girls living at home with Sarah and me have boyfriends so when they're around, we can give knowing glances at each other and ask, without using words, only glances and facial expressions ... "Can you believe this shit?"

I love Parks and Cooper and thank God for them every night.

Anyway, yesterday Laurel and Cooper find this chair, obviously part of a larger ensemble, in someone's front yard and drag it home as a gift for Maddie.

Sarah and Maddie are doing all the shopping and furnishing  of a first year college student's dorm room.

"We got you a present," Laurel explains to Maddie, who's just showered after a long day of work at the Breakfast Club and is wrapped in a blue towel with wet hair.

"Wha is it?" Che, our 2 year hold, asks leaping from the sofa wearing a yellow Princess Elena dress complete with gold crown and wand.

"It's for Maddie's room when she goes to College," Laurel explains.

"What?" Maddie asks following Che to inspect.

As soon as they're outside, Laurel strolls across the living room and locks the door ... all three locks.

Cooper shoots me a wordless question ... "Do you believe this shit?"

I'm still laughing.

Recently, Eamon Sheehan, friend of our older kids Jeremy and Kristen ... and son of my dear friend Dan ... was visiting from California introducing me to his son ... and we fall into conversation about his Dad and my friend ... who's gone now.

Dan and I still have lots in common.

He was a Dad in blender like me, older when he and Carolyn had Eamon and would sneak off with me to talk about how crazy life is but how thankful we are to have it.

"You know Mike," Eamon says on the sidewalk in front of the Sand Bar before Bar Church, "Dad just loved being a Dad. That's why I was born. He couldn't get enough of it."

That night before I went to bed, I say a prayer.

"Hey Dan. Met you grandson today. Man! I know you're proud. Eamon talks just like you ... hopefully your grandson will talk more like Leila's side of the family ... anyway ... I want to say thanks for all those times we rode around just talking ... about life and kids ... and what makes a family."

"You probably already know Dan, being in Heaven and all ... but you're in Catholic Heaven and there's probably lots of rules and all your information may not be the latest ... but I seem to have followed in your footsteps ... which is the not the same as a mis-step ... which has nothing to do with being a Stepfather."

I could hear Dan laugh in the darkness ... a crazy eruption of delightful Irish elation.

"You gonna let her back in?" Cooper finally asks out loud.

I wasn't going to ask.

I'm enjoying this.

Laurel unlocks the door and all Hell breaks loose.

It just doesn't get any better.

I love being a Dad!

Just like my buddy Dan.

And neither one of us stepped in anything God didn't lead us to.

Everything Inside of us

"And they said, 'Isn't Jesus the son of Joseph? We know his father and mother! How can he say he was sent from Heaven?'" (John 6:42).

It's a most fascinating Bible verse.

You never hear it talked about in Church.

People are saying they know who Jesus is!

They're friends with his Dad and Mom ... known him his whole life!

They watched him grow up!

How in God's name can Jesus claim to not belong to Joseph and Mary?

And how in God's name can he claim to be God's son?

The unspoken sentiment behind the question is, "this boy's out of his mind!"

It's in the Gospel of John, the last one written, long after Jesus had lived, died, came back to life somehow and ascended to Heaven in front of witnesses.

Most of the witnesses have died by the time John was written.

Unlike the other Gospels, which come across as eye witness accounts of the life Jesus lived, John is all about the son of God.

Matthew, Mark and Luke are about the things Jesus did.

John is all about who Jesus was.

Whoever wrote John ... it wasn't an Apostle ... believes in Jesus though they've never met.

"In the beginning was the word," John starts, "and the word was with God and the word was God" (1:1)  ... and the word is Jesus.

Jesus is the word ... of God.

It helps to understand a bit of Hebrew.

"D'bar" ... Hebrew for word ... has life ... once spoken it can never be taken back or killed ... words live forever once your mouth births them ... it's a principal reason we forget so little ... remember so much!

As living things, words are actions ... deeds ... lives.

So if in the beginning was the word ... and that word was Jesus ... and Jesus was with God ... and Jesus was God ... then it has a life of it's own.

The Gospel of John is classic Greek storytelling ... meaning it couldn't have been the Disciple who wrote the Gospel or it would have been in Hebrew or Aramaic ... but it's really good Greek ... with an introduction of the biography.

Though it's funny too the concepts are Hebraic ... whoever wrote John wasn't writing to the Jews but is introducing Jesus to a bigger world.

