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The big one, not those other two

Everyone makes mistakes now and again. Mostly you hope that your mistakes will be little and not cost money and not put people out or hurt them in any way. But yeah, we all make mistakes.

Historically, our church has a number of rather famous mistakes. The first of these was dubbed "Main's Folly." I wrote about that one a long time ago, back when I was anonymous and had to change people's names. This was in the days when we were clearing the land for the building. Michael Main had the brilliant idea of dumping a huge pile of cedar and debris on top of a cactus patch before we burned it. His thinking was, "why not get rid of the cactus while we're at it?" Unfortunately, the water content of prickly pear cactus is so high that we couldn't get the thing to burn. Nor could we retrieve the wood since it was, well, right in the middle of a cactus patch.

It sat there for about 4 years until it finally decayed enough to sink into the cactus patch. I suppose I could still find the remnants of it if I was of a mind to try. In all fairness, I was right there with him and went along with the plan enthusiastically. But I've been happy to allow his name to be attached to the big rotting woodpile at the back of the property.

There have been other public and lasting mistakes, some of them I mentioned in that previous piece.

The mistake I recently made might well go down in our church's history as the most expensive and, frankly, dumbest mistake ever made. Someone will have to work hard to beat it. I can tell you that.

Now this here story I'm about to unfold for you started back in the year 2000.* Back then we had just put up our new building. In those days I had a computer and the right software, so I generally laid out and designed anything we printed. It seemed sort of natural for me to design the sign, so I did. After it was done, the church had to approve it, of course. But this was an easy bunch of folks. They had kind of a "whatever you think" approach to stuff like this.

Note: I doubt anyone in our church has a "whatever you think" approach to church signs now. Keep reading...

So I contacted the city to find out what the sign regulations were. I created a sign in Microsoft Publisher at a scale of one inch to the foot. I took my design to a sign company, and they put it on a sign. This is what it looks like:

That's been our sign for 8 years now. But the sign has a couple of problems.

First, it's getting a little worn. You can see the blue vinyl border has torn away a bit at the top. And it's hard to see in this picture, but the board has warped and now the sign has fallen out of it's track and is resting at a slight angle. I keep thinking a gust of wind will knock it down, but so far it hasn't.

Second, over the years we've noticed a little problem with the wording on the sign. It clearly says, "Covenant Baptist Church." And we are a Baptist church. But we're far from your average Baptist church. I don't think I'm exaggerating when I say that we aren't like any other Baptist church most people have ever experienced. Our theology is more progressive. We use worship styles from many traditions. And our approach is sort of quiet and unhurried. Contemplative, we like to say. I mean, this is a Baptist church that has Franciscan retreats from time to time. We put our church building back in the woods where you can't see it from the road, not caring a whit that "church marketing" people said it was a bad idea. We've always felt that those who need to find us generally do. And those that don't find us will find someone else if they are serious about looking.

So what's the problem with that? No problem, except people see our sign and show up looking for your average Baptist church. We get a lot of one-time visitors. One or two took off running, apparently fearing lightening might strike them. And for years I've wondered if people who might appreciate and need our approach to church have driven past us because they aren't about to visit a Baptist church.

A year or two ago, we started talking about making a new sign that would more accurately describe the personality of our community. So I designed a new sign. This time it had the same nurturing figure I use at the top of this blog and said, "Covenant - a Contemplative Christian Community." Our web address is still CovenantBaptist.org, so it's not like we're trying to fool anyone about being Baptist. We're just trying to accurately describe our church for the benefit of those people who see the sign.

Here's where things started going wrong. I distinctly remembered that the original sign was made of a standard 4' x 8' piece of marine-quality plywood. So I made a graphic of the new sign that was 4" x 8" and took it to the sign company. It cost $500 to make the new sign. I remember how happy I was when I picked it up in my mini-van and drove it to the church. But the moment I pulled into the parking lot I could see that the new sign was too wide. It was WAY too wide to fit between the sign posts.

I was rather distraught, both because we weren't going to have our sign and because I had just wasted $500 of the church's money by not taking the time to measure the sign before I ordered it.

Yeah, I didn't measure it. Pretty dumb huh? Yeah, well hang on. I get dumber.

On reflection, I remembered that the sign was actually 4' x 6'. I remembered that I had been irritated that the sign ordinance DIDN'T allow the use of a standard 4' x 8' piece of plywood, causing us to have to cut the plywood. I called the sign company, and they kindly offered to remake the sign for $250. They would cut two feet off the existing sign, peel of the vinyl wording, and redo it.

About that time, Paul Soupiset and family began attending our church. Paul is an artist and a professional graphic designer. He looked at my new design and could tell it was done by an amateur. He kindly agreed to redo the design of the new sign. He made it to scale for a 4' by 6' sign. Paul's sign design was nicer, having an interesting shape and a separate piece that was to hang below the main sign. It was an extra $100 to get it cut, but here is Paul's sign, which I just got back from the sign company on Wednesday:

Nice sign, huh? Oh yeah, it's a real nice sign. Tim Heavin (our other minister) and I were thrilled when we went to pull out the old sign and drop this one in the slots between the posts. I wish you could have seen my face when we held up the sign and discovered that it was about a foot short of fitting between the posts. A foot short.

To answer your question. No, I didn't measure it. Why? Because I remembered so clearly that it was 4' x 6'. Never mind that I had also remembered clearly that it was 4' by 8'. This is where I don't really understand my own mind. I never even occurred to me that I should measure it, just to make sure.

Last night at our weekly church meal, it was my lot to endure the laughter and the kidding. People coming up and saying, "Hey Gordon! They have these new things now. They're called TAPE MEASURES."

Yeah, yeah, yuck it up. I suppose there will need to be another round of this on Sunday, when those who weren't there Wednesday get a crack at me. I can't say I don't deserve it. The community does have $850 sunk into a sign that seemed useless.

Sigh.

