Archaeology of Knowledge

“Community” is a word that I had exorcised from my vocabulary. For a time, it was a buzzword, a piece of jargon in certain Christian circles. You could say the word, and if everything else you said was wrong or stupid, it didn’t matter, people would swoon because you said “community” in a breathy, spiritual way.

And it seemed the more people talked about it, the less I saw of it.

But enter the gentle madness of the bean patch. Last night, Jason, Tawndee, Maggie, Jan, and Matthew joined me in picking two and half bushels of beans, along with some cukes, okra, and tomatoes. Like I have said before, there is a lot of good conversation that can happen… a lot of… dare I say it… “community.” Even if it’s only me and Jason trying our best to avoid joining the chicks in validating each other’s feelings…

Something forms over human work. It is finally work together that defines us as human. So there we were, doing the most basic human work together. John and Joe jumped in and out as they felt like it. Something subtle takes place as you work alongside one another, getting used to the voices, the posture, the movement, how you pick beans off the same plant with someone else, because there’s just that many beans.

But really, this rehabilitation of the word began to happen somewhat earlier. It’s not just that David and Ron were talking about “microfellowship,” where disparate groups of people clump together around seemingly simple things that press the complexity out of our lives. It started for me on 12^th Street. I know people are going to get sick of me talking about the things happening there, but it truly is Jesus stuff.

You can walk in for the first time and be community. It is a strange and precious gift. And then, this thought hit me: it is a free-flowing and organic thing. What will it take for a church to live and breathe like that? To be barely organized? I recognize that you need some structure, but there is a place we get to where structure becomes structure for its own sake, and even the most change-driven mindset can’t break out and trash what has been done so that what is waiting to break loose can be set free.

But I digress. It’s a strange and powerful thing to see that fellowship, community, hospitality, prayer, and evangelism are working together. I am getting into some doors and some lives because of the work that is done there on Friday nights and because of the prayers that are lifted up. One of the women prayed that I would go to a particular house and that they would ask me something specific. I went and they did. And now, through a ministry of prayer with them, Jesus is entering their lives. None of it happens, tho, if there is no prayer and evangelism supported by fellowship and hospitality.

Allison Krauss and other notes

Another sign you listen to too much rock and roll. Joe starts making some weird noises in the back seat this morning. “Play that song, Daddy!” I didn’t know what he was trying to sing and then he starts in again with a kind of “ba dap bap bad ap bap” and I’m still confused. Then John helps out, “You know, the one with the big fat guy singing.” I am thinking, “Blues Traveller?” Then it hits me: NO, it’s Molly Hatchet’s “Flirtin’ With Disaster…” Good boys!

Update: look, this thing about the women in the car—not a good thing. I mean, she looked like she could hurt me real bad. And I had to wonder, why me? I mean, I start to worry if I’m her type, or worse yet, if she doesn’t care what her type is.

Ok, on to the meat. My brother-in-law (Brandon) and I went to see Allison Krauss and Union Station last night. Unbelievable. I have seen some good shows, but she is not so much a musician as a force to be reckoned with.

Here’s how the evening progresses. I have quit saying too much here because I more or less unload on this one poor dude as opposed to laying it out here. Can’t say why. Anyhoo, I was worried about going to the show, because Allison Krauss means a lot to me, her music is loaded down with all kinds of stuff for me, and she can really sing some sad songs. Before that even happened tho, I was just kind of sullen. I mean, I was actually pissed off, because Sissy and I were going to see AK in the Ville back in April. And on top of that, everyone is out together, and nothing was hacking me off more than seeing happy couples together. I love my brother-in-law, but well, there you have it. He ain’t real pretty. So I was thinking, “This was a mistake.”

First song: “There’s a restless feeling knocking at my door today…” one of her early songs. Mournful. Difficult relationship. Lost love. All that stuff. Damn. Few songs later:

I’m just a ghost in this house

I’m all that’s left of two hearts on fire

That took my body and soul

I almost got up and left. But then something weird happened. She went into some heavy bluegrass, some energetic stuff, and even when it was sad it was ok. By the time she got to “Oh, Atlanta,” that strange, priestly function of music had been in effect: she got it all out of me.

Of course, she played “When You Say Nothing At All.” I was joking when I said Gretchen Wilson is my aunt. I was just trying to mess with my aunt Mindy… but Paul Overstreet, who wrote the song, is a distant cousin from two different sides of the family. Melissa didn’t like Allison Krauss as much as I do (thought she was too depressing and thought some of her songs are a little weird) but she liked that one. And it was ok. Last song was a beautiful gospel song about your life being a prayer to God.

