Thank God that's Over

"Thank God that's over!"

I say it often after surviving some unpleasantness.

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

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

It goes like this.

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

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

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

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

Obviously I'm not a proponent of Calvinist theology.

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

There's far too much unpleasantness in life already.

I don't believe God's making more.

We seem to do a find job all by ourselves.

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

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

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

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

Sandy Souls

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

We're singing to the top of our lungs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sounds like home building to hurricane code specifications.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sandy souls are interested in finding the living Jesus today.

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

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

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

Amen.

Heaven

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Whatdayamean?" I can hear Laurel asking.

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

Juggling Faith

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

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

Roma bellows.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He hangs up without telling me why.

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

"Where is he?" I ask.

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

And she scurries away.

"Beers for everyone," Dean Morris says.

In those days, Dean ran the Pier.

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

Sure enough, inside is Chicago Bob.

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

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

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

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

"What?" John asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Love conquers all!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Institution exist to perpetuate themselves.

That is their sole purpose and this includes the Church.

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

That's why Jesus was crucified.

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

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

Want to hear my current favorite joke on all this?

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

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

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

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

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

I think it best to follow that example.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Finding Joy

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

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

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

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

We're an oddity.

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

We're not their kind.

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

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

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

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

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

We don't argue much in Bar Church.

People quit rather than argue.

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

Joy gets made.

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

It doesn't last long.

Then again it doesn't have to.

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

And it's joyful!

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

It must be because God wants us too.

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

Jesus could never get elected

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

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

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

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

"Say what?"

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

The room bursts into applause.

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

"Does that include speeders?" someone yells.

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

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

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

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

No one elected to office attends.

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

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

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

_________________

When God Prays

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

Sleep's normally planned.

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

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

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

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

Holiness is spread out before you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

In the distance a horn honks calling you back.

The things you need to do demand attention and priority.

Your stomach growls.

And you're back.

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

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

Angels

Guy knew exactly what he wants to do as soon as he hits college with his crystal clear vision and conviction, wasting no time viciously attacking his classes. When he was finishes with College, graduating in only three years, he rushes on to Seminary which is his next stop on the way to becoming a minister. He's a man in a hurry.

I start College at the same time with no clear idea about anything other than if all my friends were leaving town for higher education than I wasn't about to be left behind.

While Guy's S.A.T. scores far exceeds the minimum standards requirement for acceptance, mine were so low you could use your fingers and toes to count while still being able to pick your nose.

Applying to only one College, the one my best friend Gene will be attending, I'm promptly rejected.

I don't really remember what happens next though my Mother does. Apparently I was so angry and distraught from being turned down entry, I get in the car, drive to the College, find someone to listen and talk my way into enrollment.

As much as I'd love to own that moment, I don't recall it at all, but my Mother believes it and I'm not about to tell her she's wrong.

Several weeks later, Gene and I move into the dorm room we'll share, meet our new best friends and organize an attack on the dormitory down the Hill.

Again I have no recollection of what happens next though Guy clearly remembers.

Apparently I help oversee a re-appropriation of every fire extinguisher available to launch a night time raid on our fellow newly arrived students.

Guy's the resident manager of the targeted dorm and, as such, has responsibility over everyone living in it.

Hearing a loud knocking on his door with yelling up and down the corridor he yanks it open to see what's wrong.

The way he tells it, he sees me pointing the nozzle of a fire extinguisher at his face, scream "BANZAI", spray him in the face and skip down the hall laughing. 

A few days later, classes commence and Guy and I share Dr.  Shriver for history.

"You're the one who sprayed me the other night," Guy says, "with a fire extinguisher and wrecked our dorm."

He's bigger than me, played line on the High School football team and, in those days any way, could appear menacing when he wants.

"I don't know what you're talking about," I reply.

"It was Tuesday night," he snaps, pointing a finger in my face.

"No, it couldn't have been me," I answer. "I was alone in my room studying my Sunday School lesson."

And for the first of many, many times, Guy laughs and forgives me.

We become inseparable.

The following year he becomes the resident manager of the Baptist Student Union on campus so I follow him there and we become the undisputed champions of the card game "Spades."

No one could beat us though everyone tried.

