Doing Church

Exiting the dark of the Lincoln Tunnel, I'm momentarily blinded by the light until I see the crowded jumble of buildings of New York City. From the window of the bus taking us to Grand Central Station, I spy Metro Baptist Church and wonder what might have been.

It all started in Port Wentworth Baptist Church where my parents always took me twice on Sundays, once on Wednesdays and any other time God decided to host a function there. Church was the central part of social activity, where I sang Hymns loudly, met my first set of friends, learned God loves us above all else but I could still piss him off if I did the wrong thing thereby risking Hell for eternity.

It's where I played organized sports, first admired the legs of girls in short dresses, attended Vacation Bible School, joined the choir, sang my first solo, had a Deacon grab my long hair to ask when I was getting it cut and made out with a girl in the Baptismal Pool one night.

So I grew up in the Church but by College I was over it.

In a much bigger world I got on with life, working a full time job while attending classes, getting married because she was pregnant, having a son I adore while trying to be a singer in a band. There wasn't any time for Church anymore.

Then out of the blue, my best friend calls to ask what I'm doing with the rest of my life.

Guy Sayles had graduated early and now attended Seminary in Louisville, Kentucky.

"I have no idea," I reply.

"I think you should come to Seminary," he quickly counters.

Over the objections of most everyone I know, that's what I do.

Sometime in that first year in a foreign land, Church found me again.

A fellow student, internally wrestling with the angst of being both gay and the minister of an inner city, mission sponsored congregation, invits me to play guitar in his Church because, while the Sanctuary had an organ and a piano, no one played either.

The Jefferson Street Baptist Chapel is a very large building with a very tiny congregation, mostly little old ladies, delinquent kids from the Projects, homeless people trying to find warmth and some over zealous Seminarians.

I sand "I saw the Light" that first time and they were so appreciative of the music, the endearment overwhelms me so I keep doing it.

The weight of dogma crushes the gay minister forcing him to abruptly resign one Sunday morning, leaving no one in charge and because no one else wanted it, I'm asked to be the minister.

It was something I'd never considered.

God didn't call me to attend Seminary, Guy did.

Un-ordained, I was using Seminary to answer questions I had, never pondering a vocation, yet one's thrust into my lap, and more out of the endearment I had for the old ladies than anything God may intended, I took the job.

Over the next years, amazing things take place.

Embracing "the least of these," homeless people move inside empty Sunday School rooms, the Baptismal Pool is transformed into a communal bath, structure's brought to the kids and the radical fringe of the Seminary finds a home because "Church" in't supposed to do these things.

The congregation explodes from a handful to a couple of hundred.

Far better musicians than me enhance the music and I'm forced to learn to preach, another occupational hazard of the ministry.

Because of the novelty of what we're doing, I'm ask to speak at other Churches to explain our ministries and money from the mission minded pours in fostering more programs and growth.

Media coverage is followed by politicians wishing to associate themselves with "successful" transformation of blight.

At 25, I'm invited to Churches throughout the nation and begin to learn the darker sides of ministry.

Just as rock stars have groupies, successful ministers do too.

Given the numerous famous clergy who've taken bites of forbidden apples it should come as no surprise when it happens, as tantalizing now as when David first spies Bathsheba and, like him, I enter the dark side.

All secrets are eventually brought to light and his was no different.

What's funny though is what happens next.

The Church bureaucracy rush to judgement, blotting my name from the book of life and leaving me to start anew without them.

The congregation itself though, the little old ladies, homeless people and radical Seminarians, are horrified, rush to my aid with quick forgiveness, encouragement and beg me to stay though the powers that be make it impossible.

When it's over, the Church leaves me.

I quickly land in another job working with the city's power brokers to manage the homeless problem and the housing discrimination of the exploding HIV population.

God forgives me and then I forgive myself and find new ways to express my faith and gratitude.

Then again, out of the blue, Metro Baptist Church in New York City calls asking if I'm interested in becoming their pastor.

At the same time, Oakhurst Baptist Church in Atlanta also calls gauging my interest.

The last thing I want in my life at that time is ... church.

Who really needs it anyway?

"For where two or three gather in my name, I am there," Jesus says. (Matthew 18:19-20).

Notice everything Jesus never says is necessary.

Buildings, Hymnbooks, Sunday School, choirs, a finance committee, children's programs, even a minister aren't necessary to do Church.

A few years ago, Monty asks why Bar Church doesn't have a creed so I came up with one but quickly discard it.

He then asks for dogma which I'm not a big fan of so I said some words against one.

There was also some concern about how many come.

"There's more people in the Band today than there are in Church," he'd sometimes say.

"It doesn't matter," I'd answer.

I just prefer the idea of two or gathering in his name and trusting something Holy happens when that happens.

We're asked to feed his sheep, Jesus says elsewhere ... and not to count them.

Back in Seminary there was a required class, "Exit to Ministry" which was sort of final instructions before sending us out to save the world. It was a dogma filled brain dump of instructions for preserving Church as it is.

On the last day of this the last class, the Professor, a "successful" retired minister, asked if anyone has any final words of wisdom.

Michael Ethridge, who said a word the entire semester, raised his hand.

Mike was famous among a segment of students for making an A- in his "Marriage Enrichment" class while simultaneously getting a divorce.

"Mr. Enthridge," the surprised Professor calls.

"I think we've done something horribly wrong," Mike begins while standing and collecting his things, stuffing them in his backpack, "and that if Jesus were to come back right now ... right here ... the first thing he'd do is rent a bulldozer and knock the whole damn thing down. Then I believe he'd start over."