I'll tell you something nice, though. These people love me. Not one person griped about the lost money or in any way was mean about it. It was all good-natured laughing. And I could tell how much they do love me, in spite of the fact that I'm always messing up things like measurements and calendar dates and other things like that. I suppose the sign will now be called, "Gordon's Folly." And that's okay, because I don't have to get everything right for these people. The church pays me, but somehow I don't feel like an employee. I feel like a man among dear friends and fellow pilgrims. And I'm quite happy to be the quirky, flawed pastor of a quirky, flawed bunch of seekers who love each other and are learning what it means to love God.

POSTSCRIPT:

There is good news to this story. Do you remember Reggie Regan? Reggie, the bat-house building, life-flight nurse and corrupter of ministers? Reggie who sold my belly-button lint on ebay for $200? Reggie who gives the pastor a beer every single time I visit him and asks if I want another? Reggie who introduced me to the joy of an authentic Cuban cigar? Reggie who helped me take the transmission out of my daughters car. Reggie who keeps bailing me out of various problems? I haven't even told you the story of how I bought the wrong hymnals on ebay and how Reggie is selling them on ebay so the church can get the right hymnals without losing that much money.

Yeah, that Reggie. So Reggie came to the church Wednesday and took the sign to his house. Apparently, he's rigged some kind of wooden border thing that will make the sign fit between our poles. I haven't seen it yet, but I don't even need to see it. It's Reggie. Reggie freakin Regan, miracle worker, corrupter AND saver of wayward ministers. Reggie is handling it. Reggie makes all things right.

Seriously - this guy is like the superhero of our church

I'll post a picture of Reggie's handiwork when the sign is finally up.

rlp

*Blatant rip-off from the Big Lebowski

So this is what I would look like if I was on the Simpsons. Courtesy of SimpsonizeMe.com

rlp

I don't get ringtones. I mean, I know what they are, but I don't care enough about them to download any. I'm happy with whatever ringtones come with my phone. But my kids like them, and I understand some people buy them online.

Buying ringtones? Why? I'll give you a selection of RLP ringtones for free. Enjoy. Note: You'll have to have a phone that can import an mp3 file and use it as a ringtone for these to work. Right click to download.

Official Real Live Preacher Ringtones:

Traditional - download mp3

Modern - download mp3

Irritating - download mp3

Jetsons - download mp3

Polite - download mp3

rlp

"Virtual Pastors please picky church-goers"

BRILLIANT!

NOTE Added 8-18-07: This is satire. The Lark News is like the Onion. Some comments made me realize that not everyone knows about Lark News.

I got this CD in the mail from AOL on Friday.

Wow, AOL is offering unlimited dial-up internet access for $9.95 a month. What is this, 1999? Should I expect to hear from Compuserve and Prodigy soon? For a minute I wondered if this was one of those pieces of mail that got lost and is only now being delivered, many years later.

It's been a long time since I poked fun at AOL here. I'm an internet old-timer. I remember when all the websites had grey backgrounds and blue hyperlinks. And I remember when just having aol.com in your email address was an invitation to start a flame war. So I just can't resist laughing at these guys. Look, I know people still use AOL dial-up. And I pray for those poor souls, really I do. But from a business perspective, does this rapidly shrinking customer base warrant bulk mail advertising? How many thousands of these things do they have to mail just to get one dial-up customer? This cannot be making them any money.

But then I never really understood AOL anyway. AOL always seemed to me like the Disneyworld of the internet.

********

Speaking of things I don't understand, this church is about two miles from my house.

Solemn High Mass at 10:00. Yeah, I'll bet they have a REAL solemn mass. Real somber and serious-like. I hear the Low Mass is for people who can't understand 4th century Latin and have to settle for 17th century Latin. Lightweights!

Okay, I'm serious - who names their church after Saint Edward the Confessor? I'm just saying, that sounds a little harsh, doesn't it? Imagine Sean Connery saying it: "Saint Edward the ConFESSuh."

So who was this Saint Edward character? He was the son of Ethelred the Unready. I think having a father named Ethelred would screw up just about anyone, which is why Saint Edward is the patron saint of kings, bad marriages, and separated spouses. No, I'm serious. But that brings me back to my original question. What church would want to be named after the patron saint of kings, bad marriages, and separated spouses? I mean, why? There's a huge surplus of saints out there with more being added all the time. Why Edward?

I don't know, so I'm thinking I might have to visit this church. Sundays are pretty much out of the question for me, obviously, so I can't hit that High Mass. Damn! But I could take in a Low Mass some Tuesday morning. Yeah, I'm going to do that.

Stay tuned...

rlp

Previously, on Transmission Repair:

Our intrepid hero, with the aid of his mechanical whiz friend, Reginald (who may or may not turn out to be a robot in the final episode), bravely attacked a one-of-a-kind transmission from a 1962 Oldsmobile F-85. The car belongs to Gordon's oldest daughter, who loves it dearly. The brave duo faced numerous challenges, the first being how to jack the car up high enough to slide under it and remove a 175-pound transmission. With the aid of a floor jack, a block of wood found in the backyard, and a pair of gigantic jack stands borrowed from ol' Richard, the crusty but lovable car mechanic of the neighborhood, the two managed to safely elevate the front of the car.

Once the car was elevated, there were many small obstacles, as is always the case with car repairs. The starter had to be removed, along with a section of the exhaust. Disconnecting the linkage, fluid lines, and speedometer cable should have been easy, but a rather nasty nut on one of the fluid lines caused a slow-down. Reggie prevailed, using a variety of wrenches and techniques in quick order. It was at this moment that our hero began to suspect that Reggie might be some sort of robot. While the transmission was still held firmly in place, at Reggie's suggestion, they loosened the 8 bolts holding the transmission to the engine. One bolt was placed in such a diabolically evil position that it proved very difficult to break loose.

In the end, nothing but a support bar and four bolts linking the transmission to the drive shaft stood in their way. The support bar stretched across the bottom of the transmission and was attached on either side and in the center. It came off easily enough, but what they thought was a block of rubber turned out to be a solid block of metal about the size of half a sandwich. It came about an inch from crashing into Gordon's head when it fell. It was precisely this moment when the first of several profanities heard that day were shouted.

