Review of My Church

Well, that’s a lie. It’s not my church. I’ve only been there once. But it was wonderful. And I will be returning every chance I get. The search is over. Finally.

For the record, I am a human. This is worth articulating because, especially when it comes to churches, I want to be treated like a human and not a farm animal. I don’t need to be herded, nor do I want to follow the herd. That said, as I walked into the building I was greeted and I watched as a woman took my name down on some sort of ledger with a pencil. Remember pencils? While there were no children-specific activities that day, I’m certain H- won’t have to be processed and tagged to take part in them next time.

Quickly finding George, I suggested we move closer to the front than where he had chosen and we did. Next thing you know, he and I are standing wide-eyed amidst the seated congregation at the behest of a young women who read off the names of all the guests. Little H- remained seated until our kind neighbors in the pew in front of us urged her to stand when the young woman asked for any guests whom she may have missed to also stand. H- stood proud.

This next part is probably a little too personal, but this is my blog so I’m writing it. It’s been a while since I’ve had much physical contact with anyone but H-. And she’s in that tight spot where I think she does it because she recognizes this. Anyhow, I’ve been thinking this probably needs to change. Touch is important, they say. Well, during an amazing baby dedication that lasted about ten minutes and crowded seemingly an entire extended family at the front, like thirty people, we were asked to stand and next thing I knew my hand was being touched by the lady next to me. I looked down before moving my hand out of her way and noticed that she was simply reaching out to hold my hand during the dedication thing. It was then that I looked around and quickly noticed that everyone was holding their neighbor’s hand. I joined suit and grabbed H-‘s little hand. Next thing I noticed (George too), H- was placing her limp hand in George’s. At the end, my kind neighbor gave my hand a squeeze before she released it.

Did I mention that the three of us were the most under-dressed folks in the entire building. I measured by layers. I had two. All the other men were at least at two, most at three. Probably half the women had hats on. These people dressed with a purpose. And yet they were naked. Can you understand that?

I thought the roof was going to come off at one point during the worship. Talk about Holy Ghost power. A real piano, an un-amplified small drum set, and an organ accompanied a real, though small and old, choir. Though I’m sure no one could hear us, George and I both sang.

Finally, we came to the Word. And here’s where I discovered what I have been looking for all along in a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be smug. A sermon shouldn’t cause my mind to distractedly go academic on it. A sermon shouldn’t teach beyond its speaker’s–nor audience’s–intelligence, nor should it dumb down that which cannot be in order to meet the audience. We’re talking about a sermon. A sermon shouldn’t be chocked full of witticisms, nor jokes. The preacher needn’t prove “even though I’m a preacher, I can be funny, see?”, nor should he tell some inside joke that requires his giving a politician’s knowing nod to some poor soul who will undoubtedly feel a little too special for the rest of the afternoon and at the same time causes me to wish it had been me. Most important, I realized that I want a sermon which is a sermon. Not a presentation. Not death by powerpoint. Not a motivational speech. And the sermon that day was none of those things. It was more than those things.

Afterward, we lingered. People lingered. We met the pastor. Oh. And did I mention the service’s total duration was over two and half hours? 10:30 start, when it was over I pulled my phone out and it displayed 1:15. And it did this without filler like Broncos mentions, professional videos with floating words, or hollywood movie clips.

Walking to our cars, George said it best, “Pete. This was by far and away the best church yet.”

Letter to My Friend About Publishing The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor

Hey Friend,

I’ve been thinking about your phone call last week, about the unnamed feeling you felt. Now, I can’t possibly know what you’re thinking about your book, but here’s what I’m thinking about my book. I’m terrified to put it on sale and have people read it. Terrified. Why? Because on that day the dream ends. I think I told you about my next book, Eight Acres, and that I have always had a problem of fantasizing about the future rather than living in the now. After talking with you the other morning at the Egg and I (and even before then) I’ve been sustained by the dream that The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor will really take root. That it will go viral. That men (and their women) will write me to thank me for being the vulnerable one and sharing my experiences with such daring. And oh yes, radio shows. Probably even television will be in the mix, to be honest. And more than that, the dream has included that I won’t have to get a real job again. Because I can’t stand working.