Life in the 05:Catcalls

A month or so ago, Laura G comes in and says something like, "I got 2 'hey babys' and a growl," on her way from the Rescue Mission to the Rock. A few days ago, Jessica read some guys the riot act for saying something to one of the 12th Street Girls, and then Sunday night after we worked in the garden, she herself was propositioned.

I was feeling left out. But not anymore. I was on my bike just half an hour ago, and a car full of women comes by and the one in the front passenger seat says, "Hey baby! Why don't you park that thang at my house?" I took one look at her and all I could think about was ZZ Top's song "Under Pressure." Worst part was, I was headed their way. Every stop sign I caught up to them. I finally headed down a side street to get away...

Found my way to Capn's house, and figured he's save me if it came to that.

The Majesty of the Blues

Man, do I have some mean blues today. I mean the old walking blues Robert Johnson talks about. Nothing like a good workout to get rid of it. And some Taildragger blasting thru the radio. The majesty of the blues, or country music, is that you realize someone's been there, and can cry and laugh about it, too.

Found Food

I put myself thru my MA in English by working for the Physical Plant at Southern Mississippi, where I got my undergrad degree as well. It was a wild job, largely because of the guys I worked with. The first job every day was for me and my crew to pick up trash outside of buildings on the north side. Anyway, in one dorm there was a guy who would crap and throw it out the window. We’d have our trash picker and think we were picking up whatever and bam, there it was. Made us so mad. So we stopped, and I guess it got to stinking or he got mad he wasn’t screwing with us anymore so he began to hide it in all kinds of things—paper cup, bag, anything, even the plastic case an electric razor came in. We were about to lose it.

I wasn’t a Christian in those days, and so when Charlie suggested we get a case of beer and our bb guns and sit and watch the dorm one night, I was all in. I mean we were surely going to pop this guy in the tail and maybe, hopefully, get to beat the tar out of him. It was going to end badly one way or the other. He never showed up any of the nights (yes, there was more than one). Good thing, I guess. By midnight, we wouldn’t have hit anything we aimed at…

Ok, so there was no redeeming point to that story, except it’s funny, my near-miss with extreme violence…

We also had this game or something going. We would try to find fruit trees on campus and not let anyone know about it. So Larry had a plum tree somewhere. He would spray it and prune it, but he’d always give you the shake if you followed him. Ernest had something else, I forget now, maybe a pear tree. I had to get in on this action, because it was too much fun for Larry to come in with a bag of fresh plums, make us watch as he ate them. What a jerk. I learned some of my best expressions from Larry. He was like Larry the Cable Guy and Donnie Baker rolled into one.

I was also into what I called "guerilla landscaping." I had tried to convince my bosses that we should plant vegetables instead of annual flowers. So we could put in peas or corn, tomatoes, maybe carrots and turnip greens. It's all pretty and serves the same function. It's crazy to plant ornamental kale, but not spinach. They weren't buying it. My boss really lost it when he found corn growing outside the business office. "I wonder how this got here?" he asked coyly. He pulled it out. Watched him do it and almost cried. Those were my babies, y'all. But I had the last say. I planted tomatoes in between the boxwoods at the Alumni House. The ladies in there loved it! So the boss man comes by to pull them out and they were on him like a hawk. He got his tail chewed good. Nice guy that I am, I even gave him some tomatoes as a peace offering.

One day I was sent to spray fence-rows with a cocktail that even Nixon’s EPA would have arrested me for. (We had this big spray rig, but the off switch didn’t work, so you had to shut it down by pulling the plug wire off. Shocked heck out of you everytime. My boss used to get mad because I would leave it running all the time…) So there I am spraying the fence-row behind the motor pool and I see them: blackberries. Right under everyone’s nose. I come back covered in blackberry juice, and the boys knew something was up. They all wanted in, but I was taking all of them to my cousin so she could make cobbler. It was all “Hey old buddy, old pal,” but I wasn’t sharing.

But then one day I found the Holy Grail. I think I also discovered Larry’s secret: the best place to hide is in plain sight. In an alcove of the Art Department’s building a spindly tree was poking over the wall. I went in there looking for a faucet and found an apple tree! In Mississippi, of all places. There aren’t many varieties that grow in MS, much less in South MS. But it was in bad shape. Huge hole at the base of the trunk, termites.

So I get back to Physical Plant and liberated some supplies: cement mix, malathion, pruning seal, some tools. I lived across the street from the campus, so I came back after work and dug out the termite queen and squished her… yes, like a bug. I sprayed malathion and then got after filling in the hole with concrete. After it set a few days, I covered the whole thing in pruning seal. Then I waited. Apples came in the summer. Small, but golden and sweet and juicy. They all came undone when I strutted in with my bag of apples. Even the bossman was putting pressure on me to give up the location. This was 93. I ate apples from there as long as I was in MS. When I went back in 2000 for my homeboy’s wedding, I had to stop and see. Tree still there! Fruit on it, but not ready. The trunk had more or less repaired itself.