Throwing his backpack over his shoulder, he walks out leaving a speechless Professor and a stunned class of wild eyed idealists.

I think Mike was mostly right all these years later.

We don't need all that other stuff.

Only two, three or more need to gather, it doesn't matter where, for the right reasons and Jesus will join us, because from the very beginning of it all, that's all you really need to do Church.

The First Political Gospel

And in those days Caesar Augustus proclaims he was conceived by the god Apollo in the womb of his mother Atia. He is called the "Son of God", "Savior", "Lord" and bringer of "peace on earth." His image is inscribed on coins and religious leaders call for obedience to the "King of Kings."

The Gospel of Luke, a political manifesto, begs to differ.

Jesus is the child born of God, and his mother proclaims he comes to bring the powerful down from their thrones, lift the lowly, feed the hungry and the rich will be sent away empty. Angels proclaim to shepherds that unto them a savior is born, "Christ the Lord" who will bring peace on earth.

His first followers see Jesus as the alternative to an empirical world based on injustice and violence. 

It's funny though because original beginning of the Gospel is "in the 15th year of the reign of Tiberius Caesar, when Pontius Pilate was governor of Judea and Herod the assistant governor of Galilee ..." introducing the key figures, political enemies, who orchestrate Jesus murder (Luke 3:1).

Luke never refers back to the Nativity indicating it serves another purpose, namely to level the playing field by stating God prefers the poor and lowly over the wealthy and powerful and how this is what real power is about.

Centuries later, we celebrate the birth of Jesus by remembering the poor by serving or delivering food to the hungry, visiting the sick, volunteering with the needy and tossing change into Salvation Army kettles.

It's the remaining vestiges of "peace on earth and good will towards men" ... and women ... that was to have become the new normal as the result of the first Christmas.

Still, "though hate is strong and mocks the song," we at least go through the motions these days by these things.

Maybe if we keep at it long enough, we'll eventually get it right and injustice and violence will become things of the past because the present is full of souls glorifying the Lord because we're all equal as sisters and brothers.
___________

Happy Christmas to all!

___________

A Word about Christmas

A lot of homeless people hang around the Church because no other place tolerates them hanging around and, as it's mostly boring hanging around, they volunteer to construct the props for the annual Christmas pageant.

A wooden stable is stained dark maple though some of the wood is bad giving the three sided structure a "realistic" look.

The manger, a simple V-shaped trough supported by four legs crossed into two X's, sits in front of the pointy roofed stable.

Some of the guys walk to the stockyard ten blocks away, fill two cardboard boxes with hay, drag it back to the Church and the smell of a barnyard is overwhelming.

"This stinks!" several say.

"Well," one of the culprits explains, "we brought back two kinds ... one box has clean hay and the other is ... used."

"What? Why in God's name would you bring shitty hay?"

"We didn't know how realistic you want the pageant to be," is the stoned faced reply.

The clean hay's spread throughout the stable while the not-so-clean straw's thrown into a dumpster.

One of the guys whips out a can of red spray paint, shakes it, aims at the back of the stable and writes, "R. C. was here."

"What in the Hell are you doing?" several demand, horrified their construction's being defaced.

"Well," R. C. calmly begins, "if Jesus were going to be born today in a modern-day stable in a run down part of town you can bet it'd be covered in graffiti."

No one can argue with the logic.

The finishing touch is a star made out of cardboard and covered with tin foil.

A shaky alcoholic climbs on the pulpit and another stand's on his shoulder to hang it from the ceiling and it's just to the left of the top of the stable.

Standing back, the guys throw their arms around each other admiring their work.

The following Sunday, they crowd together in the first couple of pews to watch the pageant, singing along to the carols, shutting their eyes during prayers and watching the modern day Nativity unfold before them.

It's unlike any Christmas pageant anyone's ever witnessed.

Instead of shepherds, wise men and little drummer boys huddle around a manger, the children are dressed as construction workers, business men and women wearing fine clothes, a politician and homeless people.

The birth of the Savior takes place in a rundown garage behind a city tavern.

Instead of gold, frankincense and myrrh, they offer the babe the watch of one of the businessmen, a pair of gold cuff-links and a warm coat one of the street people had picked up in a Salvation Army clothes closet.

Angels appear from the choir loft and a little black cherub exclaims, "Hey! Don't be scared! There's something going on here!"

"What up?" asks a 9 year old dressed as a homeless man warming himself beside a fire in a fifty-five gallon drum.

"Beats me," replies the lone white kid in the day who's dressed as an unemployed construction worker.

"I'm telling you," continues the Angel, "don't be scared of nothing! God's having a baby!"

The little politician strolls pass in a business suit several sizes too big for him, with pants legs rolled up so he can walk without tripping.

"What are you bums doing out here?" he asks smiling, proud he's remembered his lines. "Get a job!"

"Boss," says a little transient, "we just ain't got nowhere else to be."

At that moment, little Joseph shuffles down the aisle to the front of the Sanctuary, his sweet black face has cotton balls glued to it in a failed effort to provide a realistic beard.

"Got a room?" he asks.

"Shoot," answers a little bag lady, we ain't got no money for no rooms. Ask the owner," pointing a tiny arm in the wrong direction.

A small chubby kid pops up from behind the piano, "I AIN'T GOT NO ROOMS! WE FULL!"

"But my wife's having a baby," cotton faced Joseph explains. "C'mere Mary and show the man your big ol' belly!"

From the back his make believe wife is dressed in an adult choir robe dragging along behind her, slowly walks towards the front of the room.

Laughter erupts, filling the Sanctuary as everyone sees there are four feet, instead of two, slowly carrying Mary.

