Orthodixie

August 6th, 2004: Just before waking from a nap this afternoon, I had a dream: My daughter and I were eating in a restaurant and I mentioned a concert that I’d seen in the old Charlotte Coliseum … and it appeared, the coliseum. The scene changed. I was riding on a bus, seated beside two black ladies, and recounting the concerts I’d seen there … Willie Nelson, Elvis, etc. Then I told them I’d seen Rick James perform there [I’d actually seen him in Greensboro]. One of the ladies said, “When I see him, Rick James, I’m gonna get on to him for leaving us like this.” I awoke from the dream, signed onto the Internet, and saw the headline … Funk legend Rick James, dead at 56.

The following piece is another for the “Etc” column. For regular readers of this Blog, there may be some repetition. The story’s not about Rick James and it sure ain’t about Orthodoxy. Today, however, it seemed appropriate.

Funk Incognito

He closed the book, put his pen in his pocket, crossed the room, opened the cabinet, and pulled out the old stuff. He ran his hands across the large square covers, dusting off the jackets. He realized there was nothing in there that would save his soul; just funk and junk from days gone by: Cameo, Gap Band, Rick James, Parliament/Funkadelic, George Clinton. Old school. Part of him. “Tear the roof off, we gonna tear the roof off the mother, sucker … tear the roof off the sucker …”

It was Monday, his day off. The wife was at work; the kids were with others at the pool. He was alone for at least another hour. He always seemed to be depressed on Mondays. He figured Mondays were a letdown after the highpoint of the week. He’d once heard that it was on Monday that God separated the Heavens and the Earth. It was the only day mentioned in Genesis where it does not say, “… and it was good.” Thus, Mondays were blessed to be downers. Later he’d have to get dressed and head out. But for now, he closed the door. Locked it. Then opened another one.

Inside, the turntable was vintage 1978. Technics. Back then, state of the art; today, a classic. Except for the crack on the cover. The crack was 1980. He’d gone to sell books door-to-door with the Southwestern Book Company in Wisconsin. His stereo had stayed back in North Carolina with his younger brother. Anyone else and he’d still be angry. His thoughts snapped back to musicology as he began to wipe the album.

He remembered when cleaning an LP was an exotic ritual. It was, without being base, an act of foreplay. He no longer had the felt-covered tool and cleaning fluid. Who used them anymore? But, in his mind’s eye, he went through the motions. Foreplay with a paper towel. Not quite the same. Somehow, irreligious.

Before dropping the needle, he noticed a hum; tinkered with the ground wire, lowered the noise a bit. He looked around one last time, making sure he was alone. It began. Crackling. Even though he’d taken expert care of his albums, the LP hissed its unique introduction. Unmistakable. In these days of digital, that sound alone – snap, crackle, hiss, pop – took him back.

Back to a day when life was simpler, less controversial. Wasn’t it? The current culture seemed awash in sex and cultural wars. Didn’t it? Back then, back when, it was the Cold War. Folks did what every culture does when death’s imminent. They danced. “Boogie fever! You got to boogie down …”

As rock-n-roll died and disco loomed, it seemed everyone entered a grey area. The line between black and white was less visible. Heck, nothing was very clear except the need to dance. The high school gymnasium would be filled to capacity following another losing football game. “Oh what a night! Late December, back in ‘63 …” The whites would be dancing with whites; the blacks with blacks. But everyone was on the same page of music. “I, I … I’m just a Love Machine …” We were together but separate. Of course, the whites had kept a longing eye toward the blacks. Else how would we have ever learned the new moves? He remembered that success in that regard was not always optimum.

Before the song began he looked down and realized he didn’t want to hear that song anymore. He quickly retrieved the needle and flipped the album back into its cover. He caught his reflection in the mirror. God, he’d grown old. What had happened? When? He shook it off and fingered his way though the big crate for the right selection.