But the day I list the book on Amazon, the dream ends. In its place will be only one simple reality–it won’t sell. Unlike the book version of this blog, Simon Pastor may sell 50 copies or so to family and friends and random blog followers because it is new material. But it won’t go viral. It won’t “put me on the scene”. It won’t prevent me from having to endure a real job again. It might, of course, but it won’t. No, it actually doesn’t even have a might. It just won’t. Make no mistake, I needed to write this book. I needed to write it like I need my next breath. And I need to write my blogs. But that’s a far cry from it selling. I’m beginning Eight Acres this weekend and will likely have it complete before February. But then the money starts running out. The dream will end. And I’ll be putting to test my resolve at being kind to my ex-wife as my new job’s schedule will likely act as a catalyst to backsliding into anger and hurt.

I am happy though. Really happy. I don’t regret anything and I wouldn’t change a thing about how I lived my life since taking the oil rig job. 33 is a big year for me. Laughing, I told George the other day that only after having finished this book did I remember that I predicted back in church camp years ago that 33 was when I’d start my calling. Ha. Everyone else always acted like it was in/around college that they would begin their calling. Well, at 18 I said that I felt mine would begin at 33 because that’s how old Jesus was (give or take) when they killed him. Immature, misguided, morbid, delusional, but true nonetheless. And you can bet I never imagined my calling would be a book centered on divorce. Suffice it to say, I can’t wait to hit 34 and laugh at my prophetic abilities. Either way, I’m certain that no matter what it is going to be a helluva lot of fun.

Okay. Sell your book. Give it away. Get people reading it. And on to the next one.

Pete

PS – James Hetfield of Metallica said, “Music is my therapy. I need to do it.” I’m not sure that’s exactly where you’re at with writing, but I think you can see the value in his honest admission. With this book, I am certain now that money has nothing to do with the fact that I need to write.

Review of the Mega Church

I’m at a loss. I thought I knew what to expect before going, but there are just some situations in life that can’t be prepared for apparently. Most recently, the situation I’m referring to is attending a mega church. Now you know as well as I do that I’m not talking about anything that has to do with a church’s size. As an example, recently while I was visiting family in Kansas City I attended the largest United Methodist church in the USA. It is not a mega church.

Back in Denver, I visited a mega church last Sunday. What a joke. Seriously. There is no possible way someone can read a single verse from the Old or New Testament and conclude that a mega church is what any of those folks envisioned. The only people I can think of who envision a mega church as having something to do with the gospel or first or second century churches are tenth-graders who just got back from a week-long church camp. Oh, and people who were never taught that it’s okay to have a lot of money. (If you happen to be one of these wealthy heathens, check out Peter Drucker’s idea about profit in his book Management. It explains your dilemma most succinctly, I think. Profit equals responsibility–nothing more. And, yes, we’re all watching you and evaluating your decisions. So please lead by example).

Most church services have a specific routine. They begin with worship, pass the offering plate, preach, sing one final song, and release people in time for football/nascar. Conversely, the mega church begins with preaching. The preaching seems genuine, is crazy professional, and refers to bible verses a few times to help us remember the reason we showed up in the first place. Then, after the preaching comes the worship. It’s a rock concert. Super professional. It’s also difficult to imagine it is at all authentic. I couldn’t help but picture the musicians practicing putting their hands in the air at specific moments in the songs much like Kirk Hammett of Metallica does in the tuning room before he takes the stage. Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I guess. Next, only after the crowd is softened up for an hour does the offering plate get passed around. Finally, as if seventh-graders embarrassed to be seen at Kmart with their mom, the auditorium crowd disperses quickly. Now, you might be inclined to think this is because they’re busy people, what with having to painstakingly decide how to spend all that money, but I think it’s because they know what you and I know. That it’s a lie. The whole thing. One. Big. Lie.

But if it makes you feel good and no one gets hurt, what’s the harm in doing it, right?

Just Humming Along

He whistled loudly as they approached the grocery store.

“What song are you whistling, Daddy?” H- begged.

“My Favorite Things,” he answered.

“Oh,” she said, not familiar with the tune.

“All aboard!” he called, signaling it was time for her to hop on the front of the cart if she was going to.

He watched and heard her begin an open mouth hum as she attempted to demonstrate her own Christmas spirit notwithstanding a deficit in whistling ability. Chuckling, he pushed the cart into the store and began searching for beautiful women whom he could make smile with the assistance of his little helper.

“I said humming to town,” H- said, laughing innocently as congestion in the baking aisle halted their progress.

“What’s that?” he asked.

