Addison Road

A year ago tonight, I sat alone in our condo, watching a movie that was most likely not edifying to my soul. I think it was actually Scarface, which I had as of then never seen. I am still struggling to figure out what all the fuss is about. My wife and daughter (and my still-incubating son) had made their way to San Diego to get a jump on the Thanksgiving week festivities with her folks. I had all sorts of work to do and was planning on joining them on Wednesday. So, I enjoyed my red wine, my trashy movie, my brief bachelor moment, and I went to bed.

The following morning began like many others. I woke up, brushed my teeth, brewed a pot of coffee, and then engaged in an oh-so-luxurious bachelor treat: checking the morning news and my email on the internets whilst lounging alone in our king sized bed. No children clamoring for my attention, no chores to be done. Just headlines and weekend box office, post secret and fark.

My inbox was headlined by an email which would catch me completely off-guard, and would instantly change my life. It was entitled: crisis.

After reading the email, and confirming via telephone that it wasn’t some sort of cruel hoax, I posted here. I felt like the title was succinct, and to the point, so I copied it. I haven’t talked much about it since then. I would throw out a nebulous tidbit here or there. I would write about some of the collateral damage going on in my brain. But I haven’t talked about… it. I don’t really know why, I guess it just seemed disrespectful. I think I have also been reluctant to turn Addison into my personal diary.
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My friend and mentor, boss and pastor, my teacher in life and in the Word, had an affair with a woman who wasn’t his wife. After a year of hiding it, the other husband found out and the aforementioned shit hit the aforementioned fan in a shat-tastic, poo-riffic spectacle of crap. Those of you who have issues with Christians who use colorful metaphors should seriously consider a change of venue. I’m venting, and shit’s gonna fly.

He was the best senior pastor I’d ever seen. His command of the Scripture rivaled anyone. Ever. He painted Scripture like Renior, and played it like Chopin. He had taken a church known for it’s infighting and legalism and shepherded it into a place where the Spirit had begun to flow like cool water. He beat the fundies at their own game, because He knew the Word better then they did, and they knew it. He trumped them, so they either left or remained silent.

Working with him was a worship leader’s dream. One Sunday, about five weeks into my tenure, He started riffing on the root Scripture of one of the songs we had just led. I cannot remember the song or the Scripture in question, but he just started going, and before you know it, 25 or 30 minutes had passed, and he was circling around again. He had us come up and sing it again, but no one could sing it the same way. The congregation poured the music back over us, washing us with great and mighty waves of sound. We did the same thing 2nd service. He just bailed his planned message. No big deal. The Spirit had moved, and so had we. It was like buttah.

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The church was growing. It was growing in my favorite way: word of mouth. People were bringing friends, friends who were too smart for church. I watched as die-hard, Bush loving, MacArthurites started to mingle with intellectual liberals, and actually fellowship together. I watched a church begin to form where some of the tough topics were addressed with great love and care. I remember him talking about Islam, and managing to walk that tightrope between dismissal and disdain and ecumenical sentimentality. He spoke about homosexuality, politics, love, death, and taxes. He never misspoke. In fact, the only time I remember him getting in trouble was the time he burned incense in the sanctuary. From the reaction of the ex-Catholics in our congregation, you’d think we’d done a Deaconesses Gone Wild video.

But then… like getting hit by lightning on a cloudless day, it’s was all frizzy hair and what-the-hell-just-happened. No more mentor/friend/boss for you, thanks for playing. We’re gonna go ahead and amputate that arm, but please continue doing what you’re doing, just learn to do it without your arm, silly! Here, have a cookie, you’ll feel better.

No. I really, really won’t. I will feel better when I am good and damn ready to feel better, thank you very much.

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I saw him on the campus that monday night, as we had an emergency meeting, and then he cleared out his office a few days later and that was that. They moved out of state to start over. You shag one chick and the whole thing gets rebooted, that’s how it works.

Oh sure… there’s a few coffees and a dinner or two. Words of encouragement are spoken and meant. Emails are sent and reports are given. But the relationship… just… ceases.

The devil is truly an asshole. That may be the only actually true statement in this whole post. The rest is just me having a bad anniversary.

So what’s the fallout from a friend who implodes and then withdraws? I can’t quantify it yet. I’m still pissed off at everyone a year later. I’m pissed off at him for bailing on us. I’m pissed off at the church (ours and The Church at large) for being unable to deal with actual real live gee-whiz sin and restoration. I’m pissed off at every other preacher in California for sucking so badly compared to him. I’m just pissed.

The good news is that I’ve channelled the hell out of that angst. Pain is more economically stimulating then comfort, that I’ve learned. I lost 80 pounds. We made a record, and it’s good, and people are responding to it. I have had a critical role to play in the life of our church, and I have to tell you can really bring some heat when you feel like you have nothing left to lose. Sometimes it’s the best way to do this job.

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But dammit, am I still pissed off. The real bitch about being a soft male who’s genuinely pissed off is that you know there’s no real boogie-man for you to shoot at.

So here’s to you, Black Monday, my harsh tutor. Thanks for the memories. Thanks for what you’ve taught me. Thank you for changing my life. You took my inocennce, but I can forgive you for that. You changed my church, but I can forgive you for that, too. You ripped my from my little womb, but no one said being born again was easy, did they?
I wish you could have taught me your lessons without killing off my frienship with this man. I’ll never forgive you for that, November 21, 2005. Whatever gifts you have given me, and continue to give me in the years to come, that price was too high.