There is something mysterious about stumbling on a fruit tree or bush in an unexpected place. It’s makes you feel close to God and His Providence. There’s just stuff everywhere if you know or care to look. One day John Mynhier and I were doing some evangelism on Pine Ridge Rd. We were walking down a long driveway and spotted some blackberries the birds hadn’t found yet. We just walked and ate, and talked about our good fortune. See, you can teach a young boy with a hard life a lot about grace when God does things like that…

On Mill Street, just south of Maxwell, by Rotary Connection (go there for all your car repair needs. Chip, the service manager, is THE MAN), there’s an apple tree growing in a 2 foot gap between houses. Very good apples. There’s another at Maxwell and Madison. And two on Avon. Five-finger discount makes it taste sweeter…

So Thursday, Jim Embry (my garden co-conspirator) and I are in the garden behind Arlington School. He starts showing me all the stuff growing in the grass. We picked some young purple hull peas from the garden and plucked a salad from the grass. Talk about a sweet moment.

I think I understand why Jesus was hacked off at the fig tree that bore no fruit. He made it to bear fruit! Just so people walking by could get some and thank God for a small and unexpected blessing. A simple thing along the way, but not so simple after all.

Pickin' and Grinnin'

Lots of picking. We got 5 gallons of beans yesterday, plus some cukes and okra. Tomatoes are slow to come on. Picked 5 gallons more of beans today at the Price Avenue garden, and I have another crew headed out there this evening to get the beans growing up the corn. Pulled 5 gallons more of bell peppers there, too.

I had some beans and yellow tomatoes. I headed up 12^th Street to pass them out. Peter not home, Meg not home. You snooze you lose. Left a pile with Jessica and them. And then the meant to be part of the day: Mike, chick drummer’s husband is home. He was really happy to get some garden food. And he was really happy to see me. We’ve only met in passing, but we stopped and had a good conversation about things going on and his sense that the answers are going to be spiritual. Talk about a conversation with a stranger getting deep within 2 minutes! This is the joy of being a pastor. Anyway, we get to talking about music and how he’s going to some bluegrass get together. I share a bit with him of my idea to have bluegrass pickin’ here as often as we can. I think he’s going to hook us up.

He said, “Well, it’s the people’s music. You don’t need no drums or amps. Just open your case and go. And anyone can learn it really.” I am toying with getting a mandolin—I like the sound, have wanted to learn, and bluegrass is going to be huge here if we play our cards right. Brittany Peel has my old mandolin, and I am trying to steal it back.

I have been lamenting that as a preacher no one tells you any jokes, because they think preachers don’t laugh or something. Well, as I was picking beans, an older black man was in his yard behind the garden. We got to talking. He had been a barber and when he found out I was a preacher, he said, “Oh! I have to tell you a preacher joke!” Well, you never know where something like that is headed, except it’s going to be good.

“A long time ago, there was a church in the rural. Preachers in those days rode mules, tied up alongside the church. And they called a mule an ass in those days, too. The preacher’s preaching and the church catches on fire. Everyone runs to the front door, the only way out. Preacher can’t get out and he jumps out the side window. But he didn’t land on his ass, to make his getaway. The church was digging a new outhouse and he fell right in. They tried to find him and then looked down on pitiful old preacher. One of the deacons said, ‘I told you we shoulda never called him to preach—he doesn’t know his ass from a hole in the ground!’” With that he just chuckled and walked away.

Advance Notice

Ok, so my book of John Donne's poems has a renaissance painting on it, "Venus Disarming Cupid." She's naked. Get over it. On the way into church, Sunday, I hear Joe giggling. I look back and he has the book and breast-fed baby that he was, you can imagine his commentary. He asks me, "What book is this, Daddy."

"A book of poems," I say.

"I like poems!"

"Yeah, I bet you do, chief."

So, to all of the children's workers. If Joe says, "My daddy has a book with a naked woman on the front," you know where he's coming from.

Love Songs

Today, love songs make me sick.

Part of that is that I keep listening to one of Melissa's favorite songs, "Patience," by Guns N Roses. Yikes, that really summed things up for us at the beginning of our relationship.

I know I need to stop listening to it. when she was diagnosed, I sat down and picked out Chris Isaak's "Wicked Game," and I need to quit playing that. In fact, I may just need to give my guitar to someone until this crap passes.