"A BABY?" the chubby Innkeeper asks. "Man what you bringing a pregnant woman to a place like this for?"

"The MAN says I have to," little cotton mouth Joseph explains pointing to the tiny politician.

The chubby kids sighs loudly. "Alright then. I got this garage you can stay in I guess, but I ain't responsible for anything that happens."

Taking a few steps closer to the makeshift manger, little Mary and Joseph are quiet as they wait for what's to come.

The Angels suddenly reappear from the choir loft and the lone white girl yells, "IT'S TIME!"

On cue, Mary opens her robe exposing a four-year-old boy who jumps into the manger, feet and arms dangling over the sides.

"For to you is born a baby," the Angel continues, "God's baby! His name is Jesus. Call him that."

Shy, having just given birth, Mary looks away, covering her mouth with her hands.

Cotton mouth Joseph stares at the off centered star hanging from the ceiling.

The little homeless men, construction workers and bag ladies cheer.

The tiny politician boos.

"It's curtains for you," Mary says smiling at him and the little business men, "My baby's in charge now!"

"We're outta here!" they exclaim and flee.

The Angels, street people and construction workers circle the long arms and legs of four-year-old Jesus laying in the manger.

One lays a coat beside him.

Another lays the watch on the coat explaining to Mary, "I stole it."

The cuff links are tossed on top.

Everyone burst into "Joy to the world" and the congregation joins in joyfully.

When it's over, Jesus jumps from his crib smiling, asking, "Can we see Santa Claus now?"

Making their way to social hall for punch and cookies, most make their way outside for cigarettes and quick shots from flasks or plastic bottles though the homeless men in the front rows hang around.

"Sure is a good Christmas," one softly says.

"Yeah," several agree.

"It's different this year," another adds. "I wonder why."

"I know what you mean," a couple add.

The word became flesh that day in the Sanctuary almost thirty-five years ago just like it did in Bethlehem in centuries past.

"The word became flesh dwelling among us," the Gospel proclaims. "We see it's glory, the one and only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth" (John 1:14).

Sometimes you see grace and truth as you live though you may not always comprehend it happening in front of your very eyes.

Hell most of the time we wouldn't notice grace and truth if a truck load hit us full speed as we walk down the street ... into the Bar ... the grocery store ... a Church ... or home.

We've lost the art of graceful living and tell far too many lies to not confuse the truth when we see it.

Ah, but sometimes, in spite of our thoughtlessness and fallacies we construct to convince ourselves we're good, there are moments, when the awkward, imperfections of the truth fill us with the elegance of life as it is, without pretense or selfishness.

These are the Holy moments, full of grace and truth, and for a moment anyway, we see the glory ... we feel the glory ... we become part of the glory ... and words become flesh ... God becomes one of us ... and it's Christmas all over again.

And that's what it's really all about Charlie Brown!

It is what it is everyone!

Merry Christmas!

I pray you don't miss it.

Behind the Times

There's a coffee shop just off Chippewa Square right in the very middle of historic Savannah, filled with majestic oaks, gardens and a monumental statue of Georgia founder James Oglethorpe.

The Gallery Expresso is one of my favorite haunts. It's old Savannah with a young, hip vibe with small wooden tables, a wide variety of antique chairs, and giant windows to admire the beauty of the city and to people watch.

Just through the front door, immediately to the right is a table for one, literally in the corner with a perfect view of the square and I love ordering a cup of Java, setting up my laptop and spending a morning writing here.

It's simply a great place to sit, collect myself, allow my thoughts to roam and write and on this bright, crisp December morning, that's what I intend to do.

In no time at all, as steam rises from the mug, my fingers fly across the keyboard as I'm transported to another Universe, following where the words take me.

Occasionally, I stare out the window through Chippawa Square into the world I'm creating, sipping the coffee while wondering what comes next.

Suddenly the light darkens and near vision returns to my eyes.

Sitting back, unfolding the newspaper, he studies it intently with one eye.

Who reads newspapers anymore?

They're passe, a waste of trees, bad for the environment, full of yesterday's happenings and cost too much.

Except for the Pirate dude sitting outside my window.

It's the New York Times he's reading, available for free to Gallery Expresso customers.

Specifically, it's a story on the death of famous photographer Robert Freeman under a good size picture of John Lennon.

I'm a huge Beatle fan so, as frustrated as I am the guys invaded my space, even though he's outside and I'm inside, I read over his shoulder.

We eventually finish, he turns the page and my outrage returns.

Who is this one eyed Jack dressed in black fascinated with yesterday's news?

Pushing my laptop aside, I watch him read.

He takes his time.

Obviously he likes his coffee cold as no steam rises from the cup on the table in front of him.

Grabbing a refill for my own mug, I spend the better part of the next hour watching him read.

He never feels my presence, words aren't shared and we never make eye contact.

Did I just write that?

We never make eye contact?

My phone buzzes reminding me I have to be elsewhere, so I pack up, leave him hiding behind the Times rush on to what's next.

Driving away I find myself hopeful he returns when I do though I'm uncertain as to why other than he's obviously got a story to tell and I'd like to hear it.

Now, what was I writing about?

Searching for Christmas

Long before there was Christmas, there was Winter Solstice.

The most ancient records show people with great reverence for the sun and on the bleakest day of the year, to bring good cheer to the world, they light bonfires, tell stories and drink ale.

The ancient Romans celebrate the rebirth of the year with "Saturnalia." a seven day festival turning all of the rules upside down. Men dress as women, women as men; masters serve as servants who become the head of the house for one week, and there's lots of sex. Houses are decorated with greenery, candles lit, there are parades and gifts exchanged.