Queen, The Game. There it was again: the summer of 1980, going door-to-door selling books in the Northwoods. “Another one bites the dust …” He’d finally escaped the South. He’d discovered that many folks in the wilds of Wisconsin were prejudiced against Native Americans. At least for a Southerner, it seemed odd. He’d actually met people who had never seen a black person except on television. On more than a few occasions, someone would comment on how prejudiced folks were in the South. These were usually the same folks who’d never seen a black man. It was like the pot calling the kettle Indian.

Earth, Wind & Fire, KISS, Aerosmith, Foghat, The Time …

After graduating, he’d shared a house with a black roommate. The two had soon discovered that no matter how hip you were you could still be prejudiced. “Don’t stand so … don’t stand so … don’t stand so close to me!” In time, he’d shared all the racial jokes he knew. His roomie had actually laughed! Yet he’d found, when the tables were turned, he couldn’t understand all the white jokes told to him. Sort of like the machinations of dancing, he was too close to his own blindness to follow the steps.

Stevie Wonder, Dwight Yoakam, Rod Stewart, Heaven 17, English Beat, Third World. Ah, look at that. He pulled out the cover and read:

Love.
Make love, not war.
Speed kills.
Love.
Hell no, we won’t go.
Love. Sex.
No more war!

It was a cool cover. Full of Peace Signs, fat letters, and psychedelic graphics that characterized an era. It was the first album he’d ever bought with his own money. Five dollars back in ‘69. The soundtrack to HAIR.

He looked at the platter. He’d obviously not known how to care for an LP back then. He’d been only eight, maybe nine. Gosh. HAIR. He’d never played it unless he was alone. Bad, bad language. Some of it he hadn’t understood. But all of it had made him feel cool, older. A part of.

For the first time, 35 years later, he noticed that the record was produced by Robert Stigwood. Didn’t he do Saturday Night Fever’s soundtrack? He put HAIR down and dug through the orange crate. Fleetwood Mac, Dr Hook, Frampton, Willie Nelson …

Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy, Elton John & Bernie Taupin. He didn’t just look at the cover, he instantly relived a whole segment of adolescence through its art. He entered a world of fantasy. But it was the most real world imaginable back in 1975. He could see, smell, and feel the power of the past. He and Benny, 1974 … 73 … “I hope ya don’t mind … I hope ya don’t mind … that I put down in words, how wonderful life is while you’re in the world.”

They were into Elton John. They knew all the lyrics. Sang them out loud. Sure, they knew he was queer. What of it? They worshiped him. “Some punk with a shotgun … killed young Danny Baily …” He’d even gotten into arguments with his mother about Elton being greater than Elvis. His mother, a child of the 50’s, would have none of it.

Truth be told, even now, he still boasted of having seen the King in concert: 1972, before Elvis got fat. Their seats had been behind the stage before stages were round. Still, Elvis made sure to pay attention to those behind him. At the age of eleven, his main memory was how odd it was for Elvis to sing and gyrate about lust only to end his concert with a few Gospel songs – as if Jesus was okay with all that. “Then sings my soul … my Saviour God, to thee … how great Thou art …”

Memories. His first sermon at the age of twelve. It was Youth Sunday at Mission Baptist Church. He was the designated youth preacher. In his sermon, he compared Elton John with God, lamenting how the former was more famous than the latter. He’d said that if there had been a sign out in front of the church advertising that Elton John would be there, the place would have been packed! Appreciating the fact, at least assuming it, that God was present, he’d indicated the empty seats. He remembers how aggravated he was a couple years later when, on Youth Sunday, the pastor had asked him for an advanced copy of his sermon before allowing him to preach.

Then there was Benny Starnes. He could still hear his mom saying, when Benny had been allowed coveted liberties, “Well, I ain’t Benny Starnes’ mother!” He and Benny were inseparable until about the ninth grade. Benny lived across from a cemetery. They’d spent many a night there, walking among the dead, singing Elton John, Captain & Tennille, Chicago, and the like. Yet high school brought new thoughts, new things, new adventures. Namely, at least for him, girls. The bump. Slow dancing. French kissing. Acne. Longing. “Points of her own, standing way up high …”

Benny had made a bold and tragic fashion statement in high school. He wore one of those Starsky & Hutch sweaters. He never dated. People made fun of him. Called him “Sweater.” They kidded Benny about his perfectly quaffed hair.