It's because we cheat.

Well, Guy doesn't cheat, he's a man on a mission to give himself to the Church, but I'm not so I cheat for both of us.

In Spades, like Bridge, players bid on how many tricks they expect to win.

Sometime during these days, Guy asks if his girlfriend Anita can stay with me until he finishes class, which is odd because I live in a repossessed trailer I'd bought a few miles off campus.

"Sure," I say because I never tell him no,  so a few days later, I open the door to the dingy trailer and there on the sofa, Bible spread in her lap, sits Anita.

Wearing a blue and white dress, with flowing brown hair cascading her shoulder, bright sunshine flowing through the window illuminating her head with a hallow, she looks very ... "churched."

Before we can talk too much, Guy comes flying in like a bat out of Hell, obviously realizing his momentary lapse of reason, grabs his betrothed  and whisks her away.

They're the perfect couple and, though Nita remains suspicious of me, we hang out a lot until they get married, Guy graduates, moves to Seminary and leaves me behind.

I get on with life, aimlessly making my way through College, enjoying my newborn son, trying to play music in a rock and roll band, giving little thought to the future.

Out of the blue Guy calls to tell me I should come to Seminary.

"Does Nita know you're calling me?" I ask.

Nonetheless, he tells me I'd enjoy it and it'd be good for me.

God's not mentioned, nor is being "called", Church or expressions of faith.

"Just come," he says.

So I do.

Family and friends are shocked but, to this day I'm uncertain as to why, but it was Guy inviting me and I didn't want to say "no" ... couldn't say "no" because somehow, though I have no idea how, it seems the right thing to do.

All Hell breaks loose once I'm there because within weeks I'm the Hippy guitar playing preacher of an inner city Church no one attends, am in the News a lot for being unconventional and unorthodox, find myself in hot water with both the Seminary and the Southern Baptist yet have a front row seat as Holiness hits and I watch the lame walk, the blind see and the dead be raised to life.

My career was born then and, unlike many, I've gotten to have a front row seat twice in life as Holiness hit both in Louisville, Kentucky and Savannah, Georgia.

Who knows?

Maybe I'm watching it again in this little Bar on an island, I've discovered it's hard to really know and appreciate Holiness while it's happening, it's easier to see until afterwards, just like Moses could only see the glory of God after it'd passed his by (Exodus 33:23).

It would never have happened without Guy in my life, calling me out of the blue for whatever reasons he had, with or without Anita's blessings, dragging me out of the bondage of my upbringing to the Promised Land of higher education and vocation.

Quite simply, I'd have never become me were it not for Guy.

We've both rushed through life now, finding ourselves on the downward slide, dealing with health issues, managing age, with not as much to give as we once did though full of wonder at what's next while enjoying everything the "now" while we're still here.

For the first time in almost 15 years we talked the other day, relished a bit in our past, caught up on the kids and made nebulous plans to see each other one last time, if that's what it is.

There's a marvelous passage of Scripture where the old patriarch Jacob dreams he sees "a ladder reaching from the earth to Heaven and upon it Angels were ascending ad descending ..." (Genesis 28:12) ... and while it's terrible exegesis, I love the image, take it to have multiple meanings and apply it those in our lives who bring God to us and take us to God ... hitting us with Holy when we least expect, leaving us different than we would otherwise be and more complete than before.

Guy and Anita are Angels in my life, and though there are many others, they reached out of the ordinary of their own lives into mine and the world changed.

Here's the thing, if you're going to find Angels, you have to know what you're looking for or you'll miss them entirely, mistaking them for celestial beings working magic, coming down from on High, hitting us with lightning bolts of Divine inspiration.

The reality is each of us have it in us to do Holy things just as each of us has the capacity to see it if we know what we're looking for.

God was born into this world, we're taught in the stories of Christmas, and if we believe this then we know God uses the ordinary to convey Holy things ... like calling old friends to extend invitation to break the mold and do something different and utterly unexpected.

Take this moment and look around.

Notice those sitting around you waiting for Holiness to hit them.

Maybe it's you who's meant to get that ball rolling.

It's possible that something you experience today is designed just for you by none other than God.

Angels are ascending and descending constantly, do you see them?

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.
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