The Druids cut mistletoe and burn a yule log to conquer the darkness, ward off evil spirits and bring good luck for the coming year.

Yule means "Holy Night" in ancient Anglo-Saxon.

Long after these traditions comes the birth of Jesus and it's just not a big deal.

Two of the four Gospels don't even mention his birth because the death of Jesus was the important thing to remember, not when he was born.

Two-hundred-twenty-one years later, a Monk named Sextust Julius Africianus claims Jesus was born on December 25. Before then most thought his birthday to be in the Spring because of the herding of Sheep in the Christmas stories.

A hundred years later Emperor Constantine makes Christianity the official state religion, choosing December 25 as a holiday as a way to roll the ancient celebrations into one, thereby eliminating other faiths.

Still Christmas simply wasn't as important as Easter until modern times.

Almost all of today's Christmas were made up fairly recently through poems, books, songs and marketing campaigns to take advantage of or exploit the holiday for profit.

Making it more so is Christmas doesn't become a huge celebration in America until 1870 when it's recognized by the Government as a national holiday.

That's right, Christmas as we now know it is only about 150 years old.

It's a funny history lesson isn't it?

The early Church tries very hard to ban Pagan customs and convert everyone to Christianity but fail because everyone loved the Winter Solstice celebrations. When Government takes over Christmas, a new festival honoring the birth of Jesus Christ is implemented absorbing all of the popular aspects of ... yep ... Pagans.

Holly, exchanging pres,ents, the yule tide log, mistletoe, wreaths, caroling, candles and others all are Christmas traditions were kidnapped from older religions.

So that's how we got Christmas.

 Where's the miracle then?

Advent is from the Greek "parousia" meaning "arrival" and was picked up by the Church to mean ... the arrival of Christ.

To the early Church, there are actually three arrivals ... the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem ... his acceptance into the heart of those who believe in him ... and the Second Coming.

It's that last one that's most important but we've screwed up what the Second Coming is supposed to be with scare tactics to convert people to Christianity lest they be left behind.

Just like the Gospel of Matthew later adds the story of the Wise Men searching for the New Born King by following their guts, represented in a Star shinning in the eastern sky, we have to be willing to follow our hearts to where Jesus is to be found.

If you're searching for the Savior in the midst of all of the craziness we've created for Christmas, here's my story.

On a hot August day Buena finally went to the doctor. There she discovered that the great stomach she carried around was not a stomach at all. It was cancer.

"We're sorry," said the doctor, "but it appears that because the cancer has progressed to the point that it has surgery is out of the question. There will be some medication that will help in the short term, but there is little that can be done medically over the long haul.

"What ya be saying?" she asks in her nasally rural Kentucky accent.

The doctor clears his throat and says, "You have about six weeks."

Buena lifts the Maxwell House coffee can toward her mouth and spits ... THE-WIT, POWEE ... and the sound echos down clean, antiseptic halls.

"We'll see," she tells him.

As with most everything else, she proves whatever people say about her wrong.

A few weeks after seeing the doctor that day, she becomes bed ridden, but lives well into March --- one last act of defiance against the medical establishment.

When people visit, the find her in good humor with Bible and Maxwell House coffee can near the bed. Sometimes we have to wait until she can past the blond curly hair wig to her bald head. Nevertheless she loves visitors and always asks about Church.

The Chapel, where I'm the excuse for a minister, consists of five little old ladies, some Seminarians, kids from the projects and about twenty prisoners who arrive under guard from the jail. It is a missionary outpost in the inner city for the mostly suburban Southern Baptists.

She often asks visitors to act as a carrier for her and, after making certain none of her family's watching, she opens the desk by the bed and takes out two twenty dollar bills.

"This be my offerin'," she explains. "be sure to tell Rev tat I'mma tithing my Bingo winnings."

Buena loves Bingo and long ago arrived at the conclusion that tithing the winnings helps the Lord help her win more.

"Buena," the Rev sometimes said, "you're not supposed to play Bingo. It's gambling."

"Naw, it's alright, she spit, "so long as you remember to tithe."

When the Christmas Season descends upon the Church, the congregation gathers for the celebration of the birth of the baby Jesus, after sponsoring a toy sale, two hundred Christmas baskets for the hungry and a special holiday meal for homeless people. Now it's time to celebrate.

After a potluck meal, they gather around a piano to sing Christmas carols. Homeless men sing beside students and the five old women. Whites drape arms around blacks, the wealthy hug the destitute and the dividing walls of hostility crumble on this special day.

After much singing, it's suggested everyone walk to Buena's house to sing her some carols. Everyone thinks it an excellent idea so the entire Church leave the building, marching down the block, around the corner to the tiny shotgun house with red shingles crafted to resemble bricks are tacked to the exterior.

We wait and wait for Buena to put the wig on before entering the bedroom.

Maybe twenty of us crowd around the bed and Buena's obviously pleased so many have come though she tries, of course, to not show it.

We sing some songs and she sings along in the nasally, rural Kentucky annunciation.

"What's your favorite?" we ask.

"Silent Night," she spits without hesitation.

We sing, "Silent Night, Holy night ..." and it is, with a clear, cold star studded night and we feel good about how we are spending it.

Suddenly though, with us crowded around her bed, tears begin to roll down Buena's face.

The Church, which most consider to be dying, sings carols to a departing woman and when we sing, "Sleep in heavenly peace ... sleep in heavenly peace" ... salt water erupts from every eye.

After we sing, a'll is quiet too as no one knows what to say.