And me and Brandon (my brother-in-law) are going to see Allison Krauss week after next. So I guess i will get my fill of mournful songs. Do I dare go see John Prine in the Ville in September?

But, then, it does pass in pieces even today; that is, when I learned to play "Patience" (Jon McKinney got me the music off the internet, which I was not really aware of back then...), and played it for Melissa she was touched and laughed because I screwed part of it up. So I showed her and jumped into the next song off the "Lies" CD, "I Used to Love Her, But I Had to Kill Her." So I guess we were always laughing, even when we were serious!

And then here's what's making it alright: I was looking at Pedro Blanco's pictures. You'll notice a girl some of you may not know-- blonde hair, brown top. She just crops up every so often. I think he likes her or something-- she's Peter's sweetie, Jackie. It was a good wedding for me to do, soon after Sissy died. Glad they let me in on it. It affirmed me; if i had backed out for reasons everyone would understand, I think I would have taken some serious steps backwards. So thanks, Peter and Jackie! She doesn't mind when I stand outside his window and say, "Hey Peter, man! Check out the chick on channel 9...."

Pronounced Li-nerd Skin-nerd

Hollie Hamilton and I did not get off to a good start. It was so bad, the people at The Rock were wondering who on earth the Bishop sent them… Hollie was a homeless alcoholic. He lived on the railroad tracks. The church had been building some relationship with him and his friend, Barbara. They had slowly gone from talking to people here and there, to coming to the steps of the church, staying in the vestibule, to sitting in the balcony. Well, Hollie comes in one Sunday a few weeks after I got here and wants something I wasn’t going to give him. So he bowed up on me and started cussing me.

I don’t take that kind of crap and I bowed up, too, and kicked him out.

Well, all these good folks who had put so much into him were just crushed. I didn’t help my case any when I was still ramped up and I asked them why was he still a raging drunk if they’d been working with him for three years? I can be hard and stubborn at times, but that can be love, too. In the end, Hollie and I got on a good footing. In fact it was only a few weeks later that I saw him at 12^th and Broadway and we talked and hashed things out. His friend Barbara said tonight, “You don’t know how big it is that Hollie apologized to you. He never backed down.” I told her he didn’t back down. “We’re both the kind of guy who will tell you what he thinks if you ask him, good bad or indifferent. That’s why we were ok—he knew I would never lie to him.”

Well, Hollie died about a month ago. There’s a lot to tell, but here’s the story for now. We had a memorial service for him tonight. It was pure Rock: homeless, drunks, black, white, Hispanic, rich, poor, in between, believers, non-believers, almost-theres.

We sang some songs, prayed, heard a few remembrances, and I had a small sermon. Then we listened to Hollie’s favorite song, Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Freebird.” The live version, in all its Three Guitar Army Glory. Ha, people were singing! It’s a lesson—they didn’t know Peace in the Valley so well, but they knew Skynyrd!

If you can understand “Freebird,” you’ll get closer to understanding Hollie, and hard-living people like him. Skynyrd doesn’t know how to end a song. It’s a sonic assault. It’s frenetic, because that’s how many people live, on the edge, little control, want to build up to a frenzy and let it out. You go see Skynyrd, Hank Jr., and 38 Special so you can get it all out and not kill your boss on Monday. There is a strange priesthood in rock music. They usher in some mystery. If it weren’t for ass-kicking Southern Rock and Monday Night Football, there would be a revolution. That’s just a fact. If I didn’t have Van Halen in my CD case, I’d be superfly TNT. Not pretty.

I have to tell you this crazy thing. Harold Dorsey, a retired pastor (started preaching in 1936!) and I did not get off to a good start, either. I had never met him until we met in the elevator at Annual Conference in 2006. When he found out I was coming to his church, The Rock, he started in on the things he thought were wrong, why Asbury (my seminary) was messing things up, etc, etc. Jean Hawxhurst got off the elevator at just the right time because then I took my turn on how we wouldn’t be in the mess we’re in if three or four generations of preachers hadn’t quit preaching the gospel and didn’t give a rip if no one came to Jesus, and sometimes you have to burn something down before you can do anything with it… you can see where this was headed. Well, Dorsey and I are half-way friends now. I know he thinks I’m nuts, but that’s ok.

Well, I sure expected to hear about it from him that we had Skynyrd in the chapel. Instead, he wants to know all about Hollie, came down and ate with our crew, and he said “the problem is that we Methodists are a class church—we don’t know what to do with people who are not middle class. But you’re doing a fine job changing that.” Not me. The people who came before me, the people here, the people yet to come. But here’s where I am going—if you welcome a few different kinds of people, then pretty soon people believe everyone and anyone can come. And next thing you know, Pentecost is happening as all kinds of people hear the gospel in words and relationships that everyone can easily understand.