He looked back down at Captain Fantastic bursting from his bubble, piano in tow. “So hard to write a song with bitter fingers …” He flipped the cover over and saw the Brown Dirt Cowboy – Benny Starnes? – sealed in his bubble. Everyone later learned, Benny was gay.

He placed Elton back in the rota and fingered up to the sepia toned cover of Running on Empty, Jackson Browne. He thought of Steve Davis, his best friend in high school. Steve loved this album, Jackson Browne. It was Steve who’d told him of Browne’s writing a previous hit, The Pretender, after his wife’s death. That fact alone had helped him appreciate the artist through the years. Funny how death had a way of making some folks famous. He could still hear Steve singing Billy Joel: “Only the good die young!” Steve died in a boating accident ten years ago. Steve wasn’t famous, but he would have said, “One out of two ain’t bad.”

Average White Band. Oh my! The album cover sported the initials, A W B, with the drawing of a woman’s ample derriere substituting for the W. His mother hadn’t wanted him to buy it for that very reason. She was not Benny Starnes’ mother, but she relented. It was 1974 and, being a white guy, he felt blessed to find a bunch of ‘em playing funky music. That year at the beach, in one of those “design your own t-shirt” shops, he’d gotten another wish: A red fishnet shirt with the initials – Latin W, mind you – emblazoned on the front. He’d only worn it for a season. Whenever he did, folks picked on him. He thought it was cool. He now knew it was stupid.

Speaking of looking stupid, there it was: John Travolta on the cover. He flipped it over and saw the initials RSO. Yep, produced by Robert Stigwood. How could the same guy who produced HAIR have transitioned to Disco? Disco led to the fall of Rome. Disco made the Episcopal Church go bonkers. Disco killed Elvis. Disco made others dizzy enough to see Elvis pumping gas. Nuns discarding the habit? Disco. Political correctness? Disco. Goddess worship? Disco. Blue M & M’s? Disco.

He stared at Saturday Night Fever’s cover and for the first time he noticed that the cover featured four white guys: Barry, Maurice, and Robin Gibb, along with Travolta. Though there were a few blacks on the back, Tavares & Yvonne Elliman, the pictures inside the cover are all of white folks dancing. Whites borrowing from, and trying to be like, blacks. He laughed at himself. Wasn’t that what started this whole memory trip? A middle-aged white man hoping to play a little funk on the ol’ Victrola before the wife and kids came home?

He was looking for Prince’s album, Controversy. The title song’s refrain: Am I black or white? Am I straight or Gay? Controversy! He couldn’t find it. He went to the spare closet where he’d piled hundreds of platters in hopes of an eventual E-Bay fortune.

There! Controversy. The cover advertized newspaper headlines:

Love Thy Neighbor
Annie Christian Sentenced to Die
President Signs Gun Control Act
Do You Believe in God?

He noticed that each photo of The Controversy Daily featured the same article: Instant weather reports make trip planning easy.

He reached inside the cover to pull out the inner sleeve. The free poster, featuring a thong-clad Prince in the shower by a crucifix, had long since disappeared. O my God! The inner jacket was from an old KISS album and the LP inside was a scratched up copy of a Willie Nelson record. Now that’s weird! What’s that all about? The earworms sang in chaos:

“The red headed stranger from Blue Rock, Montana, rode into town one day …”

transitioned to …

“I’m the king of the nighttime world … and you’re … my …
midnight queen …”

to …

“It was the time of the Preacher … in the year of ‘01 …”

till finally, from memory …

I just can’t believe all the things people say – Controversy
Am I black or white? Am I straight or gay? – Controversy
Do I believe in God? Do I believe in me? – Controversy

Do I believe in God? Do I believe in me?
Some people wanna die so they can be free
(I said) Life is just a game, we’re all just the same …
do you wanna play?

