Welcome To Our Church!

The last words that any of my friends would expect to hear from me are: “I went to church last week”. Hell, it’s about the last thing I would expect to come out of my mouth too.

Inside and out, the building I went to sure looked like a church. The congregation got up a few times and sang songs out of a book that looked like a hymnal. There was a call and response that reinforced their commonly held beliefs. We had a guest speaker give a sermon-like talk from a pulpit area at the front, and yes, the plate was passed for donations.

Never forget the passing of the plate.

I had to hold onto my chair to not indulge the screaming voice inside me yelling, run! run for the door! Save yourself!

Needless to say, church and I have a long standing adversarial relationship. That’s due in no small part to my early involvement, starting at age 7. That’s when I joined the choir of our hometown Episcopal church. We rehearsed three nights a week and sang one or two Sunday services. It was a great choir, one of the best in the US that sang in the English tradition of men and boys.

Thankfully, no castrati.

I learned a lot about discipline and working as part of a group. It was my first paying job, actually. We got an envelope every two weeks with about $12.00 in it. No small change for a kid back then. We made a few albums, toured the great cathedrals of England, and then I was done, off to college.

The down side was listening to a man wearing an overly tight white collar, turn beet red and pontificate for 30 minutes at each service. If you are what you eat, he was martinis and steak, and was perpetually angry at his congregation. People didn’t give enough money in their Sunday donations. Everyone needed to ramp it up, dammit. The good reverend looked like he was going to blow a fuse in his overly tight collar, and was generally overly tight himself. Too much left over communion wine, intentionally over-poured and chugged down after everyone was back in their pews.

I was contemptuous of the parade of housewives in their finery, vying for seats in the front rows where they could be seen and envied. It was more about the social hour than anything else.

A string of priests came and went, men who struck me as weak, flawed, corrupt, and inept. Unable to make it in the real world. Sorry, but that’s how it all struck me.

In a one-on-one class, I asked the priest about the wine and wafer deal. You know, transubstantiation. “The change of substance by which the bread and wine offered in the sacrifice of the sacrament of the Eucharist during the Mass, become, in reality, the body and blood of Jesus.”

Whoa, hold on there! The wine and wafer REPRESENT the body and blood, right? The priest said no, they become the actual body and blood of Christ. So I’m thinking: Do I really look that stupid? I think I know what you put in my mouth. It was a dry, tasteless wafer and a sip of red wine about three turns of the chalice from where that sweet little piece of ass, Sue Defoe, just had her lips. And when I swallowed, it was still wine and wafer. If it had actually turned into blood and flesh, I would be blowing chunks all over this communion rail right now.

From the very beginning, I found all of the hard-to-believe stories, hard-to-believe.

None of it got any better with age.

When Carla and I planned to marry, we wanted to humor her mother, a devout Catholic lady, and get the approval of the Catholic Church. I had been divorced, ending a five-minute marriage to my college girlfriend. That hadn’t been my finest hour. She had already graduated when I called to propose marriage because I lost a game of Ping Pong to Howard and was just too damn bored to sit still and wait for my turn to come back up. I didn’t know what to do with myself for ten minutes or after my own graduation. Don’t most people get married after college? I wasn’t ready, dumb move.

So anyway, the Catholic Church assured me that Carla and I could marry, eventually, after all payments were made. Payments? Yup. No counseling, no one-on-one talks, all they wanted was to set up a payment plan. After all 12 monthly payments had been made, we would have the blessing of the Holy Catholic Church. No wonder they’re the third largest land holder in the world and one of the richest extortion groups out there. The Mafia learned their lessons from the Catholic Church.

I diplomatically suggested that the priest demanding payment should go have intercourse with himself. Jesus would approve.

Did you know that centuries ago Catholic priests were allowed to marry? The problem arose when the priests died and left their possessions to their families. The church knew that wouldn’t do. So the great CC declared that from then on, no girls allowed. Like Spanky and Alfalfa’s  “He-man woman haters club”. Priests would have to go without and only marry Jesus. The guys thought that would be a tough one, but the upside was the promise of masturbation booths. They’re called confessionals. The priests can ask any teen age cutie just exactly what she did in private on her date last week with the sweaty boy who has terrible acne, sitting in the pew three rows back right now. Be specific. Take your time. Say that last part again? 