The question remains: do we have the guts to do this? I mean more than every once in a while, when we feel good for doing something out of the ordinary? It is going to be a gut-check.

Garden

Peter White passed this on to me. It hits right where and why The Rock La Roca is here, and why we need to get serious about being here.

Ezekiel 36:33-36
"Thus says the Lord GOD: On the day that I cleanse you from all your iniquities, I will cause the towns to be inhabited, and the waste places shall be rebuilt. The land that was desolate shall be tilled, instead of being the desolation that it was in the sight of all who passed by. And they will say, 'This land that was desolate has become like the garden of Eden; and the waste and desolate and ruined towns are now inhabited and fortified.' Then the nations that are left all around you shall know that I, the LORD, have rebuilt the ruined places, and replanted that which was desolate; I, the LORD, have spoken, and I will do."

Rebel Yell

My conversation with Tex Sample got me thinking about Mississippi. Some folks from the Rock are going on a mission trip to MS. I also have been back in contact with an old friend from the Coast. It’s summer, and I like heat, and I always used to say to Melissa, around April, “you know what?” And she would say in a drone: “Yeah. You wish you were back in Mississippi, because the flowers are already blooming, and it’s getting hot and you love to sit outside and sweat.” I do love to sweat. I am a mess. It’s a good thing, because I sweat like a dancing mule. I worked with this old guy, Monroe. At lunch, he would go sit in his truck, roll up the windows and drink coffee. Sweat would just roll off of him. Ask him why he did it, he’d say, “Sweatin’ out them demons.” It’s a redneck sauna, but darn if it doesn’t work. You feel a lot better. Anyway, my head’s in Mississippi, as ZZ Top says.

Some people keep saying I should write a book. It probably won’t happen for a variety of reasons. First, the literary side of me likes to think I’d have a theme, or something to unify it and make it worthwhile to read, and I don’t see anything quite like a theme in my ramblings. I was mentioning this the other night and Jason Dillard went all Fugitive Poet on me and said, “that’s propaganda…” referencing a conversation I had with Andrew Lytle about whether or not he had a point in his fiction. He said no, banged the table with his fist and said, “That’s propaganda! You write as the spirit moves you…”

Another reason: the farther you get away from knowing me, the more likely I am to make you mad. You’d never believe the emails I get from friends of friends. Man, people need to calm down.

Finally, until the Lord changes my mind that publishing is an act of violence, I probably won’t write a book. I guess, having such an opinion, I shouldn’t read books. Or write a blog. Oh well, I’m a hypocrite, which is more or less what friends of friends tell me.

If I were to write a book, it would be about my friend, we’ll call him Edward. We used to work together on a landscaping crew. He was a black guy about 15 years older than me. He had a bad reputation as one of the toughest dudes in town. Edward and I ended up doing some jobs just me and him, and I found out it was a kind of hazing ritual—make the new guy work with Edward, who no one really liked. We got along pretty well, and that freaked everyone out. The bossman was happy because he didn’t have to worry about who would go with Edward. Funny how God works. There are some crazy stories I could tell, but something about the honesty of our friendship makes that hard. The statute of limitations is not out on some of them. Others are so profane I can’t believe I was there, heard it, saw it, lived through it. Very little of it is edifying, except as an insight into a how a white college punk was let into the lives of lower-class blacks.

I believe that anyone you meet can tell you the funniest, saddest, and weirdest thing you have ever heard. And I think if they tell you those things, or if you experience those things with them, it’s hard to repeat. It’s like voyeurism, or something. I sometimes find myself wishing the people hadn’t told me. But I have a gift for getting into people’s worlds, I guess.

But I can tell one story because it has some serious spiritual application, showed me something about what we Methodists call “perfection.” It’s not anything you could preach, I suspect. But it is dear to me.

At one point, I was going to go to grad school on Long Island. I know, I know—there is no way anyone can see me on Long Island. The Lord intervened big time, and I didn’t go. Well, all the guys I worked with were a little interested and impressed that one of us was getting a Master’s Degree, whatever that meant to them. We were on a big job my last day with them, a Friday. There was lots of ribbing, lots of stories about the things I screwed up (namely a backhoe. Or the time I was putting pressure on a boring machine to keep the shaft from buckling. Like an idiot, I had on gloves, and they got wrapped around the twisting shaft. Somehow, it just ripped the gloves right off, without breaking my wrists or tearing off my hands. Thus one of my nicknames, “Magic Boy,”). Late in the afternoon of my last day, Edward motioned me to come around the corner of the building. He always used to sneak off to smoke pot, kept a pocket full of wild mint leaves he ate and rubbed on his hands, but he wasn’t fooling anybody. I was worried he wanted me to have some ceremonial smoke with him on my way out.

