Back to the Porch

It was back to the porch on Sunday evening. No, not my back porch where I sit and stare at the trees till a peaceful contentment floods my soul. I went to Solomon’s Porch again. This time flanked by my son Luke and long-time friend J.C.P. J.C.P. was in town for the weekend. He was here in his boyhood hometown as he made his move from Hawaii to Miami. Early Sunday afternoon we joined another high school buddy at his house for burgers and brats around the backyard pool.

Having exhausted political topics Saturday night during our dinner at the outdoor café, our discussions turned toward religion. J.C.P. is ever my match as we debate various philosophies of religion and historical movements within the church and other faiths. He’s always been well-read and loves to take me to task. It’s probably his calling. I laugh when I think back to what he wrote in my high school yearbook. Following a long quote from Kurt Vonnegut, he concluded by claiming that he will never see the light of J.C., but hoped that some day I would see the light of J.C.P.

Always with a wry wit he has toyed with me, challenging each position I hold as I return the favor for him. It’s been good to have someone like him over the years, someone with whom I can vehemently disagree on issues, but never have it harm our relationship.

But anyways, as I again digress (but not to the extent that J.C.P. continually takes me and others on numerous tangents, often as a strategy [or so I think] to obfuscate an issue on which I have the upper hand), I asked J.C.P if he would like to tag along with Luke and me as we headed for the porch.

He was a little leery as I described the place to him. He was concerned that it might be some Marxist-Christian commune type place preaching South American liberation theology. I assured him that it wasn’t, so (never wanting to miss out on a new experience) he rode with us down to the “hood.”

It was a night with more tears than most. The porch sent off a family from the church to be missionaries to Jamaica, and it was moving as we all said good-bye and prayed for one another. Pastor Doug’s words that this was a bitter-sweet event were very evident in the expressions on his face and the shiver in his voice. Another young lady was “commissioned” as she headed to New York City for grad school. And then a middle-aged guy who has endured 5 brain surgeries spoke about his recent close calls with yet another time under the scalpel.

And all this was before Pastor Doug started to speak, tying together the week’s passages from St. Mark and Isaiah with the earlier stories from the church body.

It was a good evening. I know many were touched. We actually sang a hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy,” accompanied by a skillful violinist. As I looked toward the screen for the words, I scanned across a row of mostly 20-something guys singing loudly, many with tears running down their cheeks.

And then came the party, with enough juice, wine, and bread of substance to remember the One who puts all things together.