Why do you think those guys are always carrying around a silk handkerchief?

Religion is crowd control; church is a business. Almost 100% of the people who follow a religion, follow the one they were born into. Early childhood indoctrination locks them in. It’s why we wear the clothes we wear, eat the foods, follow the sports, and embrace the traditions of the culture we’re born into. Early childhood indoctrination seals the deal. We think we’re right and we’re willing to fight over the name of god.

If I am bitter about organized religion and the church, why did I go to church last week you ask? Well, my friend was the guest speaker. A 30 year Methodist minister who now sees things…differently. He spoke of the metaphor of it all. The teachings, the stories, all metaphor. Many great lessons to be learned there. The trouble starts when we take it too literally. Often, on one side of the fence, everything is taken literally. The wine and wafer actually turn into blood and flesh. Jesus was born of a virgin and arose from the dead. All of it. On the opposite side of the fence, the cynics point at the first group and mock them for their stupidity. How can they believe that stuff, they wonder? Both sides are so busy trading barbs and put-downs, all of them miss the metaphor entirely. That’s a shame.

Last Sunday I attended a service at the church of the Unitarian Universalist Fellowship. Atheist, Agnostic, Jew, Buddhist, gay, straight, black, white, all are welcome. They say their mission is “to bring together individuals of diverse backgrounds and to encourage them in their search for truth and meaning.” Works for me, I thought.

In the past, people have suggested that I was too much of a loner. Maybe I should join a group, become a Moose, Elk or Eagle, especially since church just doesn't feel right to me. Celebrating my veteran status, I did go to a VFW club one time, in the middle of the day. There were a bunch of creepy old guys (who looked like me) sitting around a bar telling lies and getting drunk. Not for me, I quickly decided as I drove home to sit around the house and get drunk, telling lies on Facebook.

But I was never a good fraternity boy, Boy Scout, Real Estate group member, whatever. I get hives from all that stuff. At the morning Realtor meetings when it was time to hug your neighbor, I made a beeline for the coffee machine and hung out there until all that squashing of the flesh was over. 

Something similar happened last Sunday too. Nice people, great values, liberal and easy going. But I got good cheer overload and passed on the mixer afterward and doubt I’ll go back next Sunday.

Maybe I’ll look into a different way to be a real part of something spiritual. It couldn't be in a church building though and it would be best if no humans were involved either. They tend to screw things up.

For now, I'll just sit here, pondering the question in a padded Adirondack, a light breeze carrying the scent of shellfish off the lake below. Both dogs flank me, prostrate in worship. Brilliant sunshine, intermittently successful, runs a gauntlet through the oak canopy to nip at my forehead, a welcome sting.

No tricky wine or wafer jerky, my home church is multicolored, a rounded steeple of branches, arms intertwined.

No collection plate, no pontificating. Just the company of two dogs who will love me endlessly whether I give them the offering of a treat, or not.

hmh

.

Throwback Thursday...

In the late 1990’s and early 2000’s, I started and ran a Real Estate publication that featured new construction. Development was booming here in N. Florida, and I wanted to hitch my wagon to that growth. Within a year or two, one of our advertisers made me the proverbial “offer I couldn’t refuse”, so I got my Real Estate license and started selling new homes for that builder.

My partner in new home sales didn’t care for the daily meet & greet of new prospects, laying the groundwork and establishing credibility, explaining contract language, or handling problems as they arose, so that was mostly my role. She didn’t want to do much of the sales part. For me, selling was and is simply speaking with new people and having fun getting to know them, while answering questions along the way. But I break out in hives if forced to do paperwork and didn’t know squat about working floorplans and custom changes, whereas my partner was a pro. We made a good team.

At one point we found ourselves in a temporary office, a mobile home parked in a cow field slated for development. Packed shoulder to shoulder with customers like Times Square revelers on New Year’s eve when we opened up for pre sales. Townhouses, three hundred and thirty-six were planned. Buyers were shouting over each other “I’ll take one”, all sight unseen.

Often working as much as 30 to 40 days straight, writing contracts, we sold all 336 in less than two years. Subsequent monthly commission checks sometimes equaled what I had made in an entire year prior to going into Real Estate.