"This is the story of Jesus," is how it'd be put today, "the word of God in action."

In Matthew, Mark and Luke, Jesus is human ... he gets mad ... has a soft spot for children and loose women ... hates seeing sick people so he healed them ... even raises the dead because he's not ready for them to go yet ... and takes naps in boats.

But in John, "there's nothing Jesus doesn't know, nothing he can't do, and when they take him in the end, you feel he could blow them right off the map if he felt like it. Majestic, mystical, aloof, the Jesus of the fourth Gospel walks three feet off the ground, you fell, and you can't help wishing that once in a while he'd come down to earth" (Frederick Buechner, Peculiar Treasures).

John believes in a Jesus he's never seen ... didn't meet ... hadn't heard ... but knows with everything inside that it's the Son-of-God ... word become flesh ... he's talking about.

Which what makes this particular verse ... this part of the story ... so awkward and funny.

"We know who you are!" they accuse.

"We know your shit head parents!"

"Your Dad's an out of work carpenter who died young."

"Your Mom was a hot teenager who was forever pregnant ... and you were the first kid ... but she was always knocked up ... your parents obviously liked to do it.

"And now here you are ... claiming they're not your parents ... but you come directly from God."

It's funny if you put this in the context whoever wrote John wrote it.

Jesus stuns the world feeding 5,000 with fish and bread ... his Disciples can't take the crowds and leave him behind when they take a boat to get away ... later Jesus walks up ... on water ... asking, "Where'd y'all go?" and climbs inside.

The next day the 5,000 or so realize Jesus is on Little Tybee so they boat, paddle board, surf and float over ... and when they arrive they ask, "How'd you get over here?"

"Jet Ski?"

And Jesus gives a lecture ... "I've fed you once! You want more?" ... and he talks about how he's the Bread that comes down from Heaven" ... and whoever wrote John does a funky version of "The Last Supper"  ... he'd obviously heard about it and does a re-imagining ... the "you can do it even if you weren't there" version ... the beginning of "Do this in remembrance of me."

This is when the crowd ... the same crowd that ate the first ever fish sandwich for $1 from McDonald's ... with fries! ... ask, "Wait a minute! You're no better than us! We know your folks! They weren't shit! How can you say you're God's boy and not theirs?"

And that's the Gospel of John in a nutshell.

Do you believe you're more than you are?

Are there bigger things in the Universe than you?

Have you seen things you can't explain?

Do you wonder why?

How can a carpenter knock up a teenager and have a son of God?

A daughter of God?

God knows I don't know.

Just like whoever wrote the Gospel of John didn't know.

But somehow God knows.

Whoever wrote the Gospel of John believed that with everything inside.

And we're gathered here today because we want to believe it with everything inside of us too.

Jesus' Mom

Well, it's Mother's Day so ... I suppose I have to start talking about mine.

She's great!

And, if I didn't say so, she'd kick my ass.

I'n blessed she's still here ... at my age I'm blessed with lots of things ... but my Mother runs circles around me ... and honestly can kick my ass any time she chooses ... without lifting a finger ... cause she's got the look.

You remember the "Look."

Your Mother has one too.

It freezes you instantly because you know ... you're in deep.

And if you're a Mother, you have the "Look" too but your Mother's "Look" far exceeds your "Look" as you still try to emulate hers.

But My Mom, I have to say, is quite the remarkable woman.

It's hard to know where to begin ... her career began when we were broke and Dad's paycheck wasn't enough so she got a job as a secretary at a Credit Union ... moved to a bank ... learned the trade ... became a loan originator ... broke all the records men held ... made more money than the Bank President one year ... broke glass ceilings for women ... refused to accept the "Originator of the Year" award once because it was a man on the plaque so they had it redone ... with a woman ... in a mini-skirt ... which Mom thought fair ... so she brought it home.

I could go on and on about my Mom.

She did a lot.

Won lots of plaques.

My Dad sold them all one day when she was gone.

He made a lot of money off them.

She still hasn't forgiven him ... though he died a decade ago.

"What would you've done with them?" I asked her.

"I dunno," she laughs. "Who needs a bunch of plaques from the past?"

This is what I remember most about "me Mum" ... as I say ... is once when I was a kid ... little ... though I don't recall how little ... she picked me up and slammed my butt on the kitchen table ... and cupping her hands around my chin ... intense blues eyes looking in blues ... she snaps!

