The Power of the Collar!

Sometime ago in divinity school (ten years ago to be exact) a local UCC minister came to our class to proclaim the advantages of wearing a clerical collar.  I had always wanted to wear a uniform as a child – postman, garbage man, baseball player – so the talk of a uniform for a Protestant minister appealed to me.  Upon the lecture I went out and purchased a clerical collar.  My colleagues did not seem impressed, the pastor who was my mentor was not impressed, my parents were impressed. As I pastored the small church in WV I wore a collar with small success.  Folk would turn their head in confusion, folk would stare, occasionally someone would say morning or afternoon Father.

All things changed when I moved to RI (the most Catholic state in the Union).  If I wore a collar parking spots were free, doors were opened, coffee was still the same price.  Since moving to New Orleans (a highly Catholic area) my collar wearing has received mixed reviews.  On the one hand folk are a bit perplexed: a Baptist wearing a collar while on the other hand folk are a bit mesmerized.

Last week I joined a parishioner for lunch in the CBD.  Since the restaurant was near the Avenue I took the street car.  After lunch the ubiquitous afternoon rain began; I made a run for the street car.  The car was stopped at a stop light when I walked up, knocked on the front door and waited for the doors to open.  Since I was not a proper stop the conductor shook her head no way.  There I was looking dapper, if I say so, in a suit and tie in the pouring rain and denied!  Fast forward a few days to the Lord’s Day; I prefer to ride the street car on Sunday mornings to church.

As I walked in the thick humid heat I saw the car lurch forward and begin its journey down the track which caused me to run to a non-proper stop.  The street car stopped opened the door and waited for me to enter.  The conductor looked at me in my suit AND clerical collar, asked if I was a Reverend, and then said Rev. you are going to get me fired stopping here to pick you up.  The power of a $5.00 piece of white plastic!

For your entertainment

I have been meaning to post some pictures of my new work site.  Here you go:

Get a Haircut and Get a Real Job

One specific day when I was four or five my father had had enough of the “dutch-boy haircuts” my mother gave me.  He loaded me into the GMC Sierra and we went on a special visit, to Harry’s Barber Shop.  I was scared of the strange man cutting my hair but my father pulled a fabulous coup: the barber shop had a large glass front window that looked directly at the train tracks.  While my hair was being cut to within 1/2 inch of my scalp my eyes were mesmerized by the coal trains that trundled by.  Thus began my adventures with barbershops.

Eventually Harry died and I graduated to Brown’s barbershop, a five chair shop, a cleaner shop, and definitely less manly shop.  The cuts there were fine, I read Sports Illustrated, watched CNN, and talked with friends while we all waited to be next in line.  Then came college: straight razor cut in Philippi, WV, the super fast cut in Huntington, and trips back to Brown’s.  In divinity school: cuts wherever I could find them (loud shops).  Back in WV after div school: Mr. Matherly’s a nice gabby gentleman who chewed tobacco and bulled his way through hour long cuts.

Then there was Jim’s Barbershop in Rhode Island.  By chance I found his shop.  It was an old shop, with lots of magazines, newspapers, and minimal decorations.  Jim was (still is) a great barber; he knew instantly what I wanted.  I never had to tell him how I wanted my haircut; he would simply start cutting when I sat down.  Jim was (still is) a great gentleman.  Then I told him I was leaving to New Orleans.  I miss my friends and church members from Rhode Island, but I really miss Jim: barber, friend, gentleman.

I commenced to find me a new barber upon arriving in New Orleans.  My first experiment was a complete disaster, it didn’t even feel as if I had a haircut  - no, I was not expecting to place a bet (Andy Griffin reference).  What to do?  This brings me to the reason for this post.  Last week I stepped out on a limb and chose an old fashioned men’s barber shop, a barber shop that sells men’s grooming equipment (i.e. tools), offers shaves, and get this throws in a complimentary drink.  Last Friday on my day off I ventured down Magazine Street for my first cut.  The layout was pleasing, a bit too busy for my tastes but not discouraging.  The barber was wearing a bowtie (which hung out the back of his collar).  The conversation was muffled but pleasant (yes we had the initial religious conversation).  The cut was satisfactory.

As the barber began trimming he asked if I cared for a drink.  I said no, I did not want a coke or a glass of water.  As the cut progressed I realized the “drink” he offered was not H2O or a soda it was the real thing: whisky (I prefer to drop the American e).  At my moment of recognition I asked if he could run the drink offer by me again.  He obliged and explained I had my choice of an Abita, a Guiness, or Irish Whisky – on the rocks or neat.  I chose neat but he brought me on the rocks, oh well. I do not foresee this barber ever taking the place of Jim but I also do not foresee getting a haircut ever being the same either…

Amongst Organists

This evening I spoke at the American Guild of Organists New Orleans chapter.  The organist at St. Charles asked that I be the guest speaker which I gladly accepted and even prepared remarks.  The organist is a great guy whom I think the world of.  I love to hear him play and “have at it.”  Anything he wants I will happily do.