Carla and I invested in a few houses to use as rentals, just prior to the market crashing around us. Genius Realtor that I am, I bought high and sold low. The market tanked, my company declared bankruptcy and I lost my job. The substantial nest egg we had built up in profit sharing got flushed away along with our investment houses. In fear of Guido showing up at my door to break my fingers for non-payment of my own mortgage, we left the big house and moved into our smallest rental.

Now, more than ten years later, I see the whole experience as one of the best things that ever happened to us. We had been locked in the belly of the beast. More, bigger, faster.

Along with a huge serving of humble pie, my priorities shifted. No longer did I feel a need for a showplace home, a new car, an extra wide screen TV, or anything found in a sharper Image catalogue.

Currently, I work part time for a builder I’m proud to represent. The neighborhood I sell in is four minutes South of our house. Carla’s work is five minutes North. Publix, our bank and our favorite restaurant, Ned’s Southside Kitchen, are all in between. The beach is a fifteen-minute drive; historic downtown St Augustine is twenty minutes the other way.

We love our little house, now customized to fit us perfectly. It looks down on a lake surrounded by transient waterfowl that come in all shapes, sizes and colors. Ospreys scream overhead, tucking their wings as they pierce the water like spears thrown down by the gods. Easily mistaken for skinny bald eagles, the Ospreys tear into fresh fish on their favorite perch just above our deck. We dine together.

Our biggest problem these days is deciding where we want to go for dinner, there are so many good restaurants to choose from. Our normal routine is to discuss the possibilities for a half hour or so, this place or that, the pros and cons, and then we go to Ned’s.

It’s been a crazy ride since we moved to Florida 26 years ago, but if I could go back and change anything, I wouldn’t. It all brought us to where we are right now,concerned about things that matter: family, friends, good health... living the good life...all within a ten-mile radius.

What may be boring to some, is a little slice of heaven to us.

Lighthouse...

For many years, the light from this tall neighbor swept the night sky above our house. A horizontal light saber, just beyond the reach of the tallest oaks. By day, looking like a red hatted, black & white striped soldier, it stood ready, at attention. Head and shoulders above, surveying a canopy of green.

We had been running errands that took us onto Anastasia Island, and into our old neighborhood. I just happened to look up. There it was again, stoic and reassuring. The same sentential that had watched over us so faithfully, 16 years ago. This old friend, unexpected and familiar in its steadfast continuity.

Tonight, once again, that huge old Fresnel lens will focus its beam, cutting through the dark, above the oaks and rooftops, shooting twenty miles out to sea. There it will slice through the thin membrane between the rolling sea and tar black sky, happy to wink at shrimp boats, bobbing like corks, elbows bent outward, dripping with nets.

A welcome sight to the shrimpers, feeling the ancient connection to the light, as it circles back repeatedly, whispering of home.

ME TOO

Me too.

It sounds innocuous enough, a throwaway acknowledgement. But when it comes in the form of a Tsunami, the power of those two words can’t be denied or ignored. The scars of the physical and emotional abuse are always there, like old tattoos that lose their definition over time, morphing into ugly stigmata. Shame worn like a birthmark, perhaps unseen to others but always with the wearer, haunting.

More recent events parallel that emotional and physical hurt. Hurricanes in Texas, Florida and Puerto Rico, extreme flooding, tornados. The fires in California, drunken molesters, unrestrained, devastating property and lives.

We look to callus leaders, narcissistic, too infatuated with their own image to function beyond a five-foot perimeter. We condemn Harvey Weinstein, whose admitted actions spawned so many to say: “me too”, but elect a president with an even more despicable resume of abuse.

Often we get the God, and the leaders, we deserve.

Are devastating hurricanes and floods the new normal? Are they the harbinger of a dying earth? As our greed dumps its toxic waste in the oceans and turns living rainforests into dead acres of mud, are there repercussions? Should the wealthy few make a profit equivalent to the combined incomes of the tens of thousands who bought their development homes in floodplains? Have we so altered forested areas of California with the kindling of new homes that natural wildfires inevitably turn into inferno spewing monsters that can’t be contained?

Has our society relegated the safety of the weak to the authority of the twisted strong?

My own abuse came at the hands of a camp counselor and at the YMCA, both assumed to be safety zones for kids. Young women experience abuse and mistreatment in a society that allows the abusers to be in charge. How often will white males judge themselves, and how unbiased the outcome if they do?