The final headline, pictured above the bottom of the album’s cover, simply said, The Second Coming. He looked at the clock. Too late. They’d all be home soon. He put the albums back in their respective covers and shelved his memories. He pulled his pen out of the pocket of his black shirt, right below the white clerical collar, re-opened his Bible, and once again thought about the coming Sunday’s sermon.

“Ow, we want the funk
Give up the funk
Ow, we need the funk
We gotta have that funk …”

Right back where he’d started from.

Ow!
____________________________________________________________
Song lyrics in order of appearance:
Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof Off), Parliament, 1976.
Boogie Fever, The Sylvers, 1976.
December, 1963 (Oh What a Night), The Four Seasons, 1976.
Love Machine (Part 1), The Miracles, 1976.
Another One Bites the Dust, Queen, 1980.
Don’t Stand So Close to Me, The Police, 1981.
Your Song, Elton John, 1971.
The Ballad of Danny Bailey (1909-34), Elton John, 1973.
How Great Thou Art, Elvis Presley, 1968.
Mainstreet, Bob Seger, 1977.
Bitter Fingers, Elton John, 1975.
Only the Good Die Young, Billy Joel, 1977.
Blue Rock Montana / Red Headed Stranger, Willie Nelson, 1975.
King of the Nighttime World, KISS, 1976.
The Time of the Preacher, Willie Nelson, 1975.
Controversy, Prince, 1981.
Give Up the Funk (Tear the Roof Off), Parliament, 1976.

YOU KNOW YOU’RE SOUTHERN ORTHODOX WHEN:

10) At Pentecost, your church is decorated with Kudzu.

9) You spell “feast” with only three letters: B B Q.

8) You say “Father,” “Barsonuphios,” and “Monastery” without any pronouncing an “r.”

7) You drive 3 hours to an Orthodox Church. But, could hop … on one foot … with your eyes closed … (and a rock in your shoe) … to the nearest Baptist Church.

6) All your services are all in English — at least that’s what YOU call it.

5) There’s women in your church known as: Photini Beth, Thecla Beth, and Elizabeth Beth.

4) There’s men going by: Athanasius Lee, Euphrosynos Lee, and Vasiliy Lee.

3) You got white folks, black folks — even Democrats — in your parish, but no Russians, Serbians, Arabs or Greeks.

2) You know someone who knows someone who knows someone with a velvet picture of Elvis celebrating the Last Supper.

AND … the number one sign that you are an Orthodox Southerner:

1) You think grits are too good to be considered fasting!

(copyright 2000 – Fr Joseph Huneycutt)

Warning: The following article is secular. It has nothing to do with Orthodoxy. It was, however, the impetus for the Orthodoxy in DIXIE article. (File it under the “Etc” column.)

What a hoot! All the mud-slinging that surrounded the Confederate battle flag atop the Statehouse in Columbia, South Carolina, got me thinking: Why is it that we didn’t hear the middle class native Southern voices within that forensic roar? Perhaps the answer lies buried under the Southern accent. Mind you, I speak not of blue-blood Southerners, but of the majority of the native South, the lower and middle class natives.

I was reared in a small town near Charlotte, North Carolina. Growing up, I never met a Jew, much less a Muslim. Lutherans were rare enough in my hometown, much less Roman Catholics. Basically, we were Baptists and Methodists, blacks and whites. With bussing, my school was 51% black. I remember being bullied on the first grade playground, daily, by two black boys. We laughed about it in high school. Save one occasion, I don’t recall the prevalence of any Confederate flag, battle or otherwise, from my youth.

But I do know what it means to be a Southerner. I know what it means to be prejudiced. Yet I will have to provide greater detail before you can judge me in that regard. You see, I grew up in the 60’s & 70’s. My folks were cotton mill workers. I know what it means to long to leave the South. I also know what it means to feel blessed to come home.

My folks rarely went shopping on Saturday. That was the day that all the blacks shopped in our hometown. We would drive through the venerable old business buildings on our way to the lake. Sure nuf, town was teaming with darker skins. My dad said they all knew each other. It sure looked like it — they waved, smiled, greeted and visited with each other. In reality, I suspect they were just growing up black in the South. Looked to me like white folks did the same, down at the lake on Saturdays.