H- then proceeded to hum the chorus of Santa Claus Is Coming To Town. Afterward she again giggled and said, “I said humming!”

Squinting and with a cocked head, he looked at her in disbelief and thought, “Surely she knows when she hums no one hears the words?”

“Oh yeah?” he quickly said before the moment passed.

Progressing now to the cereal aisle, another repeat of the chorus was followed by, “That time I said coming.” More humming and another laughing explanation. “I said humming again!”

“Man, I can’t believe they don’t have any corn flakes.”

“Santa is probably humming to the reindeer as they pull his sleigh,” she said thoughtfully, unconcerned with the moment’s dilemma.

“What?” he asked, rising from the crouched position where he had just verified the awful truth that he’d have to get creative to make the cookies.

“I said,” she labored, “Santa is probably humming to the reindeer.”

“A wordsmith is born,” he thought smiling, unable to hide his pride.

Candid Conversations With George, Did You Smell That?

So every once in a while I post a scene from a day in the life with George. For organizational purposes these post’s title will now be prefaced with CCWG. I also added a CCWG category at the bottom of the page for easy reference to past conversations. On with it!

The driver and passenger doors shut near simultaneously as the two men got in the car.

“I didn’t want to say anything during the service, but did you smell that?” Pete asked, starting the car.

“Hmm, no,” George answered without confidence. “Smell what? What are you talking about?”

“Back in the church. I kept smelling something pretty rank. I even kept my mouth closed in an effort to eliminate the possibility it was just my own breath,” Pete explained.

“Ha. No, I can’t say that I did smell anything.”

“Weird. I felt bad because A- was right there too and he had invited us and all. A lot of people were lifting their hands in the air, so I guess it could’ve been just the B.O. from that,” Pete said.

“Yeah, it’s always possible. That was a lot of people in there,” George said.

“But it was pretty awful. As predicted, there were a lot of women there too. And you know how bad their farts smell,” Pete suggested.

“Oh yeah. Women’s farts are the worst!” George said. Pete couldn’t help but notice George’s energy go from zero to a hundred in an instant. “It’s all because they hold them in for sooooo long!”

“What? This is great,” said Pete, laughing.

“Yeah. They hold it and hold it and hold it. And then you let them into a large auditorium like that and they let them rip. They figure nobody will suspect them,” George articulated. Continuing the flawless rationale, he explained, “My older sister used to never fart. Never. She actually had me convinced that women don’t fart.”

“Come on,” Pete questioned.

“Dude, I was like seven,” George clarified. “Anyhow, one Christmas I heard her just rip one. She couldn’t deny it, so then she convinced me women only fart one day a year–Christmas.”

Enough About Change, Enough!

Daily, so-called experts advise us to change our perspective, change our job, change our life. They believe we should change our world. It’s sickening. Like you, I’ve followed that message too many times to count and for what? It is a false hope. Change? No thank you.

As the year wraps up I’m happy to report I like life the way it is. And I know you do too. Here’s how I know.

Forgiveness – You forgive me daily. I struggle with why, but am sure you’re the better person for it. It is at once free and invaluable.

Friendship – Again, you give it freely. I cannot imagine a world without the ability to make friends. I don’t want to either.

Peace – The world is close. Real close. Some want to keep the focus on the unrest. The rest of us know to keep peace the focus, and rightly so. Focus on the peace and see what unfolds, I say.

Compassion – Everyone I have ever met understands compassion. While not always possible to act on, their feelings of compassion are always real. I cannot imagine this world before it was filled with compassion. Like most good things, once conceived, the concept of compassion cannot be forgotten. And it never will be.

Love – There is no greater source of strength than the fact that the lowest of the low, the meanest of the mean, I’m talking about the most wretched wretch, this man or woman is still loved by at least one person if they’ll only let themselves feel it.

Change that? Never.

Teaser for Pete Deakon’s New Book: The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor

You know how movie teasers and trailers are fun in and of themselves? Well, here’s the teaser for my new book. Enjoy!

A black screen disappears in favor of a silent scene of a bloodied, weeping man trying desperately to beat down an apartment door; inside the apartment is a slouching drunk wearing a look of frightening resignation and throwing his nearly empty tumbler at that door; curious music now accompanies the camera as it closes in on the drunkard’s painful expression of doom. As if a film projected onto his eyes we see video of a beautiful woman leaning in expectantly towards that same man, though younger and full of life. His eyes dissolve out of the background and we now see the man jealous of the woman as she dances the night away with others; then an engagement; then the music quickens to frantic as the pace of the montage of already short video clips speeds up until they are not much more than still images in which we see yelling, fighting, painful looks, divorce papers, fear, and hurt.

