Half-Asleep in Frog Pajamas

When I was in Vegas, I spent an afternoon reading Matthew Mark and Luke, with one eye: what do the gospels, what does Jesus say about his exclusivity? That is, is He the only way to salvation? This is a hard question for modern Westerners. We feel strange saying that Jesus is the only way. We want to say, “there are many ways to the same place,” or some such. I suppose that in my mind, exclusivity rested largely on His words in John, “I am the Way, the Truth and the Life, no one comes to the Father except through me.” I did not bother going through John, because John’s gospel is clearly exclusivist in its claims.

When I read the others, tho, I was amazed. When you read it with an eye for only one thing, seeing if Jesus expresses that there are other ways, you find that on almost every page there is no other way, no other one. Jesus has committed a terrible sin in modern eyes: He does not allow for other options.

I suppose one would not die on a cross if you sort of thought you were onto something. You’d want to be real sure. And you definitely don’t want to tell Peter, “Hey dude, it’s all good—Me, Mithraism, Isis cults, as long as they’re good people, they’re in dude. And by the way, be prepared to die in a gruesome manner for my particular way that’s no better than any other.”

Here’s where my new friend was challenging me the other day, the point of our disagreement. She wondered if I was a relativist, which hurt bad! I know Baker is losing it at this point—Mansfield, a relativist?! Her question was there’s a Muslim who does not believe in Christ. Is he going to heaven or hell? My answer is from Romans 1 and 2, that those who do not have the Law sometimes live as if they know it naturally, “their consciences now bearing witness, now accusing them.” I have a difficult time thinking that if by accident of history and geography you do not have access to Christ, you’re going down. That is, did the Indians have to wait for Europeans to kill them all before they could be saved from Hell?

Well, we didn’t agree there. She is pretty persuasive and intensely logical, so I came away with a lot to think about. I don’t have any problem with the exclusivity of Christ—He is the only way to salvation. I know some people can’t even go there with me. But the question of the moment is: when does that exclusivity kick in? What is the place/condition of responsibility for accepting or denying Christ? And if there is such a place, does evangelism and mission not mess things up? I mean, if you could just be someone on some remote mountaintop, worshipping whatever however, no knowledge of Christ, why intrude if God is going to judge?

And then, one of her original questions is related to that: why try to witness to someone in a repressive culture where to confess Christ means death? Just let them be and see how things shake out. My answer felt (was) pretty hollow: I look back on my life without Christ, and suppose somehow God would have let me in not knowing Christ, all I can say is that my life with Christ now is way better than that one of ignorance. Not exactly a mindset for the martyrs… I have been feeling for a couple weeks that I really need to be formed by some Third World Christianity, because this comfortable American crap is killing me. Which is pretty much what she said, in a nicer, more constructive way: “You need to spend some time in a Syrian village, to learn Jesus’ context.”

What do y’all think? What does Jesus being the only Way mean? How does it work itself out in and for people who have never heard?

Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates

Someone (you know who you are!) was pressing me on the exclusivity of Christ. The question she asked was basically this: in some parts of the world, to confess Christ means a death sentence. What do you say to them? Is He the Way, the Truth, and the Life or not?

There's a lot to answer here, at least from my perspective. My good friend Bill Hughes has been on me to go with him to Russia, to teach in the seminary. That's fine, but what I really want to do is preach. My conversations with Norbert Itoula and Cedrick Lukonga have really been working me over about Africa, about the possibilities of connecting the refugees here with work back in Africa.

If Jesus is one way among many, why bother with evangelism, much less missions? It's not even a life or death question at this point. It's a motivation question. We'll see. I guess one thing that surprised me was that someone would give me some challenging thoughts on the exclusivity of Christ-- if you remember my time in Vegas, you'll recall I read the Gospels and found over and over again that Jesus takes His exclusivity for granted on almost every page.

Some of y'all are going to get to listen to me hash this out. Lucky you.

Pastor Libre

I'm getting the boys ready for school.
My friend Misty Clark's dad is a Methodist preacher in Western Kentucky. He and some other guys do this thing called tag-team preaching. One of them gets up and preaches and when he can't go anymore or another preacher gets worked up, they tag and the next guy comes in and wears it out. This is a country Methodist, a Pentecostal, and two Baptists, one black, one white, so you know there is some real roof-raising preaching going on. Anyway, I have wanted to do this ever since Misty told me about it. If I really let myself go, I dream of wearing a mask and calling myself "Pastor Mysterio," after my favorite wrestler, Rey Mysterio. Anyway.

So, I cooked breakfast for the boys. We sit down and it is clear these ain't Mammaw's eggs. John says, "Daddy, you cook like Nacho." Nacho being Jack Black's character in Nacho Libre, a monk who dreams of being a luchador (Mexican wrestler) but is relegated to cooking for the priests and the orphans. He's no good at it, of course. We got to laughing about all the funny things we remember from the movie. John asks, "Why can't we just have salad?"

Sick

I am a big baby when I get sick. I have strep, something I am prone to and get repeatedly unless I can convince the doctor to go after it with everything they have. There’s a shot that knocks it out, but they never give it to me first thing. I dread not getting the shot because I almost always have to go back after the pill antibiotics don’t work, and the strep comes back. Like I said, I am a big baby, laying around feeling sorry for myself.