Second block and jack supporting the "tranny."

Now, with the transmission supported securely by a second jack and block of wood, 7 of the transmission bolts were removed, leaving only the difficult-to-reach bolt, which turned out to be even nastier than they suspected. The entire job took four hours, but this one bolt occupied them for at least 45 minutes. The duo dubbed this bolt, "lil bastard." One wrench could be placed over it with great difficulty, but each 16th of a rotation was paid for with severe pain. The bolt could be reached with a hand, but the space around it was too tight to allow the use of an opposable thumb. It was at this time that most of the profanities uttered that day were heard.

At long last, lil' bastard gave up the fight.

Reggie gives lil' bastard an appropriate gesture

After that it was only a matter of minutes until the transmission was hoisted aloft in triumph. It was an emotional moment of victory, marked by a tender, if rather greasy, embrace.

And now our fabled transmission rests in the mysterious workshop of "Transmission Bob," the grizzled old mechanic, long retired and working now on selected projects that baffle modern transmission shops.

The interior of Bob's mysterious workshop with our transmission on the table

Will Bob be able to identify the problem with our transmission? Indeed, will he even live long enough to do so? And if the transmission is repairable, can the parts be found for the job? Reggie and Gordon left Bob's shop with his words of warning still ringing in their ears:

"You know, Oldsmobile abandoned the aluminum engine shortly after 62'. It was pretty damn hard to find parts for this transmission within a couple of years. I know a guy on the East coast. He's grouchy as hell, but if anyone can find parts, he can. I don't know..."

It may take weeks or months to get parts, even if they are available. If this transmission can't be repaired, only a new engine will save the life of this classic car. Still, Reggie freakin Regan doesn't accept defeat easily. Odds are he still has a trick or two up his filthy sleeves.

Stay tuned...

rlp

The pictures were taken by Tim Heaven, aka "Tom."

Remember Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance? Remember my daughter's '62 Olds? Remember Reggie, the guy who sold my navel lint on eBay for $200? Well, all of these things are converging tomorrow in an astonishing moment of freakish synchronicity.

See the thing is, I was excited about my daughter buying this classic car. And I want to learn to work on cars, you know, like in Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance, where you find deep meaning in tasks that seem mundane, and you know a lot about cars and fixing things and are really cool and deep and manly all at the same time. I want that. You know, that Zen kind of car fixing thing. And I did replace the starter on this car, which is a good beginning, especially since those old starters are the size of small water heaters. Only now we have transmission problems. And it turns out that this particular Oldsmobile has a unique, aluminum motor, so we either get this transmission fixed or we're pretty much up the proverbial creek without the proverbial paddle.

Now as it turns out, there is this old guy named Bob in my town, who is apparently the transmission guru for classic cars in our area. Finding him was kind of a Zen thing in itself. But Bob is now too old to take transmissions out of cars, so you have to take it out yourself and drive it over to his house. Then he does his magic, which apparently includes contacting some even older guy in Maine who is really grouchy but knows how to find impossible parts for transmissions. If Bob can get the parts, they say he can fix anything.

So the thing is, I'm taking out a transmission tomorrow.

[Those who know me are laughing their proverbial asses off, so I'll wait a moment for the laughter to die down]

You finished? May I continue, please?

The good news: Reggie freakin Regan, who along with making bat houses and selling weird stuff on eBay is really good with cars and fixing things. So Reg is coming over tomorrow with his cool tools, and we're going to take out the transmission, or "drop the tranny" as I like to say when I'm with Reggie.

The way I see it, what's the worst that could happen? Well, I could get my hands crushed or something, but probably not. We'll get dirty. We'll drink some beer. I'll take pictures with the transmission after we wrestle it into submission and pull it out of the car. Grrrrr. Hey, life is an adventure, right? You gotta embrace it, roll with the punches, step up to the plate, or at least whine enough so that Reggie will save the day.

rlp

Foy Update - Part two is almost done....just...ooh, almost. And then this transmission thing happened, so I'm losing my writing time on Tuesday. Stay tuned.

Monday morning, 8:30 am, at 33,000 feet on a McDonnell Douglas SP80 jet airliner.

First, you should know something about me. I hate being late. Really hate it. I feel like I'm late unless I'm 10 minutes early. I don't know why I'm like this; I don't want to know why. I just want to be on time. Is that so wrong?

Because of this - I don't want to call it a compulsion, but....okay compulsion - I plan lots of buffer time into my schedule. I'm the guy at the airport who isn't sweating the security check because my flight doesn't leave for 2 HOURS! Who's laughing now, Mr. "I don't need to get to the airport early?"

My non-stop flight to Chicago was scheduled for 6:50 am. We live about 15 minutes from the airport, so I figured I'd get up at 4:15, leave at 4:45, get to the airport by 5:00. No problems.

I'm not the sort of person who oversleeps. I don't understand oversleeping. What does that even mean? You just kept on sleeping even though it was going to make you late? Why would you do that? See, I'm prepared. My watch must have two alarms and a count-down timer. I demand it. I won't wear a wristwatch with less. Unfortunately, that means I have to buy Casio watches. They look bad, like 1970s technology strapped to my wrist, but I have the full array of alarms and beeps. The FULL ARRAY. That's why I'm always on time.

Of course, when I say "always" I mean except for the one or two times in the last decade when I was late. Three times if you count this morning.

Imagine my distress when I opened my eyes this morning, looked at my watch, and saw that it was 6:10 am.  For a few seconds I refused to believe it. "My watch must be wrong," I said, shaking it. Nope. I overslept. Okay, now I understand you oversleeping people, and I'm sorry for being scornful of you. I get it now. It happens to everyone, even guys with Casio watches.

In the interest of time, why don't I just describe the events that took place from 6:10 am to 7:15 am in a kind of rapid-fire, staccato pace that would be a good reflection of how they actually occurred.

