Juice for Jesus

it's a bright sunday morning when my good eye pops open and i begin my sunday chores, which generally involves whatever is left over of my saturday chores. of course, church service in imminent so there are things that need doing. coffee needs brewing, sound needs checking, candles need lighting. i was in japan once, and scaled 1,000 steps to get to a shinto house of worship on sunday - the monks explained that they wanted to make sure that only those who came really wanted to be there.

when the pastor shows, family and all, he surveys my work. "communion?" he asks, and i turn in dismay to the empty table in front of the church. i haven't set it out and, what's worse, we're out of crackers and grape juice. walgreen's is a ten minute walk, and off i go.

2 things:
"my one good eye." the night before, i allowed big g, my resident friend/sometime mortal foe/all-time dealer of drugs to other friends to take me on a short-cut from wrigley field back to my house. tyler, an impish runaway girl tagged along with us. she's the sort of girl boys hate to love, a girl who can throw faster, spit further, drink harder and cuss meaner than any of the guys. they made for a pretty tough couple, and i was the odd one out. they were doing their best to make it seem like they followed after God with the ardor of a middle-aged monk, and i was doing my best to keep it real. however, when our short cut led to a locked gate, both of our facades fell away. big g didn't seem very christian when he yanked at the gate until the lock split off and the iron bars flew open, and i didn't seem very gangsta when the bars hit me in the face, split my eyebrow in half, and sent me face down into the street, spewing blood and causing big g to go uncharacteristically bonkers over my well-being.

"crackers and grape juice." i don't like it anymore than you do, but the evangelical tradition has adopted an annotated version of the eucharist of late, substituting saltines and welch's for the body and the blood. there are benefits to this, but the overall effect seems to be a distinctly mcdonald's take on sacraments. the lord's supper has been streamlined down to the lord's snack.

at any rate, this is how i found myself running to wallgreen's, one eye swollen shut, hoping for a good deal on crackers and grape juice. it's a pleasant enough walk when its warm, and sunday morning walks are always welcome, the rest of the world busying themselves about enjoying the freest morning of the week. skipping church is its own reward. i run into walgreens and grab the first box of crackers i see (walgreen's brand, if memory serves me) and run up and down aisles, looking for grape juice. Its not by the orange. Its not with the soda. Church is starting soon. I'll still have to fill thirty little cups when I get back - a proccess that usually involves spilling half the container and leaving the kitchen looking like the aftermath of some ecclesiastic violence. where is the grape juice?

finally i turn a corner and see them, big jugs with white labels and cute kids smacking their lips across the packaging. i start checking prices and then, turn the containers to check ingredients. what would jesus drink? the question takes on gravity in this scenario, as we're doing this per his request, taking a stab at paying the back the Divine Favor. here, all he asked on the night of his death was that we eat a little and drink a little now and again, and remember him as we do. he didn't give specifications, but concentrate just seems wrong, as does something slyly dubbed: "actual grape flavor!" but, on a budget like this, can i afford the 100% natural juice? if it's for jesus? the cranberry grape is all natural and on sale, but does one mix cranberries into the communion wine? are we past that point, since we've foregone wine and all anyway? am i thinking too much? is my quest to fuse the sacred and the mundane bordering on psychosis, seeing as i've been staring at grape/cranberry juices for the past five minutes? as long as the stuff looks like blood, are we close enough?

i come to my senses as i realize that i've dropped the crackers on the wallgreens floor and am crying out of my good eye.

i grab the natural stuff and shuffle to the front of the line, one eye bruised and one eye red and angry-looking. there's a line of people in front of me, an old man with a pack of razors, a cute girl my age with a bag of cookies and a gallon of milk. and me, my crackers and grape juice: the body and blood of Christ (actual? symbolic? does it matter?) the line trickles through and i get to the front, where a dark-skinned takes the items from me and runs them under a scanner.

"find everything alright?"

Large and In Charge

It's not exactly a bustling night, but it's cold out so we've got a pretty good crowd running around the the building. Two volunteers are bringing out ground beef and taco shells, and another is trying to keep the swearing to a minimum (a study in futility, that. we're as guilty as they are.) There are a few expectant glances my direction as the kids shuffle into a line, ready to pray and eat. Glenn - ostensibly, my head of security, motions that it's showtime. I've never really done this before.