After these holy moments, the fellowship of believers file out one at a time, pausing to hug her goodbye or kiss the tobacco stained mouth.

Down the frozen sidewalk that leads back to a building, no one in the Church says a word.

In those days when I was at a tiny, broken down Church in the inner city of Louisville, Kentucky there was the tradition of bringing Dolly Madison cakes on the night "A Charlie Brown Christmas" was broadcast because I never could figure out a better way to explain what Christmas is all about.

Munching on Raspberry Zingers, Chocolate Cupcakes and Donut Gems, we'd listen to Linus begin his explanation be saying, "Lights please."

He goes on to retell the Gospel of Luke's version of Jesus being born.

It's the "Lights please" that always gets me.

Please God, shine some light on what you mean ... how I'm supposed to know you ... what I'm supposed to do?

I found the meaning of Christmas that night in Buena's dusty, tobacco stained bedroom.

And I've found Jesus in the craziest of other places too, forever shocking me that he's been here all along, waiting on me and that's the point of Advent.

Jesus already came.

Long ago he grew up and left the manger and the point is not celebrating that he showed up all those years ago, or how we observe his coming, but to find him now.

Christmas isn't celebrated in the past because that's not where Jesus is any more but he's in dark, remote, funny places as obscure as Bethlehem and the best way to commemorate the Season is to join him.

The point of it is he came to join us.

But the question has always been whether or not we going to join him.

Christmas in the Dark

It began simply enough with an impromptu ride around the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights, though it's much too early for that, with most folks yet to drag the decorations out of the attic or garage, though some lovers of the Season, like us, already have illuminations galore on our house.

The girls cram into the back seat, Che sitting in Laurel's lap and 13 year old Cassidy stuffed into the car seat for reasons unknown.

Sarah's driving because she always drives, finding it difficult to relinquish control lest she sit in the passenger seat where she's transformed into a very opinionated road Marshall, so I occupy the right side of the car, holding a drink in one hand while fiddling with the radio with the other.

A few minutes into the ride it's obvious most decorations are still in boxes resting in attics or garages.

Laurel begins making promises to take Che for a ride around the neighborhood in two weeks after everyone's had ample chance to decorate their homes, though it's a joke because at 15 she can't drive yet, though she's forever asking to practice.

Sarah opts to leave the mostly dark neighborhood and drive an even darker stretch of Bryan Wood Road with forests on both sides of the street.

"Needs lights," I quip.

"That'd be cool," Laurel, always ready to engage in a prank, agrees.

"That is so cool," Sarah exclaims. "There'd be great lights for the runners on the trail and you could write inspirational sayings and ... wait! Where would we hook up to electricity?"

We drive into the pitch black darkness broken only by the promise of a red light at the Johnny Mercer intersection.

"That's what the first Christmas was like," I tell myself.

Complete darkness.

We've corrupted the miracle with illuminated plastic manger scenes, hundreds of outdoor lights, inflatable Santa's and glowing Reindeer yard art.

That's modern Christmas but the first one was ... in the dark.

There's no electricity in ancient Bethlehem, which isn't much of a crowded town the way we imagine it today, but a tiny village without hotels, restaurants or bars.

There's no night life.

In those days when the sun comes up and you can see, it's time for work. When the sun sets, work's over because it's too dark to see, so before night completely falls, you eat as quickly as possible, do whatever you can by candle light (if you have them) and sleep until the sun comes up again and you start over.

Everyone works to get by, everyone's poor, everyone has little to share so when family comes to town, as Joseph and Mary do, they crowd inside the house of relatives.

Remember the Government's conducting a census forcing everyone to return to their ancestral home to be "counted."

Bethlehem homes then are mostly two story dwellings with bedrooms upstairs and a lower level with a kitchen, living quarters and where the animals are kept.

The lower levels have a built in manger because livestock are kept inside protecting them from the elements and theft. Inside they provide body heat for warmth, milk for nourishment and dung to dry out and burn in the fireplace.

Livestock of any kind is precious commodity.

So when Joseph and Mary show up because the Government says so, there's no stable out back though there is a manger inside the house where the animals eat and drink.

And in the crowded, smelly, uncomfortable darkness, "she gave birth to her firstborn, a son, wrapping him in cloths and laying him in a manger ..." (Luke 2:7).

Who knows what else, if anything, happened that night?

Luke goes on to say there are Shepherds nearby who possibly mistake a Baby crying as a choir of Angels singing while Matthew reports three Wise Men arrive from the East bearing gifts.

Neither matter very much to the story.

What does matter is what happens in the dark.

There's something God likes about the dark.

In the very beginning of Genesis, the Lord hovers over the water in the dark and creates ... LIGHT!

Can you imagine the crazy shock of it all?

All the world's ever known is the black night until God snaps her fingers and POOF! in a second everything is crystal clear.

Fast forward in the Biblical story to the crucifixion of Jesus. He's lifted on the cross at nine in the morning and the world immediately falls dark until around three in the afternoon as though God's re-booting everything but as the body's taken down, the sun comes out.

Then there's my favorite, with Peter and some others fishing in the dark after Jesus is buried, not catching a damn thing, making them further question their existence, because though they may not have been the best Disciples they know how to fish ... at least they always did, until this day.

But across the dark water, they suddenly spy the soft dim glow of a small charcoal fire on the Beach with a shadowy figure beside it yelling, "Caught anything?" adding insult to injury.

"No," they grimly reply.

"Try again," the shadow instructs and when they do fish literally jump into the boat.

And out of the tiny glow on a dark Beach it's more than nets that are filled but people full of hope as they row as fast as humanly possible, dragging more fish than they know what to do with, to find Jesus ready to eat.