I yell, scaring the hell out of Jeanene who sits up in bed in a panic. I manage to shower and dress in five minutes. I'm sorry, but I AM going to shower. That's non-negotiable. Jeanene drives and I call American Airlines. "I think I'll be there by 6:35," I say. "Sorry, but you have to check-in at least half an hour ahead," she says. I'm at the ticket counter by 6:40 am. They cancel my seat on the nonstop flight and put me on standby for an 8:30 that goes through St. Louis where I'll be on standby again for anything going to Chicago. I check my bag. I always check my bag. No airline has ever lost my luggage, so I don't worry about it. The man tells me the system will track me, and my luggage will follow me on whatever flight I end up on. I arrive at the gate only to find that my original flight has been delayed, and they are just begin to board! Sadly, they cancelled my reservation 15 minutes earlier. I beg and plead with the woman at the gate, who puts me on standby for my original flight. Some soccer team didn't show up. The coach probably overslept - the lazy slob - so I get on my original flight to Chicago which ends up leaving about 7:30. It's all good!

Well, almost all good. The woman at the gate tells me that there is no way to get my luggage aboard in time. So, in a strange turn of events, I'm going straight to Chicago, but my luggage is going standby through St. Louis, hopefully arriving in Chicago sometime later in the day or this evening. No time to worry about that. Here's a plane to Chicago, and I might not make the other standby anyway.

So now I'm in the air, wondering what I'm going to do without my luggage. I hear it is in the 50s in Chicago, and I'm dressed for San Antonio. Short sleeves. Also I'm supposed to meet someone who reads Real Live Preacher in downtown Chicago for lunch. Here's what I think I'll do: I'll buy a sweatshirt or something at the airport, go ahead and catch the L downtown and see things in Chicago today, as I had planned. When it gets dark, I'll catch the L back to the airport, see if my bag has arrived, then catch the L again and go downtown to my hotel. Why not? We don't have subways or elevated trains in Texas, so I'll probably enjoy the ride anyway, right?

I see you thinking. You think this is going to be harder than I'm making it sound. You think I'll get lost or the luggage won't arrive, or something. I mean, what could go wrong? I'm only flying into a major city I've never been to and taking a train I've never ridden downtown, making one transfer and trying to find my hotel. Then of course, do the whole thing in reverse. So what do you think? Is this going to turn out badly? It's 9:20 am and I'm an hour away from O'hare airport.

We shall see what we shall see.

rlp

If you like Dilbert at all, you don't want to miss this. Scott Adams has inserted himself into his own comic strip. The first two in the series have been created. I don't know where this is going, but it's going to be good.

One    Two   

These SNL Digital Shorts are incredibly funny. Real LMAO material.

Enjoy!

Lazy Sunday

Andy Popping Into Frame

Lettuce

Business Meeting
(If only for mounted tiger head and captain pajama shark)

rlp

This conversation happened last night in the car. My wife and I both work, and I mean we work HARD. (I count my writing as work. Shut up. It SO is work!)

Anyway, we often have no energy to prepare dinner, but we love sitting down to eat with the girls. So we go out to eat probably twice a week. Last night we went to a little Chinese restaurant near our home. We just “discovered” it and are still in the honeymoon phase, raving about their Moo Goo Gai Pan and such.

For some reason Shelby was trying to remember some character from the Bible. Jeanene was driving.

AND....ACTION!

Shelby – Hey, who's that person in the Bible? Their name begins with like a G or something?

Me – God?

<Laughter all around>

Shelby – No, not GOD. Someone else. A regular person.

Me – Goliath?

Shelby – No

<Silence all around>

Me – I can’t think of any other Bible people whose names begin with G. <Looking at Jeanene> Can you?

Jeanene – No.

<Silence all around>

Reiley – Gimli?

<Silence. I turn around and look at her. OMG, she was serious>

Reiley – Oh, sorry. What am I saying? Gimli is from a different bible.

<I turn around again>

Me – A DIFFERENT bible?

Reiley – Well, The Lord of the Rings is KIND of like a bible, if you think about it.

AND....CUT!

Hmm.

So there you have it, folks. The preacher’s daughter and her OTHER bible. Nice.
 

rlp

OMG, I've been elfed! Someone took that hideous Google still shot of me with the freakish monkey lips and elfed me.

Thanks to James T.

rlp

Update 12-16!! - Okay, the bid stands at $200. Um, I have no response to that. The questions people are asking are funny, but not nearly as funny as Reggie's outrageous answers.

Update 12-14- Unbelievable. The ebay thing is actually happened. Reggie made good on his threat. AND, believe it or not, some people have bid on it! Reggie is going to give whatever money is received to our church building fund. What a strange turn of events.

We do the classic “white elephant” gift exchange at our church Christmas party every year. For those of you who have never heard of this, I’ll not bore you with too many details. The white elephant game is common to Christmas parties here in the United States. People bring presents; some are serious, some are silly, and some are a little tasteless. There is a game you play, and you see who gets stuck with the bad gifts.

I know you probably think that’s pretty lame, but you have to play this game over time with the same group of people before you can understand its appeal. Over the years, stories accumulate and traditions develop. We’ve been doing this at our church since 1989.

People still talk about the year that Lyle got a huge pair of boxer shorts with hearts on them. He went into the bathroom and came out wearing them. Then there was the nose hair clippers that reappeared for three or four years in a row. There was also a legendary, gaudily-painted toilet seat that came back so many times it became sacred. It was understood that whoever got the toilet seat had to bring it to the next year’s party, wrapped creatively enough to fool someone into choosing it.

Now my own talent – at least I see it as a talent – is to bring extremely bizarre gifts that are on the edge of being frightening. I often include notes of explanation that I spend a fair amount of time crafting, so that they will be as funny as possible.

One year I gathered spent, red and green shotgun shells and put one shell over each bulb in a strand of white lights. It made a spooky string of redneck Christmas lights that was also kind of pretty, in its own weird way.

Another year I baked 20 foil-wrapped potatoes, put them in a box, and gently laid a copy of The Book of Mormon on top of them. If you are a Mormon, I hope you’re not offended. I make no statement about your theology or your scriptures; it was the sound of it that I liked. Listen: “A box of baked potatoes and a book of Mormon.” See what I mean? That sounds better than a box of baked potatoes and a Bible.