"Let me tell you something Micheal" and her voice is stern and hard and full of conviction, "you ... are ... going ... to ... be ... great! ... that's your life! ... GREAT!"

And she kisses me, leaving my feet dangling towards the floor they couldn't reach.

Over the remaining "formative years" she tells me this a lot ... grabbing me by the shoulders ... slamming my ass on the kitchen table ... cupping my chin in the palms of her hands ... blues staring into blues .., and her clam, steady voice says, "You're great! You're gonna be great!"

I dunno how great I've been but ... I've done a lot of cool stuff.

The best though is I'm Sarah's husband.

I've seen and done lots of great things in my life ... but the greatest is being Sarah's husband.

She's a mother.

Six daughters and a boy ... five grand kids ... our love is mostly moving parts ... it's hard to keep up ... mostly with each other.

I marvel at her mothering.

She's great!

As liberal as I am ... and I'm very liberal ... I'm far more conservative with the girls than she.

I don't trust them.

They'll get in trouble like I did when Mom wasn't slamming my ass on the kitchen table to tell me how great I'm going to become.

Sarah trusts them.

She lets them make their own mistakes where I try to save them from happening.

That take far more strength than I've got.

Sarah lets 'em fall flat on their faces if they're stupid enough to not listen to her in the first place, then she'll ask, "Well are going to do that again?"

And they don't!

How does she do that?

It makes no sense whatsoever.

Though her parental philosophy has obviously had an impact on me too.

They come to me sometimes, "Mike, if I tell you something, will you not tell Mom?"

"Are you out of your frigging mind?" I answer. "No way in Hell I'm hiding anything you say from her. I'll tell you what ... why don't you go ahead and tell me and I'll let you know how fast you need to tell her."

Sometimes they tell me anyway.

I always tell Sarah.

It's a train wreck but we keep on keeping on and like most Mother/Son and Mother/Daughter relationships ... it's complicated.

Which brings me to Jesus and his Mom.

Mary drove her boy crazy.

He ran away from home when he was twelve.

I ran away when I was 3 or 4 ... Mom says I packed some diapers and a six-shooter ... tied them in a kerchief at the end of the broom and walked away from it all.

Three houses later she asks, "Where you going Mike?"

"Running away," I tell her.

"Want to go to the store with Mom?"

I got in.

When Mary found her son Jesus in hiding out in the Temple, she was angry, let him know it and he dismisses her immediately.

Mary even gave Jesus "the Look" and he obviously didn't care.

"Why'd you bother looking for me?" he asks, "You should have known I'd be here."

My Mother would have slapped me a new one!

Years later they're at a wedding and they run out of wine.

Like many of us, Mary obviously attended weddings for the wine.

When they ran out, she asks her son to get more.

"I don't have my ID with me," he answers, which is very feasible translation of the original Greek.

She "guilt's" him into it and, like a lot of sons with their mothers, Jesus overcompensates making way more than is needed ... everyone gets drunk, including Mary, and Jesus sneaks out.

The next time Mary approaches her son, Jesus is riding high, drawing big crowds ... making it on his own.

Mary says, "Tell him his Mamma's here and wants to see him."

"Who?" Jesus asks.

Mary insists ... "I'm his Mother. He wants to see me."

"Every woman here is my Mother," Jesus says to everyone except his Mom.

He keeps on working and Mary has no choice but to leave and go home alone.

The last time Mary sees her boy, he's hanging on the cross dying.

Through the pain, Jesus sees her and says, "Behold your son."

Then he sees a friend of his standing beside Mary and says to him, "Behold your Mother" ... and he gives his Mom away to a new family ... and he dies ... and Mary goes home with the friend.

She's mentioned one last time in the Bible ... in Acts, after Jesus is raised from the dead ... she's with her family and the Disciples ... devoted in prayer.

Whatever it was the Apostles believed, Mary did too.

That's all we get out of the Biblical accounts.

But here's what I think.

When his feet couldn't reach the floor after Mary sat him on the kitchen table to look in his eyes and say, "You ... are ... great!"

And even when Jesus blew off his Mother, she trusted him, let him go his own way, get in trouble she couldn't save him from and become what God intended all along.

There were things she did well ... others she could have done a lot better ... but, to this say, she the reason behind one of my favorite prayers ... "Holy Mary, Mother of God!"