And on the first Christmas, there's even less light to see the baby laying in a dirty manger, the pungent aroma of donkey shit rising from the floor, other guests sleeping during delivery ... perhaps there a candle or torch but it wouldn't surprise me if Jesus wasn't born in complete darkness, just the way God liked it before light burst into the world for the first time.

"I am the light of the world," Jesus later says, "whoever follows me shall not walk in darkness but will have the light of life" (John 8:12).

As we enter this Christmas Season, if you're having a hard time finding the lights because the world's so full of darkness, filling the Newspapers and online chat groups, occupying the great Halls of Government, Justice and Religion, and taking root in our own hearts too, filling us with doubt, insecurity and fear to be loved and accepted as we really are, remember that everything God ever does begins in the darkness.

"You can't have a light without a darkness to stick it in," we're fond of saying, so grab hold of the darkness in your life and know that's where God's likely been waiting on you this whole time, so that NOW you can finally find your light!

Were Jesus Born Here

Had Jesus been born on Tybee Island, it would have been under the Pier.

On the island it one of the only places people can find refuge from the elements, especially when there's "no room" in the short term vacation rentals or families can't afford the steep overnight prices of a few hotels.

Naturally the police are called the moment poor Joe lights a fire for his pregnant wife because a local strolling pass fears arson by radical left wing Democrats.

The family's arrested but the Chef's a nice guy trying to combat previous charges of racism from Orange Crush and the poor family has dark skin and they might be Muslim.

An emergency Council meeting's called to appoint a special public task force to get community buy in before policy is made.

Meanwhile, the poor woman's water breaks and she screams bloody murder.

Several officers reach for tasers but the Chef shakes his head from side to side.

The Community Task Force unanimously recommends the County Department of Family and Family Children Services be called as the municipality isn't equipped to deal with refugees of any kind.

The baby's delivered in a new Jail cell funded by a Special Local Option Sales Tax meaning 60% of the construction costs was born by tourists which inexplicably makes locals happy.

The social worker from Family and Children Services gets stuck on the Tybee Road because of an accident on the Bull River Bridge.

The child is given toys to play with donated by the community for children of incarcerated adults.

The Vicar at All Saints Episcopal Church hears that unto us a child's been born, calls the Chief offering to put the family up at the Royal Palm for a couple of nights using funds from the social services fund.

The Chef readily agrees.

The planet Mercury appears as a yellow orange star in the sky directly over the Royal Palm parking lot.

A small crowd of Effingham County wet day trippers gather wrapped in sandy blankets and with a Styrofoam cooler from which they offer Joe a beer.

The baby's cold and is wrapped in a swaddling cloths torn from the blankets.

"The kid's not mine," Joe explains.

The day trippers don't seem to care.

He introduces Mary who hugs him warmly as blue lights of three police cars fill the hotel entrance though they remain in the vehicles.

"You can't stay here," a day tripper explains.

Joe nods, tenderly wiping a tear from his teenage bride's face.

The baby cries.

Pam from The Sand Bar arrives with boxes of food collected from the Bars and $213 in cash raised after an auction with music by local musicians. She also gives them a bottle of Patron which they share with the day trippers toasting the Baby's birth.

The Police Department is flooded with alleged reports of rogue Choirs violating the City's noise ordinance and the officers rush to investigate.

"It's a good time to get out of here," the Day Tripper's snap, throwing their stuff in the beds of pick up trucks.

"Y'all want a lift?"

Mary nods so Joe grabs the boy and they leave.

All is calm on Tybee again.

All is bright under the billions of blazing stars dancing over the Ocean.

The Sun bubbles out of the Sea as a small crowd gathers for the Men's Prayer Breakfast at the Trinity Methodist Church.

Sand in my heart

The most nautical thing about this coffee shop I'm sitting in is a painting of a Blue Crab someone has for sale displayed on the wall between colorful paintings of birds in flight.

Other art ranges from impressionist colors I have no idea what they represent to an obvious love of chickens hanging helter skelter around though the center piece of the place is a very defined stage equipped with everything except musicians.

A piano, guitar, banjo lay silently in wait for whoever left them, the sound system's on with green, blue and red lights, a microphone is front and center and a white fedora hat lay on a stool waiting to be worn.

It's the Blue Crab I focus on.

My heart pumps sandy blood in my veins.

Jerry Jeff Walker's "Cowboy Boots and Bathin' Suits" streams in my eyes as I people dressed in "casual business", every woman wears spandex as a fashion statement and not because of working out, a few are in work clothes and I'm wearing a tattered "Sex Wax" tee shirt, black running shorts, a string of leather around my right ankle and flip flops.

Actually the flops are on the floor as my bare feet dangle from the chair at a high top table.

I miss the Beach.

We've been to spectacular ones in Belize, Costa Rica, Key West and a hundred others.

I may leave the Ocean but it never seems to leave me and it's got a grip on me staring at the lone Blue Crab hanging on the wall.

"You must seek the place the Lord your God will choose for you from all the tribes to establish a a dwelling place for Her name, and there you must go" (Deuteronomy 12:5).

I hear you Lord, I hear you.

I know the place you have chosen for me and we understand that's where we're destined in spite of where we're at.
______________

Turtles in Church

Most Churches have large screens on the stage to show Hymn lyrics, Bible verses or sermon illustrations that are used to visually enhance the worship experience.

At Bar Church The Sand Bar has a large flat screen television most used to broadcast football games for the patrons. During worship, it displays a running montage of nature scenes, mostly nautical in nature, because we're on a island.