A box of baked potatoes and a Bhagavad-Gita sounds even better, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to give up my only copy of the Gita for some Christmas party. You can get a Book of Mormon anywhere. There are usually people walking around the neighborhood handing them out for free.

But this year I came up with a white elephant gift so strange and unusual, so weird and unexpected, that it tops anything I’ve ever done before. I might have to leave the church now, because I’ll never top this one.

I spent the entire year 2006 collecting the lint that gathered in my navel – sometimes called “belly-button lint” - and storing it in a tiny glass bottle. Yes, an entire year.

Oh yeah, I’m just that twisted and determined.

Let me tell you that I learned a lot about the lint that gathers in men’s navels this past year. New cotton t-shirts produce the best lint. You need to have a little hair on your chest for this phenomenon to take place, but let’s not go into the physics of it. What kept me interested were the pretty colors.

I’ll tell you, this thing changed the way I bought clothing. I would stand at a rack of t-shirts thinking about what kind of lint they would produce for my collection. I know I bought at least one shirt because I thought that particular shade of green would help balance the colors in the bottle.

Surprisingly, the highlight of this year’s lint crop is a foreign object. After a boisterous fiesta party last Spring, I woke up in the morning to find that a piece of confetti had miraculously made a journey down the front of my shirt and ended up in my belly button. I was absolutely delighted with this and felt that after such an amazing journey, the confetti ought to be included in the collection. I’m nothing if not very inclusive.

I’d like to take this moment to thank my wife, who put up with my madness this past year. I guess she stays with me because I’m a nice enough guy, if you can get past my bad hair, freakish sense of humor, and tendency to offend major world religions at Christmas parties.

Can you possibly imagine my excitement as I wrapped my little bottle this past Saturday, after a solid year of collecting?

Here is a picture of the bottle and the text of the note I included with it:

What you hold in your hands is a 2006 crop of high-quality belly-button lint, grown and harvested over the last year by Gordon Atkinson.

The colors of the collection reflect the variety of new shirts I wore over the past year, including a very rare bit of lime-colored lint from a Habitat For Humanity t-shirt.

Also included in the collection is a single piece of confetti from a Fiesta party. This miraculous bit of confetti, working with all the vigor and optimism of a salmon going upstream, managed to find its way down the front of my shirt and ended up in my belly-button, where I found it the morning after.

I, Gordon Atkinson, certify on my honor that every piece of lint in the collection is genuine and was gathered by myself from a period beginning at Christmas of 2005 and ending in December of 2006.

Note: This collection contains no lint gathered from the dryer or any other source.

It was the perfect white elephant gift, or so I thought. Unfortunately there was one thing I had not counted on.

Reggie.

Reggie freakin Regan. The only man in the church with a sense of humor more twisted and diabolical than my own.

Reggie Regan: husband; father; nurse; bat house builder; and corrupter of ministers. It was Reggie who introduced me to the pleasures of a real Cuban cigar. And once you’ve had an authentic Cohiba, there is no recapturing your innocence.

Reggie managed to attain my little bottle of lint in the white elephant game, not that there was anyone trying to take it away from him. He vowed publicly, before all present at the party, to put it up for auction at ebay.com. Apparently, he is actually going to do this.

Heaven only knows what horrors will come of this, once such a private and intimate part of me has been made public. The shame of it is almost more than I can bear. I beg anyone with a few spare dollars to purchase this abomination and cast it, like the great ring of power, into the nearest fiery mountain you can find.

Failing that, just drop it in the trash, please.

I don’t like the idea of it being out there, somewhere, hidden from me, mocking me with its very existence.

Help.

Real Live Preacher

Well, yesterday was the first Sunday of Advent, an event that poses administrative/organizational challenges to churches everywhere. And no church is more challenged in this way than Covenant Baptist Church, where we have no paid organizers and the administration is mostly left up to me. People who know me cannot stop laughing when I tell them that.

Well this year we've gone all out for Advent, in spite of the administrative challenges. We even had an Advent committee to help pull it off. And because of their efforts, our worship service yesterday was packed with all sorts of things we normally don't do. Various people were popping up here and there to read scriptures or pray. The music was from fancy, high church hymnals. There were booklets, banners, a world hunger display, and a food basket. And even little rice bowl banks to be handed out to the children, so they can save their pennies to buy food for the needy.

Was I stressed about things? Let me just say this: I had to create a spreadsheet to help me keep track of all the people who have various roles in worship during the Advent season.

A spreadsheet. Me. Yeah.

So of course, the three sisters and I got completely confused and what followed can only be called a comedy of errors.

Let's begin with me. Dressing in the dark yesterday morning, I mistakenly put on an orange t-shirt, which wouldn't be so awful except that I wasn't wearing a tie so you could see it peeking out of my open collar. I got a few comments. But it was chilly, so I didn't want to take off the t-shirt.

My next problem was with my spreadsheet. I did contact over 20 people to find out which Sundays they were available for assorted liturgies, readings, prayers, etc. And I did sort their names and put them in various slots on various Sundays in my spreadsheet thingy.

But I neglected to actually call people back and tell them they were up for this Sunday. So I spent the half hour before church running here and there, pressing printed readings into people's hands and telling them when their part of the service would occur. It was exactly the sort of out-of-control, running around, panicked sort of thing that I hate and try to avoid. Still, I got everything and everyone settled and worship began. Then the three sisters decided this was their Sunday to have various meltdowns of their own. The preacher's family, otherwise known as the keystone cops.

Before I go any further, keep in mind that ours is a small church. There were probably 75 people in the room, and the seats were arranged around a central table. Everyone is close to the action and can see everything.