"Alright," I shout through my strep throat, jumping onto a chair so that the whole room can see me. "Can I have everyone's attention please?!" The kids all shush each other in unison, except for Andre who screams "bitch!" right as the rest of the talking dies.

"LANGUAGE!" bellows Glenn. There are no words for how big Glenn is. Inevitably, the first time you meet him, you'll be struck dumb by either his massive girth; the second time, you'll realize that he's neck-craning tall too. He's the sort of guy you want for security, so long as you can keep him to task.

"Where's Dave?!" one of the kids calls.

"This will just take a minute!" I crack. "As most of you know, Dave and Amy won't be here anymore, so now I'll be the only one in charge from now on."

"Why did Dave have to leave?!" someone shouts. There are a few murmurs of assent and I know that the answer to that question is complicated.

"It had nothing to do with any of you," I answer, truthfully enough. "Anyway, nothing around here is really going to change. Just remember, I want this place to be safe for everyone who comes in. That means, whatever's happening on the streets - leave it on the streets."

"I miss Dave!"

"If something has to be settled, take it outside the building. There won't be any fighting here."

Glenn mutters to me, trying to remind me to say something - but I'm on a roll and the kids are getting restless. The ground beef is cooling and Laura, the cook - bless her heart - is covering the food anxiously.

"So, tonight we have tacos and rice for you, also soda and coffee. I think we have enough for secoooonds..." I draw that out as I look questioningly at Laura who shrugs her shoulders. "We might have enough for seconds. I'll pray and then we can eat."

There is another chorus of "shhh!"'s as kids slip off caps and clasp hands. It's strange, to see a group of kids so steeped in keeping it real still feeling obligated to give prayer its due. It now, as it has before, leaves me a little unsure of what exactly to pray. How does one pray for this group?

"Father, thank you for bringing us all here and thanks for this food." I sound like a five-year-old at a church potluck, I know, and here's hoping that God can sift through what I say. "Look after our brains, Father - help us to join all our thoughts to you." - a line from a Sufjan song I've always liked - "and keep our bodies and souls safe." There are some mutters and a few giggles, and it's time to wrap this up. "Thanks, God - we love you so much. Amen."

"AMEN!" everyone chimes as the spell breaks and a sort of comfortable chaos settles in. Laura and Alora uncover pots and start dishing out food. Glenn glances over at me, and I almost have to stay on the chair to have a normal conversation with him.

"Pretty good for your first time," he says. I sense this is more a critique than a compliment, but this hide's thickened a bit over the past few months and it doesn't bother me much. "You shouldn't tell them to take it outside the building, though. They'll just fight in the parking lot - you should tell them to take it off church property."

"Thanks," I say. He's right, and sure enough, I'm chasing a scuffling couple off the parking lot and into the street later that night. I watch them fade down the street, winking in and out as their fight carries them from street light to street light. I stand in the cold, watching my breath puff out as Taylor, a spritely volunteer with luminous eyes and bouncing curls runs up behind me. Maja is acting up again, casting spells in the foyer. I walk back into the church and a familiar feeling takes over again, equal parts surrender and relief: A miniature prayer to God that is more felt than spoken, but runs something like, "all of me to help all of them."

The Continuation.

CONTINUED...

Blank stares hum in a room that, abruptly, feels all business. My grant proposal is staring each of these pastors in the face, like an expectant child. I'm playing it cool, leaned back, arms crossed, face set with an expression that I hope reads: "whatever, you know? It's not like I NEED your money."

The Hawaiian pastor shuffles a bit, shifting to skeptical mode. "So, who exactly are you feeding with this?"

I'm pretty well-rehearsed for this part. "The homeless in our neighborhood."

"How many?"

"Varies. Fifty to sixty a night."

"What are they like?" asks the children's pastor, a heavy-set soccor mom with a brunette bob and flowers on her blouse.