Instead, he speaks in hushed tones. “Dude, I don’t know why you want to go to New York. Whatever you do, don’t look nobody in the eye. Don’t let nobody help you unload your truck. Here,” and he handed me a .32 pistol. “Take this. Damn. I don’t want to have to come up there because somebody f-ed up my boy.” This was goodbye.

I knew at the time that this was about as much as Edward could show anybody, and my heart broke for him and his life. As I look back, I also see it as a sign of perfection. See, we Methodists look to the intention of the heart. Perfection is not flawlessness. Perfection is a pure heart. So even with a gun, and a threat to wreak vengeance, Edward loved me as much as he could. I have prayed every day since I became a Christian (about 4 months after this weird goodbye) that God would honor where Edward’s heart is and guide him further into the truth.

They don’t treat people from Mississippi so well on Long Island. We must seem like really backward rubes. So by Tuesday I was back on the job, gave Edward back his .32. He didn’t say anything, but I could tell he was glad to have me back. And I was glad to be called his boy.

I keep up with Edward. We don’t talk because the last time we did, it just confused him, and me—why do I bother? I’m gone. Not part of his hard life. I am, in some ways, a bad taste. He’s stuck where he is. I came in, played at hard work, and moved on to a good life. But I pray, and call the old boss to see how Edward’s doing.

Jolene; or John threatens to take the old man down

So we're driving to church this past Sunday. Listening to some tunes. Dolly comes on singing "Jolene," I think her best song. As the song started, John asks, "Is this Roletta?" [his name for Loretta Lynn.] I scoffed and said, "nooooo, this is Dolly. Better than Loretta." Wrong thing to say! I could really feel his aggravation! He let me know that "no one sings better than Roletta!"

Getting Serious

It feels really good to be back in the gym. Feels really good to have the iron in hand again. It’s been a three-year layoff. Gotten fat and soft. Crissman and Baker are already crying, thinking, “Great, here it comes. More spiritual lessons from the gym…” read it and weep, losers.

As I said before, the last 8 or 9 months we were in Winchester, I got interested in Olympic weightlifting—bigger motions incorporating lots of muscles, all the major joints. The discipline of it is attractive in and of itself; you have to want it, because for the first 6-8 weeks, your strength is going to go down in the ways you’re used to measuring it. You won’t bench or curl or even squat as much. But after that initial period, everything starts going up, even though you aren’t focusing on isolation exercises. It’s like starting over; you feel like a real girly man because you start with a stick. Seriously—if you even start with an empty bar there is a good chance you’ll smack your face (it can happen) or fall over on the upswing (did happen). And over the long haul, you still don’t get to any monster weight. Most folks who can bench 400 will never clean and jerk 200.

Anyway, as I was getting closer to really putting a whole lift together, the guy who was teaching me said I should set a goal. I said, “What if I can squat-snatch my weight?”

He said, matter-of-factly, “That’s a lot of weight.” Ouch.

Then I said, “What if I lose a bunch and then we start from there?”

This gets deep. He made a raw sound of disgust and said, “Would you ever give somebody that kind of spiritual advice?” Listen, this guy and I had only briefly talked about faith. I wasn’t even sure if he knew I was a pastor, but apparently he did. He went on, “don’t set your goals lower. Don’t try to work down to them. Lose the lard and lift the weight.” Like I keep saying, the children of this world are so much wiser than those of us in the light.

This Week Has Freaked Me Out

I picked the first substantial amount of veggies, and dropped them off with Foti and Steve, two neighbors of the garden. Okra, squash, and peppers. And then Dulaney Wood, a friend from Lexington First who has freaked out and put a huge garden in at Andover for us, came by with the first tomatoes. Carlotta grabbed one quickly, and pronounced it good.

Dulaney and I went up to the garden. It’s neat—I’m a military brat, and so I don’t know a lot of people long-term. But Dulaney and a lot of the folks in his Sunday School class, I’ve known them for 10 years or more. So it was really special to stand there in the garden with Dulaney, plotting this weird ministry that both is and is not about vegetables.