Nevertheless, the event had the feel of a church service only in reverse, solely due to this fact: we had fried chicken before I preached.  I don’t think that has ever happened in my life. I must confess that I was a bit disappointed with the affair.  The organists did not make fun of pianists, they did not have any esoteric rituals, they did not have a Bach-themed meal,they didn’t even take up an offering.  They were also not amused at my level of disappointment.   Oh well, perhaps if the guild of orchestral trombone players invites me to speak this summer…

First Day of School 2009

On Monday the First Family and I piled into the Mini and headed off for the first day of school.  We cruised up the main thoroughfare with minimal traffic but once we entered the threshold of the “car pool lane” we might as well have been on 138 heading into Boston.  The traffic was as thick as mashed (or creamed as I heard down here the other day) potatoes, the drivers were focused, and the flaggers – dancing street cops have nothing on these people.  The kids (#s 1 & 2 – #3 just wanted in on the fanfare) made it in, had a great day, made new friends and loved it!

Just…Baptist

This weekend college students by the rental van loads descended en masse upon uptown.  They walked up and down St. Charles Ave. with that dumb look about ‘em that said, well…who know what all it said.  This morning as I jotted down some last minute additions to my sermon the phone rang.  I politely picked up the receiver and voiced my pleasantries.  The voice on the other end of the line informed me that she was visiting the city, that her daughter was a student at Tulane, that they wanted to go to church this morning, and that they wanted to know what kind of Baptist church St. Charles Ave. was.  ”Are you a Southern Baptist or just Baptist, like you know…American or Independent?”  I answered that we were in the American and Cooperative fold, “oh…thanks” she said, then wished me a nice day.

I could have answered, mam we are a Baptist church composed of Southerners or we are a Baptist church in the South.  But I knew what she wanted to know; looking back on it I should have given her directions to First Baptist but I do not know how to get there or where it is.  (Someone said it is by the cemetery off I-10).

Needless to say this woman, unbeknownst to her, may have given me the proper Baptist designation that has alluded me for sometime.  What kind of Baptist are you: a Just Baptist, I like that.

DMV Adventures – Louisiana Style

Yesterday for the second time in five weeks I ventured out to the DMV in an attempt to obtain a driver’s license and plates for the Mini.  My initial attempt failed because Louisiana did not like my hospital birth certificate from WV.  I requested an official birth certificate from my home state, receiving it a few days later (including a receipt titled: Miscellaneous Vitals).

I arrived at the DMV with all the necessary paperwork, obtained my ticket, and sat down for a long wait.  Within minutes, to my surprise, my number was called!  I explained to the woman behind the desk why I was there and handed her all of the necessary paperwork.  I could tell she was not one who would appreciate my clever remarks and questions, but after 15 minutes I could not resist.

Have you ever passed out while driving?  No

Have you ever had a heart attack while driving?  No

Have you ever lost consciousness other than falling asleep at night?  medium pause: No.

Do you have any mental or psychological problems that you are aware of?  Not that I am aware of but my wife may think otherwise.

She was not amused – Please look into the box and read the numbers sir.

After this ordeal I was un-instructed to go to the far end of the counter to receive my plates.  As the gentleman gave me some non-descript plate I informed that I really wanted DBP 478, he too did not think this was too humorous.  Side bar conversation for the reader – I used to have a goal to have a meaningful conversation with any person, anywhere, anytime.  This I was able to accomplish 97% of the time.  My next goal was to make any person laugh, not just smile or small chuckle but a real hearty guffaw.  I was able to accomplish this 94% of the time.  Now I have a new goal that emerged yesterday: make people nervous for one brief second.

After receiving my license plate I asked the gentleman, “Has anyone ever complained about the gender exclusivity of the Louisiana plate?”  (The plate reads Louisiana a Sportsman Paradise).  The man at the counter got very nervous and repeated No, No, No, No.  New goal: 100% success rate!

The Shirt Off His Back: New Orleans Hospitality

After a month of life in New Orleans, after multiple meals with parishioners, after coffee, after banana bread…I can firmly express how great it is to be the recipient of New Orleans hospitality!  While in RI The VOR and I considered we were a bastion of appalachian hospitality in the north, but man were we wrong!  We had no idea how much the culture had changed us; without our consent we had been “Northernfied!”  Since being here I do not know how many times I have felt uneasy with the friendliness others have shown me.  I do not know how many times I have felt impatient with the lackadaisical pace of life.  I do not know how many times I have waited for someone to honk their horn at me for not immediately accelerating once the light changes from red to green.  I am, however, grateful for the reminder of how life should be lived!

Case in point:  Yesterday I put on my church clothes and went to work.  For some odd reason I did not wear an undershirt!  Around noon I departed for my lunchtime meeting with a parishioner.  After a few steps the perspiration began to bead on my forehead, after a few more steps the moisture was running down and dripping off my nose, after a few more steps the handkerchief wiping my neck, after a few more steps my undershirtless uniform looked liked someone sprayed me with a water hose.

When I arrived at my destination my host wanted to give me an extra shirt and volunteered to throw my drenched shirt in the dryer while we ate.  I did not take him up on it…talk about hospitality.

It is good refreshing to be here.

note to self: regardless how hot it is, wear an undershirt!

Welcome

Welcome to my new blog.  After moving from Rhode Island to New Orleans I decided to mothball Theobilly and initiate a new blog: Sittin and Thinkin.  The title?  The most obvious is in reference to a country song by Charlie Rich, which Elivs Costello covered a few years ago (better live).  The less obvious reference — my late father’s late best friend used to sit on his front porch every evening, with a glass of George Dickel, digesting all the news of the day, family happenings, and what not.  He was sittin and thinkin.  This same gentleman one time described my job as a pastor as one where I sit and think about all the craziness in the world and attempt to make sense of it all.

Thus the launch of Sittin & Thinkin…