"Most of them are kids, many of them are sexually confused. Gender confused. They come out to their parents or friends and don't find the acceptance they thought they would. So they come to Chicago, band together in these little gangs, and get mixed up in drugs, prostitution and never really get a handle on their sexuality."

"They're all gay?"

"No. Some are. Some are bi. Some are straight. Some pretend to be whatever will get them friends. A lot of them are transvestites."

"You work with these people?"

"I live with them."

It sounds dramatic, I know - like I'm one of those people who are living their Christian walk in the extreme (like Jesus!) Maybe. It's not nearly as romantic once you're in the thing. It's mopping floors and brewing coffee. It's keeping toilet paper stocked and crunching budget numbers. A church is a church, I suppose.

"Transvestites!" The pastor exclaims, "well, you should invite Pastor Brad over there!" He motions to a young, quiet-looking pastor with long fingers and shy eyes. "He'd fit right in with the transvestites!"

Everyone laughs at this, save Pastor Brad, who smiles sheepishly into his cup of coffee. I watch Pastor Brad and realize that I'm not the only one floundering in this church. This religion.

"But seriously," Pastor Hawaii says, folding his hands in a mentorly fashion. "You and I both know that I could drop pennies into your work there from now till the Lord comes, and it wouldn't do any good. Right now, I have a 1.1 million dollar a year budget...that I'm not meeting."

He says I'm not meeting as if to correct any mistaken assumptions I might have about the livelihood of this church. As if he was saying, "don't kid yourself, hotshot. It ain't easy having all this."

"And," Pastor Hawaii says, peering over his glasses at me. "You're asking for...what does this break down to... less than a hundred dollars a week to feed all these people."

"Fifty dollars a week."

"That's not very much money, Tyler."

"It's what I've been doing."

"Well." The pastor whistles. "Who'd you find to cater these for less than a dollar a head?"

"I cook it myself - me and the volunteers."

"Fifty dollars a week?"

"We've gotten pretty good at shopping on a budget."

"It just doesn't sound feasible to me."

"It's what we do."

"But you see how that doesn't sound possible."

"It's possible."

"How?"

"Coupons."

"It's not much food then."

"It's not a feast, no."

"Fifty dollars isn't much."

"So give me more then!"

There are some awkward stares around the table, a hot silence that reddens the cheeks and statics the ears. Eyes fluttering about, wondering if I had said that last bit in anger.

I'm miles beyond angry.

The Pastor chuckles a bit, sensing the need to boost the spirits. "Look. Tyler. What you're doing is amazing out there. Amazing. We want to help. I mean, Pastor Brad will probably can't wait to start volunteering!"

Laughter - but for Brad - and the meeting is back where it started. Everyone's laughing and I'm feeling sick in my guts. There's a white board in the corner with the words, "God is good! All the time!"" scrawled on it in red marker.

I could have scripted the rest of it out before it happened. They need to talk it over. Look at the budget. Make calls. Pray. They'll be in touch. So good to chat. Let's pray. "Father, we thank you for the work that Tyler is doing..."

I leave, never wanting to hear from them again.

And I don't.

"So, Tyler, what's your gift mix?" calls this pastor from the front seat where he's driving me to see his new church building. Next to me sits his friend, a bald-headed baseball fan named Apple. Exactly why he's joining us for this little show and tell was never explained. Next to the pastor sits Pastor Jon, my friend and boss.

"Are you, like, musical?"

A fair guess, I think. After all, what would a ragged, struggling church be hiring if not a ragged, struggling musician?

"No," I say. "I'm...I don't know. I like people."

The pastor, bedecked in a blue hawaii-print shirt, laughs like a bomb going off.

"Well!" He booms. "The church will cure you of that!"

Apple chuckles brightly on one side. I realize my mistake quickly. I was supposed to be impressing these people with my quick business sense and confident Gospel-savvy, but my make-up is running and they're seeing me for my young, idealistic, head-in-the-sky self.

"I don't mean anything," Pastor Honolulu says. "That's great. It's just that, in this business, you'll stop liking people real fast. Understand?"