Now Shelby, the middle sister, showed up to church, having spent the night at a friend's house, wearing the jeans she normally paints in. These jeans are covered in paint, and she's not supposed to wear them to church. She arrived early, and I made her call her mother to bring her another pair of jeans. She was pretty chapped about this, but I was in no mood for negotiation. Jeanene brought her a decent pair of jeans, but instead of changing into them, she put the new pair on over the old pair. Unfortunately she couldn't zip or even snap the jeans, which was apparently not a problem in her mind. She just walked around with her jeans gaping open. And it was not readily apparent that she had another pair of jeans on beneath them. I mean, why would anyone even imagine that she would?

As it turns out, Shelby and Chloe were going to lead the children's part of the service, where they were going to talk about world hunger and pass out the rice bowl banks. Shelby walks to the front of the church, turns around, and that's when we see that her pants are wide open. I mean, you've seen people forget to zip their pants, right? When was the last time you saw someone forget to zip and button their pants? Jeanene and I gestured wildly for her to pull her sweater down over her pants, whereupon she threw up her hands dramatically and mouthed, "What?"

Nice. Very classy. That fit so well with the rich, Christian symbols and traditions of the season.

Oh well, thankfully that was over soon, and the service moved forward.

Then there came a time in the service where people wrote prayer requests on little slips of paper, solemnly brought them to the table with the Advent wreath, and deposited them in a plate. My oldest daughter, Reiley, obviously not paying attention at all to what was going on, walked up to the plate and dropped a five dollar bill on top of the pile of folded papers, drawing snickers and puzzled looks from a number of people. Her fiver sat there atop the pile of prayer requests, looking as out of place as a turd on the kitchen table. Well, maybe not that out of place, but you get my meaning.

I had a thought that maybe she wrote her prayer request on the five dollar bill. Perhaps her request was for the poor, and she was backing up her prayers with cold, hard cash. But no, later she admitted that she was daydreaming and thought it was time for the offering.

Hey, that's no big deal. A little money mixed in with the prayers. The Church has been doing that kind of thing for centuries.

But wait, I have yet to tell you of the third sister's contribution to the day. She is the youngest, but she outdid them all.

Lillian was sitting on one of the three rows that surround the table with the Advent wreath. Suddenly, she fell out of her chair. I mean, all the way out of her chair onto the floor. Mind you, this is just a normal chair. And she wasn't standing on her head or doing anything strange. She just pitched forward and fell onto the floor right beside the table. No big deal, right? I mean, people fall down sometimes. It happens.

A few minutes later, she did it again. She flopped forward like someone had shoved her in the back and landed on the tile floor with her shoes and whatever she was holding clattering and scrapping across the floor. It was loud, and it brought the service to a stop.

"That's weird," I thought. "Falling out of your chair twice."

Then she did it again. This is the truth. This poor child fell out of her chair three times. Everyone was thinking, "What the hell is going on with that crazy girl?" Well, I was thinking that. I assume others were.

At this point, we still have not established exactly what happened to her and why she found it so difficult to sit in a chair. I asked her that afternoon, but I found it impossible to follow her lengthy and rambling answer. My mind doesn't work well on Sundays after the service.

So this is church. You work hard to make things run smoothly, but sometimes the more you work, the more things go wrong. I probably needed to laugh and relax a little anyway. I'm sure there is a spiritual lesson for me in here somewhere, but I have yet to figure it out.

rlp

Disclaimer: I hope this story is not misunderstood. I mean no disrespect to Gypsy people around the world. Our church works with the Banjara Gypsies in India, and I have learned a lot about them. Historically, they have been the victims of cruel prejudice and have been persecuted in many ways throughout history.

This story happened to me in 1985. Since it actually happened, I feel okay about telling it.

Seminary was a surreal experience for me. I never could get used to being around so many ministers. The place is lousy with them. Everywhere you look. I kept my head down and busied myself with my studies, mostly. I did make friends with a cab driver from New York City, who became a Christian and decided he would go to seminary to find out the inside scoop on his new religion. I don’t recommend that to anyone, but David was the sort of person who did things his own way and usually to an extreme. I wrote about David once before; maybe you remember that story.

David and I worked together driving limousines while we were in seminary. Driving a limousine is NOT a glamorous job. Glamorous people don’t hire limos very often. You mostly end up with drug addicts (the back of a limo is a safe place to do drugs), people who have fallen into money and are spending it as fast as they can, and prom dates. Prom dates are the worst. Drunken abusive kids, vomit on the carpet, and no tip.

I did drive Steve Young to the Davy O’Brian awards in downtown Fort Worth. He was a senior quarterback at BYU that year and already sort of famous. But he was still just a college kid. I remember looking in the rear view mirror and seeing him wolfing down the pizzas provided by the local businessman – an owner of a pizza chain - who was escorting him to the fancy, rich-guy club where they hand out that award every year. You’d have thought he’d never had pizza before.

That was as glamorous as it got, I’m afraid. And then there was the gypsy wedding.

David and I were called by the owner of the limo company and assigned to drive two limos for – and I quote – “A whole bunch of gypsies who are in town for a wedding or something.”

Yeah, there was a whole bunch of them. They piled into our cars, filling every seat and even sitting on the floors. Some of them had to sit in the front seats. The bride and groom sat next to David in his car. They looked kind of young, so he asked how old they were. They were 14, which amazed and concerned him. The following conversation ensued, as reported to me by David later that evening.

“You’re only fourteen? You can’t get married that young, can you?”

“We can. It’s part of our religion.”

“What religion is that?”

“Gypsy.”

[pause]

“Since when is Gypsy a religion?”

Maybe it was his background as a cabbie, but David could be pretty direct at times.

It was an interesting night, to say the least. We saw some things we had never seen before. There was lots of drinking and dancing and shouting. We drove them all over Dallas and Fort Worth, stopping at various clubs and restaurants along the way. We had a few emergencies. One man screamed at me because he had to “take a piss REAL BAD!” I pulled the car to the curb and he staggered away and peed on the wall of a Burger King, while everyone in the car howled with laughter.

Like I said, driving a limo isn’t exactly a glamorous job.

About 1:30 or 2:00 in the morning, things were settling down. While we were stopped at a McDonalds, one of the older men told David and I the legend of the 4^th nail.