Then the screen returns to silent black and the text “The Divorce and Doom of Simon Pastor” appears. As it fades away the text “Coming Soon” takes its place almost in a whisper.

Meanwhile…Back At The Workshop

Venspu would have knocked but when he saw Santa at the window he decided against it. He was looking outside, his head resting on his forearm which was pressed against the glass.

“What is it, Venspu?” Santa asked, startling him.

“I can come back,” Venspu began, “it’s nothing.”

“Nothing wouldn’t have led you here tonight, not this night,” Santa said.

Santa’s back was still turned, but Venspu could see his eye’s reflection. They never lost their twinkle, no matter how tired he was. Remarkable, he thought.

“Speaking plainly, the elves are tired,” Venspu said hurriedly. “There’s six days to go. I’ve crunched the numbers. It’ll be close, but if you give them a break tonight, we’ll still be finished before the big night.”

“Think so?” Santa asked, finally turning to face his lead foreman.

“I do,” he said, careful not to betray his hope.

“And just what would the elves do with their time tonight if they didn’t work?” Santa asked.

Could he know? Venspu thought. No. There’s no way. Not this time.

Exhaling, Venspu said, “Sleep, Santa. They’d sleep.”

Santa loved the elves. He couldn’t understand why they were so ready to turn on him. He only enslaved them because he knew they would be happier working for him than facing the cold reality of the human world. Yet here was one of his finest workman, Venspu, looking him dead in the eye and lying. As a tear formed, Santa turned back to the window.

“Give them the night off,” Santa said.

“Thank you, Santa,” Venspu said, adding, “You can count on me to be sure they’re ready for work at first light.”

“Good night, Venspu. You may go,” Santa said, only too aware of the slaughter to come.

You Have Listened To Good Music, Right?

For Sam

Dear Stereo Makers,

How many times have you ever broken a nail with a hammer? Or how many times have you sat on a chair and had the chair just simply break? I know! I know! How many times have you turned on a faucet and the water came out so fast that it put a hole in the sink? No, better yet, how many times have you read a book so fast that it broke?

Zero, right?

Then why, for the love, do you sell a product which allows me to turn up the volume so loud that it breaks my speakers? Why? Surely there’s a way you can prevent this. Surely you can put a line on the knob that lets me know “any louder now, Bub, and you might break your speakers”. I would obey. Promise.

Thank you for reading. Just do better.

Pete

****

PS – If you’re interested, I ended the affair. The End.

A Bitter End to Christmas

“Shhh,” Tinsel mouthed to Mercutious, as he deftly and silently approached his target. Mercutious sat opposite the campfire from Jupton. He couldn’t watch, but neither could he look away as Tinsel, the leader of the Elven resistance, lined up his first officer’s pointy ear for a playful–though painful–flick.

“Ahh!” Jupton cried, as he leaned forward and away from the assailant. Seeing Tinsel standing there with an ear-to-ear grin infuriated and invigorated him. “So you’re back! This is good. How does it look?”

Tinsel informed the rebel Elven leaders that since their last attack, Santa had doubled the number of guards at the wall.

“Were you able to get a response from Venspu? Do they know tomorrow is the day?” Jupton asked.

“I was. They do,” Tinsel replied.

“So this is it,” Jupton pronounced. “The end of Christmas. The end of Santa’s unlawful reign, and the end of the enslavement of two million innocent elves.”

“God willing,” Tinsel said. “You know the plan. We know the plan. Stick to the plan. Venspu wrote that he only has two thousand elves willing to fight. Of those, he personally vouches for only fifteen hundred,” he stopped, harnessed a grave look and continued, “that means the fight is ours.”

“The fight is ours,” muttered the small group of officers in unison.

“Santa is not going to go down easy,” Tinsel lectured. “He has his lists. He remembers everything.” A few of the men chuckled. “What?” Tinsel asked.

Mercutious couldn’t help but sing, “He’s making a list, checking it twice.” Soon the others joined in, “He’s gonna find out who’s naughty or nice.”

A thunderous laughter erupted among the rebel leaders.

“That’s funny,” Tinsel assented. “You’re right. I talk too much. Get some sleep. Be ready at first light.”