Oops. Didn’t mean to do that.

Sunday morning very early I left the house and drove 200 miles to a church where I was to preach. Originally, they’d asked me to bring a message for their senior adult emphasis this weekend, but they called during the week to say everything had changed. The pastor resigned abruptly last Sunday and an unknown number of members were leaving with him–some church leaders too–to begin a new church, and the congregation was in a turmoil. They still wanted me to preach today but not on the senior adult theme.

I was glad to do so. One of the benefits of having gone through a lot of trouble in the last couple of churches I’ve served is that I’ve learned some things to say to congregations and church leaders who are hurting. The only people I know who would willingly volunteer to speak to a church in crisis like this is a veteran preacher. At such times you know beyond a doubt you are called by God.

I left early enough to leave myself a little wiggle room in case I had car trouble. That’s why I arrived in their city 45 minutes early. So, I pulled into a nearby hotel parking lot, the same inn where my wife and I stayed just two months ago when I spoke at another church in the area. They have a spacious lobby where a guy wearing a white shirt and tie can collapse in a comfortable chair for 15 minutes without appearing out of place or being questioned. That’s when I noticed the families coming in.

A small crowd was congregating in a conference room toward the rear of the lobby. This was obviously a church service. I sat there resting, my body still throbbing from over 3 hours on the interstate highway, and heard the pastor welcoming the people. He thanked this one and that one and then named someone I know who had made the arrangements for this location. That’s when I knew.

I had happened onto the first meeting of the group that was leaving the church where I would be preaching in half an hour. For no reason I can identify, I felt extremely uncomfortable and immensely out of place. Hoping no one recognized me, I got up and walked out and drove to the church.

And, wouldn’t you know, we had an incredible worship service. Three or four hundred people were present, the youth minister baptized a teenager, and the service throbbed with life. A large number of beautiful, alert teenagers occupied the first three center pews. No one introduced me, so I did it myself. I walked to the pulpit and said, “Good morning. I’m your new pastor. The bishop sent me.” They laughed–as I was hoping they would. “Oh that it were that easy,” I told them.

As usual, I began by giving a brief report on New Orleans and asked for their prayers for the rebuilding of this troubled city.

Last year after Katrina, when our football team–the Saints–began losing bigtime, everyone made jokes that “well, things are getting back to normal.” But today, the first day of the NFL season, the Saints won, beating the Cleveland Browns. So, maybe, as the expression goes, we’re going to have a “new normal.”

“New Orleans and New York City have so much in common,” said Gary Frost, the executive director of the Metropolitan Baptist Association of New York, in our Ridgecrest on the River session Saturday. Meeting at First Baptist of New Orleans, we enrolled nearly 300 people total and had an absolutely wonderful day of conferences. The highlight was Dr. Frost’s message.

“Both cities are under threat,” he said. “Yours from hurricanes and flooding and ours from terrorism.” He said, “But we do not look to Homeland Security for our protection. We look to Heavenland Security. Not the CIA but the Celestial Intelligence Agency!”

Gary’s theme was the incident at the end of Joshua 5 where Israel’s leader, Joshua, is confronted by a man identifying himself as captain of the Lord’s armies. Joshua asks a logical question: “Whose side are you on? Are you for us or for them?” The man responds, “No.”

Gary said, “I have two titles for this sermon. One is a distinguished sermon title: ‘Pursuing a Kingdom Perspective.’ The other is a down home title: ‘It Ain’t About You.'”

The man of God let Joshua know, “I did not come to take sides. I came to take over.” It’s not about us, about our sides. We should pray for wisdom to see our battles from the divine perspective.

“We get disoriented and lose our perspective. Like the disciples James and John who asked for places of prominence in the Kingdom. They were glory hounds.”

“Joshua thought winning this battle was his responsibility. But the man of God told him to pull off his shoes, that he was on holy ground. That was the same thing the Lord had said to Moses at the burning bush. I’d like to ask every leader: have you been to the burning bush? Some haven’t. The result is you are too arrogant and think everything is about you. But it’s not. It’s about Him. It’s about His Kingdom.”

“Take off your shoes. It’s time to worship. Worship is not an event. It is a lifestyle. It orients me.”

I led two conferences at the Ridgecrest-on-the-River event, filling in for Fred Luter whose wife Elizabeth had been in an automobile accident. (She’s fine, thankfully, just badly bruised.) The title for both sessions was: “Spending Time With the Lord.” A perfect companion to Gary Frost’s message. (I told my conference: “I’m being Fred Luter today.” They laughed, and I added, “I can’t wait to hear myself preach!” He is such a gifted preacher.)