This passed Sunday, I'm preaching away and can't help but notice that every eye in the Bar is focused directly at me.

"I am really rocking these Bible verses," I tell myself, picking up the intensity.

Just as I kick it up a notch, everyone's eyes divert to other things ... the beer or coffee they're drinking ... their phones ... people strolling by through the large glass windows.

Finishing, the band launches into the final Hymn ... "Knocking on Heaven's Door" ... and everyone sings along as worship comes to an end.

Greeting people while packing up the sound system and instruments, Jaime Lawrimore says, "Rev, I couldn't get my camera out fast enough to get a picture of the two Loggerhead Turtles making love on the screen above your head during the sermon. That was great!"

"What?"

"Sure enough," her husband and Bar Church founder Gordon Hill agrees, "Two Turtles doing it right above your head."

"It was a good sermon though," Jamie quickly adds.

"Oh well," I mutter.

You don't get this kind of stuff in most worship services but you do at Bar Church.

Happy Veterans Day (Whatever that means)!

Honestly Dad didn't join the Marines out of some great sense of patriotism but to get the Hell out of his parents house.

The Marines happened to be the branch of military that would accommodate 17 year old's with such a problem.

In the blink of an eye, Dad was marching with Dog Company and off to Korea where he was captured twice, escaping both times until he was shot but found by another group of GI's, taken to a Hospital, processed and shipped back home.

While he was there he was assigned, after volunteering for it, as the only white guy in a group tasked with gathering the wounded and dead after a battle.

It helped him later land a job at Fountain's Funeral Home back in Port Wentworth Georgia where he again lived with the folks he was desperate to get away from.

Throughout the rest of his life he had a Love/Hate relationship with the military.

He was proud of the Marines but loathed war.

He'd watch war movies wiping tears from his eyes during the killing yet cheer when the good guys one.

A Marine tattoo adorned his right arm though he never showed it off or called attention to it.

He shied away from gatherings with his fellow Veterans but when I drug him kicking and screaming to the dedication of the Savannah Korean War monument he hugged his fellow Vets and they cried together touching the engraved names of their friends who didn't make it back.

That's my last memory of him as a Veteran.

He was ready to go on to the next assignment soon afterwards.

Watching the pomp and circumstance of Veterans Day, I remember how his service changed him and I'm exceedingly thankful he took the turns he did.

I lean much more to the pacifist, peacemaker side of foreign policy decisions but also have the grit to dig in and fight back when justice is greedily provoked.

So Happy Veterans Day Dad, if that's such a thing. You never cared much for it but I find myself grateful for what you gave, and the others too, how the experience changed you and the lessons you left, not so much through words but through the ways you lived with it all afterwards.

Bless you and the rest of them too.

A Thanksgiving Toast

This is my latest article in Tybee Beachcomber magazine.

Tybee Island is different from the rest of the world and everyone who's ever lived here, or visited, knows it.

It's the beauty of the River meeting the Sea, an abundance of Marshes, the Back River, rolling Sand Dunes, incredible wildlife, glorious sunrises AND sunsets.

The island's dotted with an imposing Lighthouse, remnants of a Fort, Palm Trees, lush sub-Tropical foliage, a terrific Pier, beautiful restored Theater with live entertainment, active American Legion, parks and quaint streets to explore.

If all that wasn't enough, there's uninhabited islands easily accessible and the majestic city of Savannah a mere twenty minute drive away.

There's a great deal to be thankful for on Tybee Island but perhaps the most forgotten and under appreciated are it's bars.

More than any other group, it's the Bars that define the Tybee Island community!

Sure there's Churches, active civic organizations, outstanding volunteer efforts and even a Bacon Club, but none define the loving spirit of Tybee Island more than the bars.

There's an abundance of them, each eclectic, eccentric and electric when they're hopping.

Tybee's bars are drenched in salt, blessed with great staffs, creators of delightful food and an abundance of live music!

More than anything else, it's the Tybee's Bars that create it's giving spirit!

The bars of Tybee create who we are as as islanders, more than anything else.

There's 24 bars on the island and, more than any other entity, they define the giving spirit of this gorgeous clump of sand floating in the Sea.

Individually and collectively, they raise more money, sponsor more causes, help more people, celebrate more life, generate more fellowship and help navigate life's tragedies and difficulties than any other institution on Tybee Island.

Because of the Bars, raising money for people or disasters are almost daily occurrences on Tybee and you can't say that about most any other small community.

There's even a church in a bar on Tybee Island on Sunday mornings, which is something hard to find in most places.

And on Thanksgiving, most every one of the Bar is hosting a giant, family spread for most anyone wanting friends, fellowship and food.

Sure, there's alcohol and the occasional craziness that comes along when it's abused, but you travel the world and you'll struggle to find a town with a bigger heart that the one birthed by the Bars on Tybee Island!

And for each of them, we are most thankful!

So raise a glass to the bars.

Tybee Island wouldn't be the special community it is without them.

A Book Review: All Hallows' Eve

I first read J. R. R. Tolkien, then became engrossed in the writings of C. S. Lewis who introduced me to a third friend of theirs, a member of "The Inklings", a literally group meeting weekly to share each others works.

Tolkien first read "The Lord of the Rings" to this gathering over beer. C. S. Lewis read "The Chronicles of Narnia", among other things, and Williams, an editor at Oxford Press, read "All Hallows' Eve."

The editor of Oxford Press, Williams was a mostly self-educated genius fascinated with the Occult and Christianity. His novels combine the two in awe inspiring fashion.