In my youth, I always believed my dad was prejudiced against blacks. Like many Southern white men, that’s the way he talked. Upon getting a part-time job in the mill, I was shocked to observe his interactions with colored folks. It was downright good natured and friendly! They all seemed to love each other. It was more than a bit confusing. Although I spoke the language, I’d not yet acquired the accent. I longed to leave.

While studying genetics in high school biology, we learned that if one had a black ancestor the biological evidence might not show up till as much as a hundred years later. (I’ve no idea if this is true, but the teacher said it was possible.) After dinner that night, I tested my dad. Relating the details from the class, I asked him what he’d do if mom gave birth to a black baby. Again, I was surprised. He said, “I’d love that child … care for him … give him everything I have. I’d kill your Mama, though. Ain’t no way she could convince me that that happened a hundred years ago.” We laughed. I’m positive he later told that story to his black friends at work. No offense taken, it was all in the accent.

As rock-n-roll died and disco loomed, we entered a grey area. The line between black and white was less visible. Heck, nothing was very clear except the need to dance. The high school gymnasium would be filled to capacity following another losing football game. The whites would be dancing with the whites; the blacks with the blacks. But we were on the same page of music. We were together but separate. Of course, the whites kept a longing eye toward the blacks. Else how would we ever learn the new dance moves? (I must point out that success in this regard was not always optimum.)

With disco came new battles. Blacks and whites were found mingling more and more. The overwhelming majority of music was being sung and performed by black artists. Frustrated dancers (aka white boys) were spending tons of money on black music. White deejays could make the dark crowd move. Truth be known, we all probably became too accepting in those early naive days of disco. It was a time of overwhelming change. For a while, we were all speaking the same language. Well, almost all. There were the rebels one might see at the County Fair or the Carowinds theme park. These wore black tee shirts with white letters “Disco Sucks.” These folks, I always imagined, were probably the same ones who paraded the Confederate battle flag with hatred. They obviously couldn’t dance (to the beat of any drummer).

I thought I hated the South. Television shows such as “The Dukes of Hazard,” “The Beverly Hillbillies,” even “Andy Griffith” allowed me to observe the way, apparently, the outside world saw us. I wanted no part of it. This, coupled with my perceived parental prejudices, drew me more and more toward black folks and “outsiders” (e.g., Roman Catholics and Yankees). I had an uncle who lived in Secaucus, New Jersey. Every now and then, we’d visit him and tour New York City. Ah, away from the South! My only confusion lie in the fact that prejudices seemed to abound up north! Ours seemed tame by comparison.

Needless to say, due to the times and my liberal education, I never gave much thought to the Confederate flag. Never owned one, much less argued over one. Except, that one occasion. You see, our high school had a “race riot” every year. It was an annual observance. There was tension, some fisticuffs, racial slurs … then it was over. No one ever seemed in agreement as to the catalyst of this yearly event. Except in 1978. That was the year that, apparently, some ol’ redneck had climbed up onto the water tower and put up the Confederate battle flag. That was the most confusing “race riot” of all. This was, after all, during the heyday of disco. We were all dancing to the same beat (except for the small “Disco Sucks” contingent). We thought we’d put all that racial stuff to rest. Suddenly, that flag — to the indoctrinated black kids — represented the worst side of all whites. To us, their rage at the water tower display washed away the disco lovefest. Gosh, we were different after all. If memory serves me, that was the year that all the white students were called into the auditorium, with the blacks being segregated to the gym. I don’t remember what was said. I do remember the blacks were allowed to go home early. In a few days, it was all a footnote; a footnote to our Southern accent.

The summer of my freshman year of college, the Southwestern Book Company sent me to sell books door-to-door in the Northwoods of Wisconsin. I had finally escaped the South. Though I loved Wisconsin, the accent was much different there. Many were prejudiced against the Indians (aka Native Americans). In fact, I actually met people who had never seen a black person except on television! The friendly folks of Northern Wisconsin got a kick out of the way I talked. They said they could listen to me for hours. On more than a few occasions, someone would comment on how prejudiced we all were in the South. These were usually the same folks who’d never seen a black man. It was like the pot calling the kettle Indian.