According to the legend – at least as it was told to us that night – there originally were four nails to be used to crucify Jesus. One for each hand, one for his feet, and a final nail to drive straight through his heart. Of course, if they had driven the nail through his heart, he wouldn’t have lived long enough to say all the neat stuff he said from the cross. If that had happened, Mel Gibson’s movie would have only been about 30 minutes long.

But before they could drive home the final nail, a Gypsy stole it.

Anyway, after that God was so grateful to the Gypsies that he gave them a permanent dispensation or something so that they can steal whenever they like. So it’s really not a sin for them or anything. Which comes in handy at times, I’m sure.

David and I, steeped in our theological studies, thought this was absolutely hilarious and wonderful. We talked about it excitedly while the last of the Gypsies piled into the cars after getting their McRibs. I told David, “I’ll tell this story for the rest of my life.”

And so I have.

After that, the evening was pretty much over. We dropped them off in front of a house in south Dallas. They stood in the yard, all of them, waving at us. No one made a move toward the house.

I thought that was a little strange, but everything that night was strange.

As I drove down the street I took one last look in my rearview mirror. There they were, still standing in the yard waving at us. They never moved until after we rounded the corner.

That wasn’t their house. Bad address. Phone didn’t work. Check bounced. The cashier’s check for the deposit was a forgery as well.

The legend of the 4^th nail. Yep, it comes in mighty handy sometimes.

rlp

The Gypsy legend of the 4th nail takes several forms, as do many legends. In one version it is a Gypsy who forges the nails used to crucify Christ, and he and his kind are cursed. This might be a way of explaining the historic persecution of Gypsies. In another form, a Gypsy steals the fourth nail, in some way helping Christ and gaining the Gypsies permission from God to steal. More information here and here.

It's Sunday, September 17th, 1:54pm CST, and we're a few miles south of Eden, Texas. I had no digital phone service yesterday on the road, so I couldn't blog. I posted the Geocache thing from the motel last night. They had high speed internet access, as do almost all hotels now. I even saw a roadside rest stop with free wireless. The revolution continues.

Okay I promised I would tell the story of the strange women I met in Taos some years ago. I present this as a faithful reproduction of the conversation with no overt commentary or conclusions drawn. Let me say that I am always aware of the strange nature of the core story of Christianity. So I am gentle and patient when I meet people whose beliefs are, well, unusual. Who am I to pass judgment, right?

This took place about 10 years ago. We were on our way to Creede and stopped in Taos, as we often do. Jeanene was looking through some stores, so I stopped into a coffee shop to pass some time. I was sipping my beverage peacefully, when I overheard a fascinating conversation from a table nearby. Three women were deeply immersed in a passionate conversation about planets circling some of the stars that we know as the Pleiades constellation. Their conversation made it clear that at least two of the women were convinced that they were, in fact, from one or more of these planets.

I listened for a few minutes, and then I realized that if I did not get into this conversation I would regret it for the rest of my days. When in doubt, straight-up honesty is usually your best bet. So I walked over to their table and said, "Excuse me. I'm sorry to bother you, but I couldn't help overhearing that some of you are not from our planet, but are from some other star system. The Pleiades, I think?"

"Yes," they said with no embarrassment or further explanation.

"Well, I confess that I've never met anyone from another planet, at least not that I'm aware of, and I would very much like to hear about this. Would you mind telling me about your planet, what you are doing here, and how you got to earth?"

They couldn't have been friendlier. I was offered a seat and had the pleasure of asking as many questions as I wanted. They were only too happy to talk with me. Indeed, I began to have the feeling that not many people took them seriously enough to sit and listen to them.

I assure you, I was only to willing to lend them my ears.

The conversation was much too long to recount here, so let me tell you what I learned of them. They became convinced that they were from other planets because their artistic, sensitive, and spiritual natures set them so at odds with the world around them, at least as they understood it. They were so different, they simply could not be from earth. And I imagine a number of people would not debate that point with them.

How they discovered they were from planets in the Pleiades constellation was unclear to me. I think the delicate teacup shape of the Pleiades - certainly very pleasing to the eye - combined with a previous meeting with a man who claimed to be from that region of the skies and who bore some resemblance to them philosophically had something to do with their discovery of the exact point of their origins.

They spoke of how difficult it was to live among common humans, delicate and spiritually attuned as they were. At one point I almost felt I was back in my youth, hearing the preachers talking about living "in the world but not of the world," as they so often said.

One of the women was also adept at performing "spiritual readings," as she called them, using Tarot cards. I was offered such a reading at a small fee - $30 if I remember - but I refused, not having the cash, the time, or the inclination. Nonetheless, they all agreed that I was also a spiritual person who exuded some kind of mystical presence. They affirmed me strongly in this regard. One of them asked if I knew that I had a Native American spiritual guide. "No," I said, very interested. "How would I know this?"

"He's standing right behind you," she said.

I turned but confessed that I could not see him.

"My grandfather was part Cherokee," I offered. This seemed to make sense to them and they thought my guide might in fact be my deceased grandfather, which I thought was rather touching, were it to be true.

Finally the conversation drew to a close. One of them asked me what I did for a living.

I'm a Baptist preacher," I said boldly and with no further explanation. This revelation shocked them into silence. I told them how much I had enjoyed the conversation - which was certainly true - and bid them goodbye.

As I walked away I thought to myself, "I will never forget this day as long as I live!"

Mexican Food and Cole Slaw

One more thing. We ate lunch in Eden at the City Cafe. The Tex-Mex food looked promising, so we ordered fajitas and enchiladas. I was surprised to find that coleslaw was included on every plate of Mexican food. This is something I've never heard of before.

I tried mixing a bit of enchilada with coleslaw, as an experiment. I'm always up for new experiences. Jeanene watched with interest as I chewed. How is it, "she asked."

My answer was simple and clear. "It's an absolute abomination."

Well, that's all of my blogging from the road. We are a couple of hours from home, and next week it is back to life as usual. I finished the Shepherd story and go into the studio to record on Thursday.