Friday I picked Dr. Frost up at the airport and gave him the deluxe tour of the city, especially the St. Bernard Housing Project and the Lower 9th Ward. He was here earlier this year with a group of New Yorkers working in the eastern part of the city. Freddie Arnold and I welcomed him to Suburban Baptist Church that Sunday. We’re indebted to a lot of dear friends and church volunteers from all over New York State who have been here to help us rebuild.

That’s one reason many of us were embarrassed by our mayor’s unthinking gaffe about the Ground Zero site being “a hole in the ground.” And frankly, we’re grateful for the New Yorkers we’ve talked to not being too offended.

My NAMB friend Richard Leach is going to learn to quit asking what I’m reading. He’s deeply into theory about various kinds of innovative church ministries, building new kinds of congregations to reach this generation, that sort of thing, and I’m certain he expects me to be reading such uplifting material. In answer to his most recent query, I told him Friday, “World War II stuff.” Which is true as far as it goes.

Most of my reading–two or three who read this will understand and the other several hundred will scratch their heads and wonder about me–is escape stuff. The two books I have currently checked out from the Jefferson Parish Library are “Bing: The Authorized Biography” (of Bing Crosby) by Charles Thompson and “Eye on Cavett” by Dick Cavett. Don’t ask me why. I just read them.

The Cavett book was written in 1983 and is basically something the library should have put on a sale table a decade ago. But I was struck by his take on New Orleans in a lengthy chapter called “Way Down Yonder.” I don’t know how he’s feeling about our city these days, post-Katrina, but back then he loved New Orleans. Some of his reasons we can identify with and appreciate and some are–well, the very things that embarrass the rest of us most about New Orleans.

He loves the history and the restaurants. He loves the feel of the French Quarter with its quaint courtyards and exotic shops and real characters. It’s worth noting here that Cavett was living in Manhattan at the time, and presumably still is.

Here are a couple of quotes.

“As with any famous city, everything that can be said about New Orleans has been said. That it is rich in history, tradition and beauty. That at the right time of year (and this is all-important) it is relaxed, dreamlike, illicit, carefree. Also that it is cheesy, tasteless, being exploited and eroded, and like all American cities, somethings dangerous.”

“People who say they didn’t like New Orleans probably saw this latter side of it. They approached it wrong. They probably stayed at a high-rise modern hotel, for example, instead of the Maison de Ville. And they probably hung out on Bourbon Street.”

“Enough of old New Orleans remains to make you realize that there was once a wonderfully different way of life in America, at least in the Old South–a way of life slower yet more intense than our bland cosmopolitanism, more physical yet more esthetic, earthier yet more sophisticated.”

Had he stopped there, it would have been fine. But he goes on to tell of the fun times he had chatting with the “queens,” men in drag, and of the seamier side of the Quarter which he investigated out of curiosity and was attracted to in some ways. I’ll spare you the details. You’re welcome.

After lengthily recounting an evening watching a show put on just for him by the Quarter’s drag queens, Cavett tells of walking around on Sunday morning and dropping in on an African-American church on Esplanade

Avenue.

“Going to church has always bored me to idiocy. I agreed with Mark Twain that the other six days of the week were for recovering from the suffering of Sunday.”

“As a kid I was told that going to church was good for you and I suppose maybe it was, in the same sense that not asking for a drink of water when you’re thirsty, as German children were taught, allegedly builds character.” He describes his boring church experiences growing up in Nebraska, then says:

“It was in New Orleans that I realized for the first time, in my thirties, what a memorable experience church could be.”

On the Avenue he heard warm, exciting music drifting out the church windows and was invited inside. He loved the choir, admired the preachers, and observed the worshipers around him getting caught up in the moment. At the offering time, he emptied his pockets of all the wadded up bills. And he ended up going home with one of the families who had recognized him and wanted him to meet “Mama, she’s a big fan of yours.”

I wonder if up in New York City, Mr. Cavett has ever been invited to the Brooklyn Tabernacle. Perhaps someone will read this and do it. If so, it will be his New Orleans experience come full circle.

Monday is the fifth anniversary of Nine-Eleven. I will not be watching any of the television shows inviting us to relive that tragic day. Nor do I have any intention of buying a ticket to the movies that dramatize certain aspects of it.

I did not and will not watch Spike Lee’s four hour depiction of New Orleans’ tragedy of last year either. Not now, not ever.

One of my brother Charlie’s granddaughters recorded the music played at his funeral last April, then burned it onto compact discs. My parents listen to it from time to time and cry. Mom is sending my copy by someone headed this way. “Everyone else has theirs,” she assures me.

I don’t have the heart to tell her it will go in a drawer. I won’t be listening to it. I love my little brother and will always miss him. But I just don’t need the pain.

I expect people around here and in Manhattan understand.