Because in spite of how many issues she and the boy had ... and they obviously had several ... there was a love shared ... and love saves the world ... and if we're lucky we let it save us too.

Stepping stones to God

A long, long time ago when I was a far, far different person, I visited my friend Guy Sayles, the Pastor of the First Baptist Church of Montezuma, Georgia.

If you've ever been to Montezuma, Georgia then you know there's no reason whatsoever to go.

There's nothing there ... except Mennonites.

There's lots of Mennonites in Montezuma.

If you know anything about Mennonites you know they're actually "Anabaptists" ... part of the original Protestant reformation who believe growing things naturally make for better food served in restaurants ... so they open really fine restaurants that are like stepping back in time ... because they dress like the Amish ... believe sex is bad ... though they don't fight about it because they're pacifists and refuse to fight about anything!

Anyway Guy and I are sitting in "Yoder's Ditsch Haus Restaurant and Bakery" ... Yoder's Dutch House ... stuffed with really good home cooking served by really plain looking yet wholesome women wearing blue bonnets on their heads.

"What you want to do now?" Guy asks.

"Let's go to Koinonia," I burp.

If you know Greek then you know "Koinonia" means "fellowship" ... like in the Book of Acts when it's used to describe what the first followers of Jesus did after he was crucified, raised from the dead and went to Heaven leaving us the Holy Spirit.

"And they devoted themselves to the Apostles' teaching and the fellowship ... koinonia ... to the breaking of bread and prayers" (Acts 2: 42).

The "Koinonia" I want to go to is a farm about half-an-hour outside of Montezuma, Georgia.

If you've ever been to Koinonia Farm you know it's a Christian commune dedicated to living out faith just as those first Christians did in Acts 2 with the principals of (1) treating everyone with dignity and justice (2) choosing love over violence (3) sharing possessions and living simply, and (4) love the land.

You don't see many folks trying to actually live out their faith like the very first Christians did!

There's even fewer than there are Mennonites!

So Guy drives me to Koinonia which is a very large Pecan Farm, bakery, commune and retreat center where Habitat for Humanity was born.

Yes I said commune ... like the places commie Hippies formed in the 60s ... though Koinonia Farm actually started in the 40s by a University of Georgia graduate with a degree in agriculture who later went to The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary and got a Ph.D. in New Testament Greek.

If you've ever been to The Southern Baptist Theological Seminary, like I have, then you know Southern Baptists are nothing like Mennonites because they believe they're the only Protestants and will fight you if you say otherwise ... conduct hostile takeovers of restaurants immediately following their Sunday service ... publicly claim sex is bad but screws mostly everybody ... and loves buildings and war more than Jesus. 

Regardless, Clarence Jordan who founded Koinonia Farm is one of my heroes and if the Seminary was good enough for him then it was good enough for me ... though later the Southern Baptists publicly denounced both of us as pagan, Commie, Hippy heathens.

At Koinonia I wanted to visit the little shack where Clarence wrote "The Cotton Patch Gospels" ... he translated the Bible from the original Greek into the southern vernacular of the Jim Crow 1960s  and he set the whole story in Georgia.

So Jesus was born in Gainesville ... was tempted by the Devil atop Stone Mountain ... biscuits represented his body at the Last Supper ... he was crucified in Atlanta ...

Guy and I arrive at the Farm and standing under the grove of Pecan trees, I remember Clarence's translation of the Beatitudes when Jesus gave the sermon on the mount. 

Most of us believe the Beatitudes are separate verses directed at different people ... meek people will inherit the earth ... poor people will filled.

"The so-called Beatitudes are not so much separate verses, as I was taught in Sunday School," Clarence says. "These are the great ideas governing the development of the Movement ... They are the stages of metamorphosis ... the process of changing one's whole philosophy of life."

Looking at it this way, each verse is a step, or stage, leading to the next until you are "born again" as a follower of Jesus ... and a living part of the Movement.

The spiritually humble are God's people, for they are citizens of his new order ... the first step is to be humbled and be in a place where you need God and are willing to say so.

Those who are deeply concerned are God's people for they shall see their ideals become reality ... humility and a relationship with God leads to dreams of a new world!

Those who are gentle are God's people for they will be his partners across the land ... humble people in relationship with God have a tenderness about them! 

Those with an unsatisfied appetite for the right are God's people for they will be given plenty to chew on ... a burning for justice for others is born and germinates as we grow in our relationship with God!

