If The Church Were A Safe Place

"Simon Stoker (not his real name), stand up! Your eyes are red with drink." So thundered the preacher from the pulpit of the rural church of my childhood.

I love the church. It is in serving here I feel most alive. But I often do not feel at home. I often do not feel safe and I suspect that's why more and more people keep their distance from us. The church is not safe because of a spirit of judgment. I do not mean the willingness to discern right from wrong or speak out for justice. I mean a frozen, stiff spirit of moral superiority established by condeming others.

The criteria for judgment vary. In the little congregation where I grew up, drinking was the number one thing to judge. "Oh Lord, please straighten out my brother in law who is a sorry alcoholic and has wronged my sister and their children so pitifullly."

In the schismatic churches, it is judgment of LGBT people. In liberal circles, the folks who disagree with them about inclusiveness are labelled "hate-mongers." In total ministry circles, beware of using words like "rector," "pastoral," even "diocese." In traditional structures, they still call locally trained priests "Canon 9" -- which was abolished years ago. Then there are the high church and low church folks who hold each other in ecclesiastical disdain.

We seem to compulsively generate criteria we can use to build ourselves up by tearing others down. Again, my problem is not with convictions held, but with the use of convictions as swords and shields.

If the church were a safe place, we could welcome more people, serve more compassionately, and show the world God's unconditional love.

Zydeco Snow

Before my first National Cowboy Poets’ Gathering, I assumed it would be nothing but white guys emulating Baxter Black – which is not bad. But the folks in Elko who put this event together are intentionally cosmopolitan. The first event I ever attended was a concert of Mexican corridos performed by artists from our neighbor to the south. My next event was a concert by the Cowboy Poets of Kyrgystan. Amazing Asian folk traditions expanded my horizons.

This year’s guests were from the Southeastern United States. That made sense. The Southeast has produced cowboy legends like the immortal Florida wrangler Bone Mizell. So my mind was open to the two Florida cowboy poets who opened tonight’s show, Swamp Tunes. The mediocrity of their verse was punctuated by base insulting rudeness and on one occasion an “inartful” racial slur. The dignity of Elko was saved only by my having failed to bring fruit to the event.

However, they were only the openers. The main act was a 5-man Black zydeco band from South Louisiana. Washboard and drum rhythms drove the accordion melody. The artists were more than talented. They were inspired and inspiring. Cajun music, kin to country, has its own charm, but this was zydeco -- a celebratory cousin to blues. The music was so aesthetically compelling I was lost in it. A truly spiritual experience. Someday we must have a zydeco mass.

When I stepped outside the Folklife Center, the music still pulsing in my body, snow was falling from a sky my poet friend Lyn Lifshin would call “onyx.” Life is good despite Florida poets.

Mystery & Redemption On The Road To Elko

Maybe it was the cloud of unknowing. My day long drive from Las Vegas to Wells was mostly uneventful -- skies variable, roads mostly clear. At Wells I turned west on I-80 shortly before sunset. The skies by then were partly cloudy, but mostly bright, enough blue to lift the spirits. Then I saw a cloud in front of me -- not in the sky but lying across the road -- a dark cloud mass come to earth.

I drove into the cloud, then saw an orange circle of light straight ahead -- the sun "as through a glass darkly" -- bright but not at all too bright to look at directly. The sun shown into the cloud, which had been grey on the outside, but on the inside, the cloud was like orange smoke shifting.

At first, it was not snowing in the cloud, but dry snow was blowing across the highway from south to north. This this was not a small cloud. I was in it for awhile. About halfway through, it began snowing, the flakes rushing toward my windshield as if they were flying parallel to the ground. It stopped. Then I drove out of the cloud and the day was bright again.

We had a good clergy conference today at St. Paul's. One of the good people there treated me to a ticket to tonight's opening of the National Cowboy Poets' Gathering. I arrived early and was browsing in the bookstore of the Western Folklife Center when I had my moment of redemption. I was redeemed not from my moral failings but from the regrettable hat blunder I committed in Fernley last year. See blog entry for 8-23-09 "The Social Risk Of Hats In The American West."

Dressed for Elko in jeans, a heavy long coat, and my Frontier Collection Renegade style cowboy had from J. M. Capriola's Western Wear, I was standing stock still, hands in coat pockets, focussed as I was on the covers of some chap books on a bottom shelf. That is when a nicely dressed lady mistook me for a manequin.

Feeling grateful for the gift of the tickets and somewhat pleased with myself for having "passed," I especially enjoyed the show which featured Virginia City troubador, Richard Elloyan, and perhaps Nevada's premier cowboy poet (he at the least has the premier mustache), Waddie Mitchell.