Two ghosts, Lester and Evelyn, discover they're both dead, hit by a falling airplane as peace descends on post WWII London. An angry Lester's waiting to meet her husband Richard, who's late, on a bridge. Her friend Evelyn is nearby and the two are left to wonder what's happened, slowly coming to the realization that they are dead.

Longing to return to the way they lived in the world, both reach through the supernatural veil separating the living from the dead. Simultaneously, a renown minister uses the occult to reach, and manipulate, the spiritual world for his own purposes.

The result is an intriguing story of a man and woman who discover how much they love one another through death through examination of their shortcomings when they were together. Theirs is woven with that of a bitter woman who believes she never got the support needed for a happy life, demanding to bring the living and the dead into her own universe of bitterness. The overarching structure of religion, and lack thereof, demonstrate how the living will go to any lengths to use faith to achieve what they desire.

Williams forces readers to inquire how they themselves are living. Are we kind or unkind? Do we try to right wrongs or merely move on? Is redemption important and how far are we willing to go to achieve it? Can we become so self-absorbed to become demonic as anything that's already gone to the grave? What is life after death?

Many times I found myself so engrossed in a particular character I lost myself on the page pondering these questions waking long minutes later searching for where I'd left off. Williams genius is drawing the reader into another world forcing us to grapple with the same issues the characters are wrestling.

In the 1945 context of University academics, Williams writing is more literate than today's modern, fast-pace prose. Taking great care to lovingly craft each sentence, it may take some a while to get accustom to the reading. Even the dialogue that takes place is lavishly constructed appropriating the vernacular of mid-20th century England.

I highly recommend All Hallows' Eve as a fascinating entry into a world you already wonder about. As for myself, I've already started another one of his books.

Life's Recovery

After spending yesterday almost entirely asleep, fighting sickness and being cared for by Sarah, I'm nearer normal today.

Two year old Che is glad.

"She missed you yesterday," Sarah explains, "but she knew you weren't feeling well."

She's making up for it today.

This is me having coffee.

She's not letting me go.

So far today we've played in her room dressing up like royalty, taken old bread to feed the turtles in the Lagoon, danced to Richie Haven's "Freedom", pretend to sky dive jumping off the sofa onto the pillows, sing nursery rhymes together, tickle each other relentlessly and she's eaten four Reese's Peanut Butter Cups ... my stomach can't ha ndle it yet.

She's also lays quietly with her head in my lap, tells me she's "Clare Elliott Che", her mother's "Sarah Wonder Woman" as we watch "scary monsters" on television.

When I get up to leave the room, she whimpers but follows me to the fridge, pantry and bathroom.

If I sit at the table and stare at my laptop, she strolls over, grabs my hand and leads me back to the sofa.

"Wuv you Daddy," she says, laying her head in my lap again to resume our show.

Fading in and out of consciousness yesterday, sweating as I slept, my life plays like an old video in my head.

People and events I haven't thought of in years come back to life and, tossing and turning, I find them irritable, choosing instead during my more lucid moments, to focus my thoughts on Sarah, the girls and wishing I was in the other room with them.

Life is now and I'm not enjoying this disruption.

"HELP!" Che cries as I write this.

Laying in the floor she purposely fell on, my daughter holds her arms in the air for me to pick her up.

"OH NO!" I exclaim.

She laughs as I pull her up high into the air and throw her on the couch.

"Do it again," she says falling on the floor.

I can't think of anything else I'd rather do.

Goodbye Again

She's stoic, like her mother, when it comes to emotions though she has a fiery temper and passions are expressed loudly.

So I was unprepared as her voice breaks when she tells me she loves me, hugging me tight and we both cry.

A master of words, I can't think of a single one.

We share tears instead.

Turning quickly to leave, wiping away the tears, she rushes to the car her Mom's decorated in white "UGA 2023" letters on the windows.

Sarah's in our loaded vehicle.

Maddie's driving her car loaded with her sisters Laurel and Cassidy.

The three couldn't be more different yet here they are in an incredible showing of "family" as one moves away for good.

Che, the two year old, occupies Maddie's room as soon as the house is empty, knowing somehow her "best friend" won't be around in quite the same way.

Che lays in her bed.

Plays with a porcelain doll Maddie leaves behind.

And some blocks the two of them shared.

Much later, she and I meander out into the drive way to stand in the spot where Maddie parked her car and we feel the emptiness.

"Maddie coming home," Che asks.

"Thanksgiving, I think."

"Yay!" Che claps.

I thank God for the lack of understanding of time.

Reflecting back to my older kids, Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea leaving home,  it never dawned on me I'd have to let go again.

Mad drove me crazy.

I drove her crazy.

But we agree on politics, women's rights, acceptance of people regardless of sexual orientation, race, Trump, the Tybee Island Police Department and College football.

We do not agree on music, fashion, humor, food, entertainment or who's fault it is that pop corn spilled on the floor before the latest installment of  "The Lord of the Rings" or "Star Wars" even began.

I covered her ass on occasion.

And she covered mine.

God Damn I already miss her and it's not even one day yet.

It's alright.

She's smart.

And beautiful.

Lord knows she's full of her mother's stoic passion and the last person you ever want to pick a fight.

But you're right here Maddie, at the beginning of everything.

Just like Jeremy, Kristen and Chelsea, you'll find your way and it will be incredible!

And you'll rarely look back.

Maybe, on those rare occasions when you do, you'll smile at things we did.

And when things you don't understand come your way ... and God knows you hate to admit it ... you'll remember you can always call or text.

I'm here.

Like your Mom, we're always here.

Kick ass Mad!

And you can laugh at me now as I keep wiping the tears away.