The generous are God's people for they will be treated generously ... God's people give to justice and, in return, receive gifts of justice.

Those with pure motives are God's people for they will have spiritual insight ... increasingly, we grow to care mostly about others more than ourselves and God speaks to us in deeper ways than before.

Women and men of peace and good will are God's people for they will be known everywhere as his children ... our actions define us and people know we're in a relationship with God without us having to say anything!

Those who have endured much for what's right are God's people and they are citizens of his new order ... it costs a lot to get to this point ... family, friends, reputation and money ... but you gain God in a deeply personal way!

You are all God's people when others call you names, harass you and tell all kinds of false tales on you just because you follow me. Be cheerful and good-humored because your spiritual advantage is great. That's the way they treated women and men of conscience in the past ... people will hate you for this, just as they hated Jesus, but don't stoop to their level or become one of them because God is with you ... that's the advantage.

It's a different way of looking at following God isn't it?

Where are you in the steps of becoming part of God's world ... living the way God intends life to be lived ...  being the person you're meant to be?

Notice what's not part of the steps towards God.

Attending Church ... abstinence from most anything ... political persuasion ... cussing, dancing, chewing or going out with others who do.

Here's the thing.

"The proof that God raised Jesus from the dead is not the empty tomb but the hearts of his transformed disciples. The crowning evidence that he lives is not a vacant grave but a spirit filled fellowship! Not a rolled away stone but a carried away Church!"

That's what we're about here at Bar Church!

Completely carried away as we celebrate life!

Could we start again please?

It's finally quiet at the house.

Opening the computer, I sit at the table, bark out orders.

"ALEXA! Play "Jesus Christ Superstar" ... LOUD!"

"My mind is clear now ... at last ... all too well ... I can see ... where we all ... soon will be ..."

The phone starts buzzing.

"Dammit!" I exclaim. "ALEXA ... PAUSE!"

"What up?" I say into the phone.

It's one of us ... a Bar Church semi-regular ... but life's not good at the moment ... and though I haven't seen him in months ... I hear about it ... and it's not good ... in fact, several times listening to him talk I can't help but mutter one of the simplest of prayers ... "Jesus Christ!"

Twenty minutes later he finally arrives at something I can understand ... he wants me to do something for him ... meet him at an undetermined time in a yet to be decided place but probably near where he lives on the other side of the County.

"Let's see what happens," I answer.

"Thanks Rev," he mumbles hanging up.

"ALEXA ... RESUME!

"If you strip away the myth ... from the man ... you will see ... where we all ... soon will be."

The computer pings and what I'm writing is interrupted by a phone call from a friend on messenger.

It's Elisa.

I'm thrown into a theological quandary.

I'm finally getting what God wants me to write ... I'm on a roll ... but it's Elisa ... she's sitting right there ... I have to take the call.

I don't take the call.

Sending a text instead I write, "What's up?"

"ALEXA ... RESUME!"

"Jesus ... you've started to believe the things they say of you you really do believe this talk of God is true?"

The phone buzzes with a text.

It's Elisa.

"Why aren't you taking my call?"

The truth of the matter is I've never taken a call from messenger because I'm afraid, once I start it'll never stop and there are lots of people I'd really not rather hear from so it's best to be overly cautious.

But it's one of our own ... and I love her and she deserves a response.

"ALEXA PAUSE," I yell and proceed to type her number out on the keyboard but a message pops up from Eric.

"Are we going to rehearse again before Easter?"

I fire off a message to Elisa ... "I'll call you later."

Then I respond to Eric ... "No."

"ALEXA CONTINUE!"

"And all the good you've done will soon get swept away you've begun to matter more than the things you say."


Loud thumps from up stairs startle me.

"ALEXA OFF!" I snap.

Taking the stairs two at a time to where Che's supposed to be napping, I open the door to catch her running across her bedroom, dives under her covers, holds up her bottle and says ... with bright sparkling eyes and a face I love more than anything ... "More bottle?"

Back down the stairs, I replenish the bottle with milk, climb up again and give it to our baby girl.

"You go to sleep Che-bay," I tenderly order. "Mommy will be home when you get up."

Reclaiming my seat in the dining room, I softly say to myself, "I'm never gonna finish this."

"ALEXA GO."

