Cafe Church

Barnchurch has moved. Now we’re meeting in a cafe that’s due to open in about a month, but is scheduled closed Sundays and Mondays. Name of the restaurant is, I think, Flat-Iron Cafe. The owner told me he has plans to air Bluegrass music Friday and Saturday nights over the radio.

I like boats, and spend as much time as possible paddling them, so Sunday’s Luke 5 sermon about putting out into deeper water and fishing different was one I liked. As a younger man I spent time drunk in Tiberias, on the shore of Galilee. Can’t recall whether or not I took a swim there. But I can recall the sun glinting off the water. Some Israeli kayakers have posted photos from a Sea of Galilee kayak camping trip here.

It’ll be interesting to see what Cafe Church catches several miles down the road from Loathsome Stepford. Maybe some folks who wouldn’t set foot inside a brick shoebox will stop by the blue metal building. Maybe it’ll be easier for the people listening in to Sunday morning’s radio sermons to actually find and visit the congregation.

A Farrago of Bad Ecclesiology

Is God ever absent, ever truly far from his people?

The Whitehorse Inn guys botch another discussion (listen here), confusing societal contempt for religious professionals with rebellion against God’s authority. Didn’t Ezekiel, Jesus, Martin Luther, the people in Foxe’s book, and countless unnamed others have something better to say about this?

They did manage to make some sense talking about the uniform of one’s vocation. In my work, the uniform is button up shirt, khaki trousers, matching belt and shoes. It reassures those with whom my job brings me into contact that I am serious about my work and take them seriously as I go about that work. I have a pair of khaki trousers I bought in 2002 at Chattanooga. Last weekend they began their new life of freedom as a garment worn camping. Their life as a slave-vestment is over, finally broken-in and matured by years working for the state, they have entered in to the casual, leisure time of their wearer.

I wore a pair of Kuhl Eiger shorts and a color-coordinated $10.00 Wal-Mart camp shirt to Barnchurch today, with stout hiking boots, because you never know when you may find yourself walking. Guerrilla Christianity never looked so good. This was our last Sunday in the loft. I await a nominative inspiration for the relocated ecclesia.

I Ate A Fishstick

I’m allergic to fish. Gives me anaphylactic shock, like bee stings affect some people.

So, last night I went to a business meeting at Barnchurch after supper at home with Caution-Lady and Little Squall. The group normally eats an evening meal together every Wednesday night before the bible-study or before the business meeting. Because I still had some Weight Watchers points left (around eight of them) after my supper, I asked if I could help myself to some of the leftover food on the kitchen counter.

I got a sweet-roll that tasted like it had been made with pop or Kool-Aid, which was a surprise given the fact it looked like a cinnamon swirl with a hint of color rolled up in it. I got a cold, bready piece of pepperoni pizza that came from a supermarket. I took two of three remaining index-finger sized fried cheese-sticks. Common courtesy dictates that one should never take all that remains of an item. I ate the sweet roll first, because I wanted something sweet, while on my way to the table.

Sitting by Doros, the Barnchurch pastor, I took a bite of the first cheese-stick. It didn’t taste right. “Is this a fishstick?” I asked, “I’m allergic to fishsticks.” Doros responded by taking and eating the other one of what my half-witted palate had tentatively, belatedly identified as something with trace amounts of fish meat in it (the fishstick was exceedingly bland). I thought I might as well eat the rest of the fishstick I was holding. “I’ve got an epi-pen in the glove compartment of my car, if I start choking or fall over, just stab me with it.” Then we joked about my not having “one of those James Bond vzzzt-things” in the glove box. I made a fork with my right fore and middle fingers, jabbed at my chest, and said, “Vzzzt.” As the meeting got underway, after scripture reading and a prayer, I tore off and ate pieces of the pizza slice in an attempt to feed inconspicuously because I was the only one at the table eating.


I did notice an allergic reaction, slight swelling in my throat, slight pain in my chest, and what became by the time I got home a sharp headache and a feeling in my body like the smell of mercury from a smashed thermometer.

Although I’m not a member, I spoke up at the meeting. Honestly, I should have been born without a tongue in my head. The church voted (finally) to move into a building at Stepford that seems to be the most reasonable means of obtaining a breathing space as Barnchurch tries to figure out where it goes from here. Also, the group made another good decision.

Only on the drive home later did I recall the word defibrillator.