Talk to you soon,

rlp

I'm in Sevierville, south and east of Knoxville. The wedding is Sunday morning up in the mountains somewhere near here. The flight was uneventful. Sadly, we did not get to stop and meet Will Campbell, as I had hoped. Maybe next time.

We rented a car to drive from Nashville through Knoxville and down to Sevierville. I hate interstate highways with a passion. The way to avoid them is to double the time you need to arrive and drive on the smaller highways. We chose Highway 70 which runs east from Nashville to Knoxville. It brought us through small towns and rural settings that were beautiful. Why would anyone drive on the interstate unless there was no other option?

Ah, rural Tennessee. So much to see that you've never seen before.

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There were churches on every corner, much like in Texas. A few of them sporting signs that were of interest to me. One was a chilling quote from the book of Amos with no explanation offered. It simply said, "Prepare to meet Thy God." This sign in particular made me smile:

But enough about signs and sows. Let's move on to something more important - BBQ. As I mentioned Thursday, Jeanene and I wanted very badly to sample some BBQ from east of the Mississippi. As you can see from the comments on Thursday, opinions about BBQ are diverse and passionate. Originally we wanted to follow directions to an interesting BBQ place in Knoxville, but we were running late. So we kept our eyes open as we passed through small towns. We saw no BBQ anywhere. Finally, someone in a tractor supply store in Crossville told me theys a little place down the way. We followed her directions to Lefty's.

Lefty's seemed promising to me. A recommendation from someone in a tractor store, a parking lot full of pickup trucks, a rusty sign, and about 5000 caps hanging from the ceiling. The minute I got in the door, I knew I was gonna have me some BBQ!

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Now pardon me if I get a little pedantic here, but I've learned a thing or two about BBQ, and I'd like to enlighten you if you don't know no better. There is Texas BBQ, which is mainly beef. We are into brisket, heavily seasoned and cooked until the outside is black but the inside is tender. Sure we serve pork, but it's in sausage form. But when you go across the Mississippi, it's all about the pig. And don't think that the difference is a minor thing. Passions and even tempers run high regarding this subject. When I told the people at the Crossville Tractor & Supply that I was from Texas and wanted to try some good Tennessee BBQ, about 5 people weighed, in including one fellow from West Tennessee who shouted (Yes shouted) "There ain't no good BBQ east of Memphis." He was ignored by everyone in the store and treated like an outcast and a savage. The man behind the counter gave me a look that said, "What are you gonna do?"

So when we got to Lefty's, Jeanene and I decided to try both the pulled pork BBQ and the pork ribs. For good measure, I ordered some cornbread and a bowl of pinto beans. There were two bottles of sauce on the table. One of them had a piece of red tape around the neck and was supposed to be the hot one. Being from Texas, I scoffed at their definition of hot. I called them mild and slightly less mild, but the heat of the sauce isn't really an issue.

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The two of us together couldn't finish what they set before us, but we took a good run at it and ate enough to render an opinion. The ribs were so tender they fell off the bone. The pulled pork was delightful, and the cornbread made us both swoon.

So what's my opinion on the whole east vs. west BBQ issue? Well, I'm wondering why anyone makes such a big deal about it. It's all good, pilgrims. If you are from east of the Mississippi and you like BBQ, I assure you that some fine Texas brisket will be an absolute delight for you. And if you like Texas BBQ, I promise you'll gobble up Tennessee pork ribs and pulled pork. The sauce is pretty much the same as far as I can tell.

So whether you're in Texas or Tennessee (or anyplace else that serves BBQ), sit down and eat your fill. Let it be a cultural experience. Without downplaying the subtle nuances that are important to all connoisseurs, it's close enough to the same stuff, if you ask me. I mean, it's not like you're in China and someone set a plate of duck feet down in front of you. So eat up, enjoy, and let it all be good.

Tomorrow: We discover Sevierville.

First, I have to give you a link to one of the funniest things I've come across lately. A guy is trying to live for 7 days eating only monkey chow, the food zoos feed to the large primates. He notes that technically large primates include humans, so he assumes he will be okay. There is the Monkey Chow Diaries page, a companion blog, and a series of videos. The videos are what you want; you'll find them linked from the Monkey Chow Diaries page.

He is allowing himself vodka and black coffee. When he slammed a shot of vodka with monkey chow in it, trying desperately to find a way to get monkey chow down, I laughed so hard. The guy has a very nice, dry sense of humor and the sort of personality that goes along with that. I like him. Michael, thanks for the link to this guy.

Second, I'm enjoying a few days of not having the constant and ever-present burden of blog posting. I've learned to live with this burden after 3.5 years of Real Live Preacher. Pretty sure I could go on indefinitely. But any creative deadline will take its toll. Strangely, I haven't stopped writing. I finished a piece for the Christian Century and another one for The High Calling. And I've started a couple of other things. I'm writing as much as usual, but it feels like a vacation. Interesting.

rlp

So my wife is now selling Homemade Soap. This soap is made by a friend of ours in Tennessee. We're hopeful that this will be a good thing for Jeanene. She sells homemade soap and natural soap.

Her website is http://www.natural-homemade-soap.com

Mileage
So the old brown Honda, once known as the bird-shit preacher car, just hit 300,000 miles. I think that's a pretty cool thing. I'm not a car guy. I want my cars to start and get me where I'm going. I have very little interest in their color or style. The Honda is my most favorite car ever. It has lasted this long because my dad used to own it, and he takes GREAT care of his cars.

Crushing Lillian
What? You say you don't believe I'm a real man after my soap confessions? Look at how I can crush Lillian's head with just two fingers. Grrrrr!

Pumpernickel
Look, I like pumpernickel bread as much as the next guy. But I've never thought it was some sort of aphrodisiac or whatever. Am I missing something? Anyone from Germany care to enlighten us?

Maybe it's the name. It does have a kind of rolling, earthy, naughty sound. Listen to it: "Come to me, my little pumpernickel."

Or maybe not.

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I probably shouldn't be allowed to have a camera phone. It's a wonder that I ever get any writing done.

rlp