"Look at all my trials and tribulations ... sinking in a gentle pool of wine ... Don't disturb me now, I can see the answers ... till this morning is this evening life is fine"

My phone buzzes, dancing around the table because my wife's calling.

"ALEXA ..." and the music stops without me ever telling Alexa what I want.

Sarah's actually Face Timing me to show me the meat specials at Sam's Club.

It's an ongoing part of fun game of banter in our home. To me nobody beats Matt's specials at IGA ... she believes there's always better deals to be found.

For the next ten minutes, she's pointing her phone at slabs of meat the size of Wisconsin for me to say "Yay" or "Nay" on before purchasing.

"Cheaper at IGA," I say, and she throws down half a cow ... narrowly missing an innocent shopper.

"What about this?" and I view a long tube of hamburger meat that could stretch across all four lanes of the Tybee Road.

"Cheaper at IGA."

She slings it back into the refrigerated case making the sound of brick hitting brick.

We go on like this until I concede a pork the size of Rhode Island is a great buy because my Sarah always finds the deals.

"I told you," she smiles as we laugh.

"ALEXA" and ... the music starts again before I finish.

"What's that in the bread ... it's gone to my head ... 'till this evening is this morning life is fine."

The phone buzzes.

ALEXA stops the music before I call her name.

It's Danny.

He's got some Palm Fronds he's cutting for us to use at Bar Church this week.

"That'd be great," I reply and ALEXA picks it right back up before I even clear my throat.

"Look at all my trials and tribulations ... sinking in a gentle pool of wine"

Getting up, I say nothing to Alexa and pour myself a gentle pool of wine before returning to the sermon.

"Hmmm," I mumble, "I wonder what I was writing about?"

Try as I may, I can't for the life of me conjure back up whatever inspired me to sit down in the first place.

"Oh well," I think sipping the wine, "God'll have to get back to me on whatever it is."

It's quite in the house.

Che's fallen back asleep ... the girls are still at school ... Sarah's probably in the midst of price negotiations with someone in upper management at Sam's Club using the IGA/Matt card to get her way ... Alexa's done with "Jesus Christ Superstar" and me.

Warm gentle breezes from the Ocean blow the lush, green foliage of trees washed pollen free from a day of good rain.

Sunshine is baptizing the world in light.

Choirs of birds sing Hymns.

Che cries so I make my way upstairs. Yawning she throws her tiny arms around my neck. Her skin is hot from the blanket and near 80 degree afternoon ... there is no better feeling in the world ... well, there is one but Sarah's not home and all the girls will blow in any moment now.

Downstairs, I take her outside to feel the cool Ocean breeze and she lays her head on my shoulder.

For this moment, there is peace on earth.

Is this what "Come on earth as it is in Heaven" means?

Che's hungry so I let her pick whatever she wants from the Pantry ... a red Dum-dum ... give her my cell phone to watch "The Micky Mouse Club" and lay her on the sofa to finish waking.

Taking my seat in front of the computer again, I ask myself, "Isn't this the way we're supposed to live? Appreciating the world we're given and loving those who love us?"

I think this is the way God intended things.

Now, who is it that I didn't call back?

It's going to drive me crazy until I call back whoever it was.

It'd be nice to start again ... but this time do it the way God always intended ... appreciating and celebrating life without all the disruptions ... that'd be nice ... please?

I've been living to see you ... dying to see you but it shouldn't be like this
This was unexpected, what do I do now? ... Could we start again please?

I've been very hopeful so far ... now for the first time I think we're going wrong
Hurry up and tell me this is just a dream or could we start again please?
Before it get's too frightening we ought to call a halt. So could we start again please.

"Could we start again please?"

"Could we start again?"

Unplugging Easter

The other day I take Che, our two-year-old daughter, to the Library.

Two little girls sit at a table playing dress up with dolls.

Che studies them for a moment, intently sucking her pacifier, sits at another table alone and begins playing with cars.

"This is the Princes' table," one of the little girls says to Che. "Only Princes' can sit here. You're sitting at the Boy's Table ... Princes' don't sit at the Boy's Table."

Che picks up two match box cars, places them at opposite ends of the table, counts out loud ... "I, 2, 7, 6, 10!" ... throws both vehicles at each other causing a crash, then burst into laughter.

One of the two little girls rush over and says, "Well, sometimes I play with Boy's toys."

Her little friend joins her and the two grab all the cars to loudly make their own crashes.

