Nomads
(Written Sunday morning just prior to our worship service)

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A little over ten years ago I fired two people: my longtime Personal Assistant and a young chap who was serving under me as a Youth Pastor. It’s not as bad as it sounds. I fired myself as well. We launched out in a ministry called Patrick Crossing named after the famous and first saint of Ireland. I don’t know that he would claim us but we certainly claim him. I’ve written about his inspiration on our church website at: patrickcrossing.com should you care to get up to speed on his remarkable life. By the way, it had nothing to do with snakes.

As I sit here merrily tapping away on my MacBook, I am surrounded by the lovely and comfy confines of a historical theatre. The Henry Strater Theatre was mentioned in National Geographic as one of the must see historical sites in the United States. Within a couple of hours we will be gathered for worship. And later, myself and the formerly out of work Personal Assistant, my son and a few others will be performing in a play entitled: The Legend of Danny Boy. It was a collaborative effort. I framed it and then my son Riley and the previously unnamed Personal Assistant , Shiela, helped smooth it out. It is a raucous good time that tells the story of the Irish and also the true local story of how the lyrics of Danny Boy met with the tune. I won’t say more. You’ll just need to buy a ticket. We’re trying to fill seats.

On Monday evening there will be a burlesque show. Yes, in the place where we worship there will be a bit of enthusiastic decadence. For the record, I didn’t write that show. And, on Wednesday evening there will be a cowboy show featuring a poet laureate from Australia. It is a busy little Theatre, a community treasure, and the place we call home.

Nothing could better fit the spirit of St. Patrick than the direction our ministry has taken. When I fired myself I had hit a place where I was wildly unimpressed with ministry as it had been defined. It seemed a massive echo chamber. Almost everything seemed to come back to money, land, territorial whizzing matches and buildings. The early church was birthed without any of those things and did quite well for at least 300 years absent those supports. The question before us was this: Could we be Christian and carry out a witness to our historical faith in the midst of a cosmopolitan, artsy, tourist town? We’re still working on an answer to that question. But here we are, ten years later.

I look up and see my faithful friend,  a man who carries around a bullet from his days of service in the Navy. He is scurrying about cleaning the place and setting up the sound support. I’ve already done my bit by setting up the refreshment table and getting the coffee going. In a few minutes the worship team will arrive. Then, we will worship God – this ragamuffin community of spiritual nomads. I’ve never felt more the pleasure of God.