In the big picture, these things are all related, part of an illness that infects our society and our attempts to enslave nature itself. It’s a suicidal path we walk.

There is hope. We must acknowledge climate change and fight the greed that spawns it. Women and minorities must unify to become an unstoppable majority that demands and expects true equality. They must overwhelm the old guard with a multicolored flood of support for a new normal, in a place where when we say: “All men are created equal” we must mean all humans, all races, all genders. We can no longer allow the 1% to profit at the detriment of the 99% and we must elect leaders who lead by example, understanding that they work for us, not the other way around.

We find ourselves in a place where our collective apathy has put us. We can end the cycle of damage and self-cannibalization if we combine in a common goal to do so.

Fred Rogers said it best from his hood of every man: When I was a boy and I would see scary things in the news, my mother would say to me, “Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.”

Whatever we look for and think about, we will probably find.

Look for the good. Talk about it, praise it, emulate it. That is our single hope for salvation in a new model. We can no longer give away our power to others. If we don’t unify in a common goal of good health for our society and our planet, if we don’t say “enough is enough” and work together as a species and as guests on this earth, if we keep doing what we’ve been doing, we can expect more of the same, but worse.

Is it too late? I look for the good,the unheralded and unsung, people doing the right thing, the heroic thing, because that too is part of our our nature, built into the DNA of our species. It causes me to believe: No, it is not too late for us to save ourselves.

Now is the time for all of us to say:

Me too

Dawn Rebirth

A Nor’easter stormed in two days ago, turning off Summer as if it had reached in and flipped the switch. Windows and doors now open wide for the first time in months, letting winds blow through from back to front. The house breathes deeply of the fresh air off the salt marsh. Breezes dance down the hallway chasing their tails and causing picture frames to rattle out their Morse Code.

Nature knows the exact second when the celebration of Summer ends and hands off the baton to Fall’s runner. The ancient and timeless dance, unwavering.

We lie on our bed, Chicca against my feet, the French doors open to the deck, watching the sun begin to illuminate the clouds as it still waits bashfully in the wings.

Yes, there are many “bad” things that happen in this world. The Gazelle grazing on a sun-drenched savanna is a thing of beauty, yet its struggling, bloody death in the mouth of a Cheetah may seem less so. That’s our own conditioning. Cultural programming. Nature sees beauty in both. The Vegas shooter is an aberration, an extreme end on a Bell Curve. As a society it behooves us to address it and do what we can to prevent a reoccurrence, but neither the Cheetah nor the shooter are outside of the natural order of things. Likewise, neither killer tarnishes the luster of a new day and all of its potential for beauty and wonder.

It is said that you can never go back again, but of course that is not true. We are given the opportunity with rebirth in each new day.

Crawl, walk, run. Dawn marks the gift of life, gifted once again if we are lucky. It is a miracle to be cherished and appreciated beyond measure.

And fresh coffee. That too.

I’m going to take my cup out to the deck.

A Beach Walk

Carla and I enjoyed a breezy stroll down the beach this afternoon.

Both mutts always love it too, but Chicca REALLY enjoys her time there. She runs 100mph after the little sandpipers, looking up, keeping them on her radar, oblivious to the low arc they make when they circle out over the water. The waves quickly put a very wet stop to her chase. Then she’ll get a new burst of adrenaline and race ASAP after a pile of seaweed and trash she spots 500 yards down the beach, convinced that it is the enemy and must be dealt with immediately. Pausing momentarily when the trash turns out to be just trash and not the defiant beach squirrel she suspected it to be, she looks around, suddenly unsure of where she is.

Momentarily frozen as she scans the horizon for clues, Chicca sees my profile in the distance. Then she knows. Suddenly launching herself like a jet catapulted off the deck of a carrier, she’s screaming my way. “Oh my God, it’s him! I love that guy! He’s the best person on the planet!” She couldn’t run at me any faster.

Chicca “rediscovered” me like that 7 or 8 times while we were there. Each time was pure speed and elation for her. She couldn’t be any happier or more excited to find me.

I told Carla that she should take a tip from Chicca’s behavior and treat me the same way, but she was absorbed with more important things, biting at a cuticle and poking a broken shell with her big toe, tuning me out.

That woman has an advanced degree in “Not hearing husband babble”

Carla is a professional..