Calmly and quietly, Che stands and takes sole possession of the Princess Table.

A mother carrying a newborn flies across the Library to scold her two daughters for throwing countless cars on the floor.

"I am raising you to be ladies," she snarls. "Why can't you play nicely like that little girl?" she says pointing at Che, who ... I swear to God ... flashes devilment in her big blue eyes and throws off the slightest of smiles.

As her father, I couldn't be more proud and it takes everything in me to not bust out laughing.

Who doesn't live for such moments?

Well, when you get to my age, you spend more time thinking about things you'd rather not think about.

Dying for instance.

I think about it more than ever.

It sucks!

I'm married to this beautiful, wonderful, hard nosed woman who slams through my bullshit to demand I be more than I've been so far ... which really gets under my skin ... because she blatantly points it out so I can't refute it ... I'm quite content with my bullshit.

Oh sure there are lots of messes I should have cleaned up living this long but like most everybody ... I'd rather ignore them and continue living as I like ... than be challenged by the one who loves me most to be better than that.

Damn Love!

You can't live with it!

But let me tell you something ... once you find it ... regardless of how screwed up you are ... don't let go.

Because you can't live without it!

And life's all about living.

Plus I'm blessed with generations of kids!!

Seven children ... one son-in-law ... one daughter-in-law ... four grandchildren and assorted boyfriends (6 of our children are girls).

God they drive me crazy!

Jesus Christ!  I love them with every fiber of my being!

They're all nuts!

What's not to love??

It would take the rest of the day to run through them in chronological order ... the oldest is 40 and the youngest is 2 ... apparently I like being a Dad ... and there's just lots of happiness living this way.

So it's bothersome my friends are undergoing treatment for Cancer ... suffer strokes ... have heart attacks ... herniate disks ... or even die!

They're all my age and it's worrisome because if it's happening to them ... it could happen to me!

I'd rather not be reminded of mortality.

But sometimes, late at night or in melancholy moments, I wonder about dying.

It's not really dying I wonder about ... it's more the thought of leaving Sarah, the kids, especially Che behind ... carrying on without me.

It's that outcome of death that troubles me ... no longer being there for them as I am ... loving them as I do.

Death is simply part of life and it comes to everyone.

It's better to accept it and make the best of every moment you got until there are no more of these kinds of moments.

I worry more about potentially suffering or turning into something of a vegetable than leaving this body behind. I'd rather not suffer and I sure as Hell don't want those I love most to suffer on my behalf.

It's why I like the original ending to the Gospel of Mark.

When the Sabbath was over, Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome bought spices so that they might go to anoint Jesus’ body. Very early on the first day of the week, just after sunrise, they were on their way to the tomb and they asked each other, “Who will roll the stone away from the entrance of the tomb?”

But when they looked up, they saw that the stone, which was very large, had been rolled away. As they entered the tomb, they saw a young man dressed in a white robe sitting on the right side, and they were alarmed.

“Don’t be alarmed,” he said. “You are looking for Jesus the Nazarene,who was crucified. He has risen! He is not here. See the place where they laid him. But go, tell his disciples and Peter, ‘He is going ahead of you into Galilee. There you will see him, just as he told you.’”

Trembling and bewildered, the women went out and fled from the tomb. They said nothing to anyone, because they were afraid.

It's the best ending!

Not much of this version makes it into Easter.

It's too raw.

But remember the Gospel of Mark is the earliest of the four, he sticks to the facts, doesn't embellish ... just tells the story as he knows it.

Mark is "The Unplugged Gospel."

Jesus had been crucified.

His followers are in hiding lest they're crucified too.

Three women who loved Jesus pool their money to buy spices to clean off Jesus' body and make it a proper funeral.

The stone's rolled away.

Who did it?

They're looking for Jesus' dead body but instead it's a nicely dressed kid pointing out the obvious ... Jesus isn't there ... he's gone on ahead to Galilee ... "Tell Peter and the others to meet him there ..." where everyone can hook back up.

And, this is the best part ... to me anyway ... scared out of their minds, all three women run like Hell to get out of there and didn't say anything to anyone!

That's the original ending  ... Easter Unplugged!

What's the point?

Dying is scary ... and Jesus' involved a great deal of suffering!

When those who love him most try to pay their respects, he isn't there.

Is anyone really there when we go to a funeral to pay respects?

There's a body but ... it take far more than a body to live!

