There's a charismatic church meeting in our building on Saturday nights. Perhaps you don't know what charismatic Christians are. Let's see, how can I explain this?
 
If Baptist Fundamentalists are like cowboys who put their pointy-toed boots up your ass and then smile at you, charismatic Christians are like flower children. It's all lovin and dancin with these guys. They spend a big part of their worship service singing songs to Jesus, and they cry a lot. When they pray they hold their hands in the air, palms upward. They dance and sway to their music.
 
Sometimes they get carried away and speak in tongues. There's something very childlike about this. It's like baby talk. Jesus called God “aba”, the Aramaic equivalent of “dada”, so I guess it's okay. I don't speak in tongues, myself. I'm way too self-conscious for that sort of thing, and, to be honest, I think it's kind of goofy. But, like my friend Earl the gravedigger says, “Whatever gets you through the night.”
 
I like the flower children. They're very nice and they have a warmth about them. Sometimes I sit in the back during their service to watch the action and enjoy the music. They rock, too – electric guitars, tambourines, and congas. Hell, they can speak in tongues all they want as far as I am concerned.
 
When their service is over, I like to arrange the chairs for ours. It means one less thing for me to do in the morning. The flower children always offer to help, but I don't let them. I think the best part of church is hanging around afterward and chatting with friends. I don't want them to miss that important sacrament.
 
Also, I'm a bit compulsive about the way I arrange chairs. I don't ask anyone to help so I can feel free to indulge this part of my personality.
 
I've noticed the flower children are pretty sloppy with their chairs. This makes sense. Everything is just going to get shoved around when the dancing starts anyway.
 
I said in one of my earlier posts that Sundays can be a bitch. Last Sunday was one of those. I didn't go to the church on Saturday night because I was already getting depressed. I knew I'd have to do the chairs in the morning, but procrastination was my first love and she still works for me sometimes.
 
I got up Sunday and felt like shit. I had to drag my sorry-ass all the way to church, and I did not want to be there. Standing at the door to the church on a dark winter morning is no fun when I'm having one of “those Sundays”.
 
I took a deep breath and went inside. I turned on the lights and discovered that the flower children had arranged the chairs just the way I like them.
 
I've been using my “3 sides of a rectangle with corner aisles at 45 degrees” arrangement lately. You start with 9 chairs on the back rows, then 8, then 7... you don't really want to know any more, do you?
 
I told you I'm weird about the chairs.
 
They got it exactly right. I promise you, every chair was perfect.
 
I swear one of them must have watched me for a couple of weeks and taken notes. Imagining the flower children lining up the rows and counting the chairs made me laugh out loud. It was a very nice gesture of love and it couldn't have come at a better time.
 
Something changed inside me, and I was glad to be in church again.
 
There's this book called “The Tipping Point.” I didn't read it because it's a book about how fads get started and, well, who cares. But I did find out what the title means. When you eat a piece of pie you always reach a point where the pie tips over. There's nothing special about that last bite except that it brought you to the tipping point.
 
That's what love can do. Even a little bit of it can tip you over when it comes at just the right time.
 
The Preacher