Shirts and Porches

If you were to walk into my house right now and take a look around, you would see some pretty normal stuff.

Pictures on the wall

A refrigerator

A recliner

A lamp

And a shirt nailed to the wall.

When I first moved in, I didn't want to completely ruin my impression on the landlord. So, the first few times she came near the front door, I kept the door barely open so she wouldn't ask

Why is there a shirt hanging on your wall?

I had several episodes like this, where the landlord or an electricity salesperson or the maintenance man would come knockin', and I would keep the door barely cracked as if my living room was full of marijuana.

I don't remember if I even ever told the story, even though I got comfortable with people seeing the shirt.

And then, the other day, I was sitting on the porch with my grandpa. It was his porch.

It was probably the best conversation we've had in the last ten years, and there wasn't a word said.

He kept dozin off to the sound of the birds singin in the yard, and I kept watchin em to see what would catch his attention and what wouldn't. 

Airplanes flyin would cause em to lift his face to the air as if he were watchin an old war memory float across the sky, but his eyes were closed. He was lost in a world that I surely couldn't see. I wish I could of though.

My oldest memories place my grandpa on a porch, either at his old house in Crosby, or right here. 

Lookin at the garden

Checkin the water gauge

Watchin the birds play in the bird bath.

A shirt hangin on the wall.
A porch with my grandpa sittin on it.

As I've been ringin my brain tryin to figure out why I have such a hard time with the whole church thing, I think I've come to some near closure.

But first, the sacred story behind the shirt. 

Painted on the shirt in red and black cross formation are the words Grace Is For Everyone.

A couple coworkers and I had received a leaked email from a local megachurch pastor who was planning a rally that would be negatively aimed toward the homosexual community.

And so, my friends (who knew nothing about the stories of Jesus) and I decided to get buckets of water, make shirts, and set up foot washing stations directly beside the sidewalk where these pastors would be walkin in.

And as we were deciding on what the shirts would say and how we should go about it, I opened to the passage of scripture where Jesus washed his disciples feet. 

And I read. And we listened. And we formed a mental picture. And we knew what to do.

Did I mention I was with two agnostics? 

We stayed up for hours gettin ready. I think it was like 4:30am before we finally went to bed. 

We pulled up to the front of church and set up the stations. We didn't really know what to do while we were waiting for the first pastors to show, so we all got down on our knees beside the water buckets and waited.

We just waited. 

And I'm sure images of all our homosexual friends were flipping through our minds. We thought about the persecution they've experienced by stuff like this. We thought about the rejection. We thought about how the church could have possibly got it so wrong.

And we waited.

And the first pastor passed.
And the second. 
And the third.

And one of the administrators asked us to leave.

We told him no.

And another pastor passed.
And another.
And another.

And another administrator told us to leave. 

And we left.

In all, the scene lasted about an hour. 

It'll probably never be remembered by a single person who walked into the building that day. In fact, I'm sure our little Jesus protest was forgotten the next day.

But for us, for me, that shirt still hangs on the wall. That shirt represents a turning point and a conflict and an adventure and a shared part in the continuing story of what it looks like to draw people in to God's redemptive love.

And so, the things about shirts and porches are: They are sacred.

And Sunday sermons - even though I just can't wrap my head around why they even exist - are, for someone sitting in that sanctuary listening, possibly the most direct expression of God is in this place, and I don't wanna miss it.

The things I consider sacred may look way different than the things other people consider sacred.

So why not celebrate the fact that we are all in our own weird and funny and relaxing and bogus and creepy and fun and prayerful and exciting ways attempting to experience more of that which is sacred. 

What is it in your life that sets off this inner voice that says, "God is in this place, and I don't wanna miss it"?