Chapter 41 To Form the Perfect Union, Part I

I'll admit I like a good margarita. I'm not a snob about it, but the right tequila is key, and a proper citrus companion is a necessity; a fitting dance partner, so to speak -- one to form the perfect union, with just the right amount of ice to bless it all, of course.

And don't get me started on the salt.

Suffice it to say, if done right, the whole thing, from top to bottom, is like a mariachi for your senses.

OK, so maybe I am a snob about it.

But, alas, today -- right now, in fact -- the rough hewn bartender in front of me doesn't care. He's snubbing the whole thing with a look in his eye, as if to say, tequila was meant to be on its own, straight up, maybe a little ice, and certainly for someone tougher than me. I don't care what he thinks, though; that's what I want, so I'm standing my ground. In a way, it's poetic justice for me to watch him emasculate himself as he digs around for the ingredients to mix one. I half expect him to search out a tiny cocktail umbrella from the back room and brand me a sissy.

I move myself to the far end of the bar, away from sneering regulars, and when he's done, he slides my margarita out to me like I'm in some gun-slinging western. I've already accepted the fact that I'll be suffering through his version of it, but maybe I need to suffer a little bit anyhow, I think to myself as I hold on tightly, with two hands. I hunch over it and breathe it in, celebrating not much of anything at this little pity party for myself. For some reason, I'm looking for answers in this seedy dive, over the salted rim of a dirty glass, staring deep into a liquid that used to sway peacefully as a blue agave plant in the wind of somewhere south of here.

Who would ever choose this setting to wrestle concepts of a church gone bad? I would, I suppose. Maybe you'd like to join me. You see, I'm medicating myself through some crisis of faith, or maybe just religion, because I’ve grown tired, so very tired of the formulas and the rituals and the figureheads. Strange to be pondering this in a place where people come to think less and drink more, but it seems more likely I'll find him here anyway, right here in this down-and-out watering hole, which is insane, I know.

But insane or not, that's my problem. This Jesus I know and love had an insane and unexplainable love and an inclination to touch people, all of them -- drunks, prostitutes, gamblers and lepers. He longed to be about healing, and so he just did it. A lot. He spent most of his time outside, always on the move, looking for them; but he also cherished it when they came looking for him. That always made him smile, and so he rewarded their faith.

Of course, there were some who came looking for a fight, bent and determined to prove him wrong. Not that he didn’t welcome the inquisitive; no, not at all. It was just the way they asked. You know the ones -- full of judgment and pride and self righteousness. He knew hearts.

Correct that. He knows hearts.

Anyhow, reading and hearing about what happened back then, it just seems really simple to me. So much so, that today, I doubt he cares about the spaces in between us -- you know, our denominational territories. Maybe I've felt it more this Easter season, but what caused this divide, these rites and routines? What formed our Christian labels? Are you a Methodist or Lutheran? Perhaps Catholic? What instigated our disagreements, the very ones which now cause us to point fingers at each other? Maybe I just need to spend more time researching and learning about church history, but if I can be brutally honest, I don't care much about it if only draws attention away from the man we've all agreed is the One.

Does any of it matter anymore if what we really mean is to simply follow after him?

And that very question leads me to right about now, sitting in a bar, sipping on my bad excuse for a fine Mexican drink.

I’m never quite sure how or even why he seeks me out, but the rumble is obvious outside the door of this corner bar. All Harley engines, to me anyway, shun the convention of a smoother resonance. It’s an unsettling racket: an explosion of pistons and fuel that shake the ground. On purpose, I assume.

He comes in, and yes, he's looking for me, this Jesus of my imagination. It's too late for me to hide. He bellies right up to the bar and sits next to me. The bartender asks him what he’d like. I'm hoping he'll snub him on my behalf, but he just smiles, puts his hand across the bar and touches his arm, appropriately, and replies that he isn't staying. Plus, he says, he's doing a lot of riding today, so it won't be a good mixture. Speaking of a not-so-good mixture, it's funny, but I'm strangely un-embarrassed to be found hugging a cocktail. By him, anyway.

He studies the room and he locks in on the faces, yes, even the bartender, each one is so important to him. I keep forgetting that.

But, apparently, the moment is all about Jeff, and so he looks at me with those eyes, you know, as in: get up now, we’re going. So up and out we go.

The timing seems right, so I say, I bet they'll have good margaritas in heaven.

He laughs deep and hard as we climb on his ride. I can still feel his ribs shaking as he responds, yes, perhaps -- but without the bad choices and hangovers.

He intuitively knows what I’ve been struggling with, and so our journey isn’t far. We ride a couple of miles and then start to circle a corner block that surrounds an old church. It's opulent, perhaps the most beautiful in my town, of stone and granite and stained glass; a temple to cradle His people with a steeple rising to the sky in worship of His Father, who is worthy of it all, no doubt.

After circling a few times, he breaks the silence.

A lot of time is spent in there studying God’s Word, he speaks firmly and loudly over the engine’s din.

Yes, I agree.

Is the Word a book, to just be studied, or am I the Word?

Both, I guess. That seems like a trick question. I'm not sure what this has to do with anything.

Safe answer, he responds.

For the record, I think we both look a little silly, two men just riding around and around a church. People are starting to stare.

Do you believe everything in the Bible, Jeff?

My response is quick. Yes, of course (although, between you and me, I’ve always thought the story about Noah and the Ark sounded a bit like a fairy tale).

He can read my thoughts, damn it. So he reminds me that a lot of people died in that story. It wasn’t a fairy tale.

OK, so now I believe the whole thing.

If you believe it all, he continues, then, getting back to the question at hand, I’m sure you remember the part about me being the Word, right?

Yes. We just covered that.

OK, good. What do you notice about me right now?

Uh.. I don’t know. A lot of things.

You've got your arms around me.

OK, yes, I do. He's setting me up for something.

Are the lungs in my chest moving in and out?

Yes.

So, I’m breathing?

Yes.

Do you feel my heart beating?

Yes.

Great. Is it safe to assume, then, that I’m alive?

Well, duh, I think. Yes, of course.

So, if I'm alive, then one could conclude that I'm the living Word?

Yes.

Excellent. He pauses for a moment, maybe for effect. Jeff, are we moving, or sitting still?

I let that one hang while I think about it.

Well, technically, we're moving, but it sort of feels like we're sitting still. You know, 'cause we keep riding around in a circle.

He turns around, this Jesus of the open road, his face close to mine. He's smiling, perhaps from the irony of my response. He dips into one last turn, and I lean in with him as he accelerates away from that old stone church, out into the city.

I have a feeling this conversation is far from over.