Everybody dies, just like Jesus did.

And the message, via a well dressed kid, is, "We'll meet up when you get to where I am."

Meaning you have to get there alone.

This scares the Hell out of everyone!

But it's the hope of Easter ... the point of Mark's Gospel ... keep going cause even when you die ... there's life to be had.

Early in the morning, it's still dark outside, Che calls from her room ... "Dad-ee ... Dad-ee" and I stumble up the stairs, naked, with hair askew and open her door.

Sitting up in the Minnie Mouse bed she rubs her eyes and says, "Mommy wake?"

Picking her up and changing her diaper, I kiss her and say, "Mommy's asleep."

"Maddie?" she asks.

"Asleep."

"Parks?" ... Parks is Maddie's boyfriend.

"He's at school" ... Parks goes to UNC.

"Laurel ... Cassidy?"

"Asleep ... and dead asleep," I answer picking her up.

She hugs me and smiles ... "Dad-ee and Clare."

Most mornings this is followed by "Mommy" again ... so I carry her downstairs and lay her down between us.

After a bit, I have to get up and shower, make the coffee, throw away the dirty diapers and I leave them behind.

Eventually, they find me.

Sipping coffee, staring at the computer at the dining room table, trying to wake up, Che skips to me laughing to ask, "Play outside Dad-ee?"

Sarah follows later and eventually we all break bread together.

That's the point of the Mark's unplugged Gospel.

Never be afraid to keep living ... even when you die.

Because others have gone on ahead and are waiting for you to join the party.

Son of A Beach

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I don't know.

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

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

We care not for the wearing of laundry or shoes.

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

My favorite music has nautical themes.

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

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

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

 Sand Dunes were made to provide privacy for love making.

Body surfing should be taught in school.

Shagging and Salsa are the highest forms of movement.

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

Sunsets into the Sea should be toasted every day.

Skinny dipping in the Ocean shouldn't be illegal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was I sinning just for seeing their flesh?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Throw it starboard," the Dude yells.

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

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

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

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

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

Giving Up Lent

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

My parents were responsible.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What divided us was ... Lent!

Baptists and Methodists grilled steaks or burgers on Friday nights!

Catholics ate fish!

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

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

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

It was a different world back then.

But Lent?

We could never rise above Lent.

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

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

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

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

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

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

{Now ... back to the sermon.}

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

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

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

"Religion," I answer.

It's the honest truth.

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

I give it up all the time.

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

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

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

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

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

God doesn't care.

Religion does.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chasing Ghosts

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

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

We're watching cartoons.

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

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

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

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

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

Pepe LePew is obviously a sexual predator.

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

That was funny stuff when I was growing up.

Watching cartoons with my daughter Che leaves me horrified.

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

They're awful.

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

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

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

"It's a ghost," I explain.

Her almond shape eyes grow large.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I am.

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

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

"Leaders wear blackface.

#MeToo revelations.

White nationalist rallies.

Priests abusing kids.

A high school student staring down a native American.

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

Gay conversion therapy.

All-white social and country clubs."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It's a test.

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

If we are, we side with God.

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

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

Che leads me back to the sofa.

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

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

She does.

The Beast is transformed into a handsome Prince.

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

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

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

Trusting God

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

"What?" I ask.

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

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

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

We're polar opposites.

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

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

He never pushes for a response.

Polar opposite from me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now I'm invited to share.

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

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

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

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

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

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

I know why he wondered about my salvation.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And I trust God that I am.

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

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

Saved from myself and saved from you too!

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

Who gave you the Authority?

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

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

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

I'm also tired and hurt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Then get it now," the banker hisses.

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

"NOW," the banker orders.

The old man rushes from the room.

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

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

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

"Is that what you're doing?"

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

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

He doesn't much care for me either.

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

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

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

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

Banks normally do.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You need those who'll buy the drinks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But the question remains.

Who gave John the Baptist the authority to baptize Jesus?

Let's be honest John was nuts.

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

People loved it.

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

But he was humble about it.

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

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

What a crazy question Jesus asked the powers that be!

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

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

So where did John get his Authority?

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

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

So where did his Authority come from?

I know.

You do too, though you may not remember.

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

You know what?

God blessed it.

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

It's the same for you and me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Several months later, I'm forced to resign.

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

He's the one remembered.

Not them.

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

Not them.

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

I was too.

So are you.