After graduating, I shared a house with a black roommate. Finally, I had arrived! Well, not really. He and I soon discovered that no matter how “hip” you are, you can still be prejudiced. I shared with him all the racial jokes I knew. He actually laughed! I couldn’t understand the white jokes he shared with me. Sort of like the machinations of dancing, I suppose. I was too close to my own blindness to follow the steps.

These days, when I go back home, my Mom or Dad is always relating greetings from some black acquaintance with whom they spoke recently at the store. (Everyone shops on Saturdays now. I’ve even seen blacks at the lake.) At least the grapevine I’ve known still carries racially prejudiced humour. Heck, black comedians have it down to a fine art; Jeff Foxworthy makes us all laugh. Catching a glimpse of an old “Andy Griffith” presents no struggle as in days past. Face it, we’ve all been through a lot.

But my point in saying all of this is that, I don’t appreciate the talking heads of the major media getting involved in stirring up trouble in the South. If I didn’t know better, I’d suspect that one of them climbed above the South Carolina Statehouse and planted that flag for their own selfish reasons. Rather, it had been flying there since nearly the day I was born. It never seemed to be a Southern issue. In fact, I’m not convinced it is now.

A few years ago I performed a wedding in Columbia. There were blacks and whites in attendance. We were within eyesight of the flag. And, yes, being a Southern town in the summer, there was what we used to call “disco music” blaring in the distance. The following morning, my family toured downtown Columbia. We saw more blacks than whites (it was Monday, mind you). And there, above the Capitol building was the Confederate battle flag. It was, more than likely, hoisted to third rank prominence by a black State employee. Pouring out of the Statehouse was several bus loads of children, mostly black. Thanks to the media and political indoctrination of the times, I was in search of disgruntled, unhappy, protesting faces. I saw none. Yet, on the way home, I saw a few cars with the bumper sticker “Take It Down.” These people seemed opposite — but similar — to the “Disco Sucks” crowd. Both were angry; both minorities.

Those of us who’ve learned to make do with past and present differences know that everything is not black and white. Rather, it’s about being separate and together, together. It comes with experience, absent an outside agenda. Why, just the other day, I saw a black man driving around in a pickup truck with a Confederate flag decal. Those of you not from around here just wouldn’t understand. Frankly, my dear outsiders, it’s a Southern thing. In the working-man South, among native blacks and whites, it’s a confederacy of accent.

This sermon was originally preached on Sunday, August 4, 1996.

Gospel Text

“Then he made the disciples get into the boat and go before him to the other side, while he dismissed the crowds. And after he had dismissed the crowds, he went up on the mountain by himself to pray. When evening came, he was there alone, but the boat by this time was many furlongs distant from the land, beaten by the waves; for the wind was against them. And in the fourth watch of the night he came to them, walking on the sea. But when the disciples saw him walking on the sea, they were terrified, saying, ‘It is a ghost!’ And they cried out for fear. But immediately he spoke to them, saying, ‘Take heart, it is I; have no fear’.

And Peter answered him, ‘Lord, if it is you, bid me come to you on the water’. He said, ‘Come’. So Peter got out of the boat and walked on the water and came to Jesus but when he saw the wind, he was afraid, and beginning to sink he cried out, ‘Lord, save me’. Jesus immediately reached out his hand and caught him, saying to him, ‘O man of little faith, why did you doubt?’ And when they got into the boat, the wind ceased. And those in the boat worshipped him, saying, ‘Truly you are the Son of God’.” [MT.1422-33]

* * *

I have a few announcements to make before today’s sermon.

First of all, if you see my daughter, or any child for that matter, acting up in church, teach her – them – how to pray. We come to church on the Lord’s Day to pray. There’s a whole week in between to learn behavior and behave. Here, let’s pray. (The same thing goes for adults.)