They say that the hardest things to do after a loved one dies are the first times you do something that would have been together, something like that. First Christmas, birthdays, etc. I don’t think anyone has on their list first time puking your guts out all alone. Pretty miserable. But I had to laugh because all the times I puked, Melissa would say something like, “Dang, son, what’d you eat?” or “That doesn’t look like dinner did.” And inevitably the commentary on how did I keep that much inside me.

I think, finally, that the first things will be ok because there was always a lot of joy in what we did. So while it will be rough, it’ll also be good, because I can’t think of anything that I don’t remember with a smile or a laugh.

About the only thing that makes me feel better is a hot shower. Well, I am in the shower and Joe comes in and says there’s someone at the door. “Do you know who it is?” No, he didn’t so I told him to go look out the window. He said, “it’s a man and a woman.” “Do you know them?” “No, but she’s smiling and I think she’s nice.” So we had to have a quick talk about not opening a door or going with someone just because they’re smiling. He wouldn’t let it go, so I came to the door and it was Kim and Andy Newman with some beef stew.

First Day of School

The first week of school for the boys has gone really well. Remarkably well. The transition to Lexington has been smooth. They miss Mammaw pretty badly, but they are making it. The amazing thing has been school. Generally, one or both of the boys will cling to me, say they don’t want to go, beg to not have to, whatever. So far, none of that. They run right in. The school has done a really good job of making them welcome, of taking care of them.

But then there’s also this. The boys have gotten a big dose of “community,” the word I exorcised from my vocabulary as too trendy and void of meaning. It’s coming back, and the boys get it without knowing the word—that strikes me as important, not needing the word, having the reality. At the end of the first day, as we crossed the street, they saw Roz. Then Ruben. Then Charlotte, Melissa, Alice, Andrew and Brent. They were really excited to think that they had so many people close by.

But before we crossed the street from the school to the church, John was holding Joe’s hand and he pointed diagonally across the street and said, “Look, Joe-Joe. That’s 12th Street.” And he began to name the people who lived there: “Laura, Jessica, Fire Queen, Our Meg, Peter, Jackie…” They know they are surrounded by people they love and who love them.

There’s something to their experience. Too often, if we use a word, we think we have understood something. And maybe we have. But better the experience of community than understanding it.

Dull Persistence of Memory

Alison Krauss does a song Shenandoah recorded some years back, “Ghost in this House.” Melissa used to think Alison Krauss’ song choices were weird at best, too depressing at worst. About “Ghost in this House,” she used to say, “How can anyone be that sad?”

I don’t care if it rains, I don’t care if it’s clear

I don’t mind staying in, because there’s another ghost here.

She sits down in your chair and she shines with your light

And she lays down her head on your pillow at night.

Yes, Sissy, you can be that sad.

Great Quote Appendix

I can't print anything Jessica said.

Great Quote

The context isn't important. And it would just ruin it.

"Eating at bw3 is a thinking man's game."
--Rosario Picardo, 2:52 p.m, August 12, 2007

Moving, Garden

Me and the boys are moved into our new place. We live in the 05 now, and we’re pretty pumped to be right in the middle of things.

We live right smack in the middle of a bunch of parishioners, and we’re hatching plans to do our own version of 12^th Street Live over on our side. My new goal: convince as many people as possible to move to different streets. Then, there’d be a party every night somewhere…

John and Joe will start school at Arlington Elementary, right across the street from the church. Steve and I were playing no limit Texas Hold’em two Fridays ago. He was out of money and had to put Steffi on the table. He lost, and now she is stuck being our nanny. The boys will definitely appreciate the stability of having her to get them on the days I can’t.

The Garden Tour was a huge success. Close to 60 people, I’d say. We saw different types of gardens: art gardens, small gardens at a neighborhood center, a really nice one at the Senior Citizen’s Center. I am partial to ours, a very practical one—that is to say, a very Methodist one! I think we made connections with a group of people who can help us with the next phase of this work: turning the gardens over to the people of the community, for them to grow their own food.

Last night, we spent a wonderful time in the garden behind Arlington and on Price Avenue. Curtis, Paul and Venus, Maggie, Jessica, Christy, Lee and Beth, Dan and Marian, Alice and Brent and Andrew, and John, Joe, and I were pickin’ and grinnin’. The beans may be worn out, but that’s ok, we got a lot out of them. The tomatoes are coming on and corn will be ready in a few days. We had a load in Paul’s truck, and I am scared to see what First Church will bring in tomorrow… I think everyone was happy to work together, to see how much came out of there.

Like I keep saying, something good and right comes out of working in a garden. Sometimes it’s giving each other a hard time (esp about my theory of weeding. But, as I predicted, the drought isn’t bothering us because the weeds keep the ground wet...) Sometimes it’s just forging a simple but durable connection over basic work. Location and fidelity are vital to our life together, but those two things cannot be taken for granted in human relationships, especially in our rootless culture (ah, “rootless culture;” you can see that such a thing is a recipe for disaster!) A fair amount of our experience tells us that we can avoid needing each other. (Dorothy Day has a phrase for this ability/proclivity to separate: “the long loneliness.” It’s the title of her autobiography. I just finished it and heartily recommend it). No, there has to be some practice, some constancy, some unconsciously paying attention to voices and hands. Just as in regular prayer together, we get to know each other’s hearts, so in regular work together, we get pulled into each other’s lives.

3 people from the community came out and picked, too.

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.