I have to tell you about this. Yesterday, I finally got back in contact with Sherri. She is a woman in a rock band I met maybe 6 or 8 months ago. We talked about things, about her hang-ups with church, but didn’t have a lot of time, so we agreed we’d talk later. I saw her on her porch as I was walking down 12^th Street (where I was trying to get Jackie White saved, and folks, it just ain’t gonna happen. That girl is a mess. And her old man… sheesh…)

Well, we never got to her hang ups with church. We ended up talking about some personal stuff. Wow, I was blown away that she would trust me. But that’s not the half of it. I was playing with her daughter and her doll (I ain’t too proud.) I told her about the garden, and she was really pumped up to think we might bring her some good stuff. She said she was having a vegetarian dinner—on the grill, potatoes, peppers, corn—would I like to stay for dinner with her family? Not bad. I guess she figures if Laura, Jessica, and Seble think I am ok, maybe I am ok…

As I was leaving, we get to talking about her music. She knows all kinds of bands, and I think maybe she can hook us up with some good music on Friday evenings. She plays drums. I asked her, “would you like to play in a praise band?” She looked at me funny, like, “you’d let me?” I figure if Iron Maiden’s drummer could get saved by playing in a church band, who knows. She handed me her card: it’s a wild, colorful thing, with her wailing on the drums, hair flying. Looks like she could give Meg White a run for her money! Has her name and phone number, and a priceless slogan that, honestly, I am glad she knew she could give to me: “Chick Drummer With Balls!”

But wait, my freaked out life gets better. Three guys show up at the church this afternoon. They represent a growing coalition of community gardeners. They heard about what we are doing at Third Street Stuff, a coffee house 7 or 8 blocks down Lime. We spent some time riffing on outrageous ideas for community gardens. A realtor told one of the guys he could have 15 vacant lots. We just need the manpower. We talked Farmer’s Market right here at the Rock, we talked food access Northside vs. Southside, we talked setting up small businesses to market fresh, local produce to some of the upscale restaurants, and we talked about what one guy called “gardens of eatin’” at houses of worship. They are setting up a garden tour of various community gardens to get us all hooked up and let people and government know what we’re up to and the positive benefits of the work. I took them up to the garden behind the school, and they were blown away by the size. I said, “you need to check out the garden on Price Ave, it’s at least as big. And First Church has one easily twice as big, and they are giving the produce to us.” I had just come back from First’s garden when my three visitors (how appropriate!) showed up.

It was a total God-thing for these guys to show up. I dropped everything to give a tour and talk about the weird vision I have that I generally do not tell anyone else about. One of the guys is a community activist, one works at UK, the other is a teacher at Bryan Station High School. It’s fixin’ to bust loose.

Tex Sample

About a week ago, Santiago Foster let me look at a book he had checked out from the library, Blue Collar Ministry by Tex Sample. The book is mind-blowing. It’s like he stole my book. On the one hand, it affirms what I have been doing, and on the other challenges and pushes in new directions, giving me a vocabulary for what needs to be done.

The Rock La Roca is not in a typical neighborhood. That is, mainline denominations tend to want prosperous suburban folk (well, like me) to support the ministries and the denomination. So generally, they have abandoned downtown and the countryside. As I have been saying for 7 years now, there is little difference between ministry in the hills and downtown. The social conditions are the same: lack of opportunity and isolation. Doesn’t matter if they’re white farmers, white workers, or African refugees.

Tex Sample says the pastor has to be what he calls a “ward-heeler,” the fellow from the old political machines who knew everyone in a neighborhood, what their needs were, etc, and met those needs, along with asking for a vote for the candidate. It seems crass, but once again, the children of this world are so much wiser than those of us in the light. From the get-go in Winchester, and here, my attitude has been get to know people, build trust, meet their needs. This last is what people have trouble with; we think we can only do $50 here or there. All I can say is Jesus saved you all the way.

It’s a principle of reciprocity; I helped a guy I worked with at the Physical Plant pass his college English classes and he put a valve-cover gasket and c-v boots on my car. What kind of fool would I be if I did not counsel people, feed them, clothe them and then expect that they love my Lord? If they take my rent, they gotta take my love. (I have a working title for a book: Sugar Daddy: Confessions of a Reluctant Evangelist).

Somehow we think this is cheating. Like all we’re supposed to do is be nice, have church, tell them some nice things about how good life will be if they just join our church. We don’t scare them with Hell anymore, so we’ve got to do something. Wait! I know! How bout be like Jesus! You know, feeding people, healing them, hanging out with them when they’re at their worst… and preaching a hard-core message of grace and repentance.

The coolest thing is I called Tex Sample this morning, and we had a great talk. He’s from Brookhaven, Mississippi, so we had some good times talking about that wonderful state. There’s something about guys that are half-wild who leave Mississippi. We always want to get back and we always remember good times… and we laugh hard about how that crazy state prepared us to go anywhere, do anything, talk to anyone. How many preachers do you talk to where you spend time talking about Willie Nelson before you get to the meat of theology, only to realize that the talk about Willie was theology? We even swapped funny stories about the Creed—I think I have found a friend.