If you see me with a frown on my face, forgive me. It speaks more of my sins than it does our relationship. If you’ve time, help me out. A smile alleviates a frown every time.

If you want more things in church: more activities, more fellowship, church school supplies, carpet – whatever it may be – give more money. That’s just the way it works.

Want more people in church? Invite them.

If you see me sinning, don’t encourage me. Like a child in need of attention, I’ll often show off in a rather ill manner. Perhaps your loving me, in spite of myself, will help to exorcise the demons with whom I’m all too familiar. Besides, if you join me in sin, we’ll be doubly miserable.

If you catch me entering gossip, stop me. For I pray each day “forgive me, O Lord, the same way I forgive others.” You’d be a great help to me, yourself, and everyone if you’d lovingly hush me up.

If you see me feasting on Wednesday, Friday, or during Seasonal Fasts … forgive and reprove me with love. For in so doing, I show my kinship with Judas and those who crucified the Lord Jesus. Yet, with your help, I can repent and experience the God of Resurrection and Light.

Please don’t sit throughout the Liturgy unless you have a physical ailment that requires it. We’re a lazy people in this modern age, but true prayer has always been hard work. All able bodies should stand in remembrance of the Resurrection & the Day of Judgment. Let us attend.

By all means, if you hear me speaking heresy – please, quail my tongue with love. For the Saviour has sacrificed too much for me and my salvation for me to forfeit the Kingdom with lying lips. God forbid that I should drag you with me.

If you observe me being patient in a time of trial, give thanks to God for it is His Spirit that guides me.

If, however, you see me being impatient, forgive me. I come by it naturally, even from Adam and Eve.

If my way of life is not the same as yours, it does not mean that we are not of the same Christian family. It just means that God in His wisdom has fashioned us in a unique manner – yet, with the same Lord as God and Father of all.

If you know that I’m in need, help me. For God surely will bless those who bless Him.

If you find my attitude, my words, my every way of life leaves you cold, please don’t abandon me. I’m lonely. Perhaps your presence, love, forgiveness, and long-suffering will help to melt my frozen heart.

If you think you have sacrificed enough, it is often at that very moment that God asks the most of you.

If you’re not tithing to the church [giving at least 10% of your income], please don’t complain. Because God Himself answers our plea with a challenge “Give me 10%, and I’ll fill your storehouses.” (By the way, for some reason, those who tithe complain less.)

If you make a mess, clean it up. Otherwise you manufacture enemies as well.

If you notice someone absent from church, call them. They may need you.

Most of all, if you see me walking on water, help me back into the boat. For, by myself, I shall perish.

In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.

The boat represents the Church, the disciples represent all Christians. The stormy sea is our life. We are in the Church, the boat, because Christ commands us to be there. Disciples are obedient. Christ comes to us in times of danger. Notice that Christ did not command Peter to come to him. Rather he permitted the act. Peter was not acting out of obedience, but boldness. Peter became frightened, his faith was shaken. Why? Chiefly because of his foolishness in leaving the boat, the Church. Thus, our first lesson here is do not leave the safety of the boat, the Church. Christ commands them to get into the boat! When we do find ourselves outside the ark of our salvation (boat/Church), we must, like Peter, cry out “Lord, save me!” And He will. Christ not only commands us to enter the Church, He also has mercy upon us when we are disobedient, leading us back to the calm haven of our salvation the Church. It is in the confines of the Church that we [like Thomas] recognize Jesus as our Lord and God. It is in the Church that we, like the disciples in the boat, worship Him.

So, I repeat:

If you see me walking on water, help me back into the boat.

For, by myself, I shall perish.

Even if my sins and pleas are seemingly self-centered,

do not be as I … reach out and grab hold of my hand.

For this, Christ died … we live.

Help me, my brothers and sisters in Christ,

for I need you — we need each other — in this storm tossed sea.

* * *

By now you may have heard of — or seen — the new T-shirt being sold by Planned Parenthood. There’s been some discussion of it over at Orthodoxy Today.

Sad. Nutty. Demonic.