The irony of all this strikes me as too perfect. I want to say something theatrical like, "I think we understand each other perfectly." Or, even better, "Guy like you must see that happen a lot." Or, in my wildest dreams, "Pull the hell over. Call me if you ever meet Jesus."

So, I don't say anything.

The tour through his church takes most of the day. There is "The Gathering Place" - a fully functioning coffeehouse and pastry store in the front of the church. "The Warehouse" - their middle and highschool room themed after a guess-what. "Upstreet" - their grade school haunt, strangely named, for the theme here is a barnyard (how the ice cream "shoppe", fire engine, X-Box center fit into the barnyard remains a mystery) And, best of all, "The Stage," a fully functioning theatre for rascals little and big to perform some original plays written by some of their very own church members. The tour takes a few hours, and I'm thinking about how my church tour would go.

"Okay, so, here we have our sanctuary - keyboard and everything, we're pretty excited. Here's the office, you'll notice the color printer - 750 pages to an ink cartridge on this baby. And, yes, that's our bulletin board, featuring some hand written notes from some of our very own church volunteers. My room's back there, with the washer and dryer - any questions?"

Back in their office, I thumb the pages of my grant proposal nervously. Pastor Waikiki Beach pours me some coffee ("It's like our Holy Spirit around here - source of inspiration!") as the rest of his staff strolls in. Worship Pastor, Small Groups Pastor, Associate Pastor, Treasurer, Children's Pastor...

Jokes fly fast and furious, and the laughter that at the end of these jokes is at a level that borders apocalyptic. I play along with a nodding smile and join in. My feeblest efforts are greeted with uproarious chaos. Pastor Jon stays suspiciously aloof.

"Ha, ha, ha!" The pastor wheezes, wiping his eyes, "Whew, boy...that's how it is around here, Tyler."

I guess.

"Now, then," says Pastor Surf n' Turf. "What can we do for you?"

To Be Continued...

-untitled-

How we grasp and long for anything that lasts! Not fixed - the horrific cousin to lasting; the stale madness of repetition - but lasting, stability. And how few things in life offer it! We strive for anything that makes any sort of promise at all, and stick our talons into it, wrap our lips around it like a baby at a mother's breast. And yet, as if God Himself were set against us finding something lasting (and why on earth shouldn't He?) everything that looks stable flounders, tilts, wobbles, and eventually explodes - like wine glasses at the opera.
The thing I want most to last right now seems to be running low on fuel, perhaps puttering to a halt - and then, nothingness. If I've endured anything more difficult, I don't remember it. The hope is that there is something here that I'll remember later on - 'forever' is a term for the great life to come. Here, it is a whisper, a 'maybe,' a hoping against hope. In the meantime, there is something to be said for delaying your happiness, to abstain from what you could acquire, to cultivate a sense of longing.
More on that later. For now, I am tired and sad. If you pray, pray for me. Thank-you.

an introduction to the transient.

for starters, there are 86,400 seconds in every day. it will take you approximately 120 of those to read this. and, like eating jelly beans, that adds up. time is the only currency that G-d saw fit to divvy out to everybody from the get-go, although He gave you, me, and everyone a dramatically different allowance of it. so, there's no significant reason to believe that this won't be one of the last things you do before your bucket of allotted seconds runs dry. just saying. if you have kids, go play with them. if you have a husband or a wife, go make whoopee. if you have parents, call them. if you have five bucks, go spend it on something fun. if, completing that, you find that you're still sucking oxygen, then come back - this'll still be here.

and me, i'm the terrestrial transient. i've made it a point to lay down few roots here, having been told by reliable sources that moth and rust destroy what does take root. in essence, heaven lasts; this doesn't. heaven is solid, real, hard. earth is flimsy, transparent, sand-through-the-fingers stuff. if i do anything with this blog - doubtful, in and of itself - then it'll be to talk about releasing our frantic hold on the insubstantial things of life and living for what G-d offers in the infinite.

day coming when G-d's gonna suck the death and impermanence out of every thing you've ever seen and good many you haven't. then, finally, morning and the real. the dream will be ended. the term will be over. we'll be done with the title page, and onto chapter 1. and this transient will finally have a place to call 'home.'

-terrestrial transient.