But then there are some significant disagreements that will get passionate (like I said, I think I have found a friend!), but will be tempered by the passion to reach people for Christ. And in the end, if you like Merle Haggard, you’re ok by me.

He’s invited me up to a seminar in Dayton next year. It’s on ministry to what he calls “hard-living people.” He said he’d like me to share some of what we’re trying to do to break into the community. It’s starting to happen, and by then maybe I will have something to say. Here’s how he hooked me: one of the assignment will be that on the Friday night of the seminar, the students have to go to a honky-tonk! I never thought that my time at The Sea-Witch, The Boat-House, Nick’s Ice House or The Chicken Shack was ever going to bear fruit in ministry…

The books to read: Blue Collar Ministry, White Soul, and Ministry in an Oral Culture.

Random Notes

After the evening service, I went back up to the garden. I had been there earlier, before the service, weeding.

Excursus: I have this theory about weeding. People do too much of it. You just take out the weeds around the plants, leave the rest. If you look at a weedy garden in a drought, the soil is still moist. But if you have a nice, tilled up soil, it will be dry. Weeds do two things: first, their roots plow up the ground, opening more space for air and water, which is what you’d use a tiller for. And they keep the moisture in the ground, which a tiller will cause you to lose once things dry up. But, to some people, weeds are a sign or personal failing, of immorality. If that’s true, then I’m a pervert. Sign me up.

Next time, we’ll think about doing what I used to do: sow soybeans and clover into the garden. Beats weeds, adds nitrogen, and you can mow it down and really set your compost heap off.

Ok, I’m back. So I was in the garden, getting an eyeball on what I might have to pick tomorrow. So far, it’s just peppers. The maters are still green, and the beans have not kicked in yet.

The garden is doing its fellowship job. I had a few good conversations while I was weeding. Well, after I took a look at the peppers, I saw Rebecca, Foti’s wife, on the porch. I went over and we talked for a few minutes. Foti is the Greek guy I argue with, but who still doesn’t kick me off his porch.

Anyway, Foti is in New York. Rebecca and I talked a little bit, and she told me how happy she is that I come by. She is a Christian, from India. She said, “It’s amazing. Foti does not like religious people. And he really hates preachers. But he likes you. Thank you for being his friend.”

“Well, Foti and I are a lot alike.” She raised an eyebrow. “I used to be an atheist. Serious about it, too. So maybe we have lots to talk about. We’re passionate about what we believe.”

“Yes, you have some things in common. He was very frustrated by how stubborn you are!” we laughed. “He is also interested that you are ok about your wife.”

“Yeah, I think he turned away from God when his mom died.”

We talked a little bit more about praying for him, about hoping he comes to Christ. I prayed for the family, had little Akhilleos on my lap. As I got up to leave, she invited me and the boys to Akhilleos’ birthday party. This is what you hope for—that you get let into their lives and make a credible witness for Christ. It is slow work, this kind of evangelism. But I think we’re starting to see some fruit. Maria has been in church 3 of 4 weeks now, and Fritz came, today, too. And then Greg stumbled in off the street tonight. At least he remembered where we are.

I walked down the street and saw Steve, a guy fixing up a house. We talked about the garden. He has only met me once and he said, “Man, I heard about your wife. I am really sorry. I lost my dad to cancer. You ok?” And I got to share the amazing consolation of the Lord. These folks amaze me. Who am I? But they keep up, know I am the preacher. Steve loves the garden. He told me the school won’t build until Fall of 08, so we’ll get another summer out of it.

Joe

Well, you know how Joe and I love Johnny Cash. I busted out my CD and we listened to the standards he likes—“Folsom Prison Blues,” “A Boy Named Sue,” “One Piece At A Time,” and “Get Rhythm.” He has started really liking “Jackson.” He giggles about the line, “We got married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout.”

The rest goes on to say:

“We’ve been talking about Jackson ever since the fire went out

I’m going to Jackson, I’m gonna mess around.”

Joe asked me if I knew where Jackson was. I said I figured it must be Jackson, MS; that’s the only Jackson big enough to get in the kind of trouble Johnny Cash was talking about.

“Can you take me to Jackson some day?”

“Probably.”

Then we got to the day care, and Joe tells the co-owner, “Me and Daddy are going to Jackson, and we’re going to mess around!” There’s no telling what they think about me.

Joe is a sweet baby. Sometime Saturday morning, he crawled into bed with me. I woke up and there he was. He started stirring, woke up for just a second and said, “I wish Mommy was here.” Then he was back out. I think I know what he meant; there’s no middle to get into now. That was his place. He’d say he belonged in the middle, “because I’m the baby.”