ERASING FOUNDATIONS – WHAT DIDN’T WORK PART FOUR

A little bit ago I began sharing my reflections on ways the Thingy didn’t work (click here).  For those who are new to this blog, the Thingy is a neo-monastic-missional community Wendy and I helped found almost five years ago.   We closed the community in January of this year.   There were lots of amazing things about the Thingy.  Lives were changed – especially mine.  I’ve written about the good stuff a lot; but I thought it would be helpful to discuss what didn’t work as well.  

In part two I talked about how we chased an unfelt need: click here.

In part three I talked about how we ignored cultural groupings: click here.

Today will be the final post of this series…and probably the one that will offend everyone at once.   

So let’s go!

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Five years ago Wendy and I began rethinking “church.”  We were frustrated with our practice and felt our understanding of church needed reforming.   As we studied, talked, dreamed, and debated several things became clear to us:

• We had replaced the mission of sharing Jesus’ love with the world with the mission of growing an institutional church (think the building on the corner you see everywhere in Baltimore).  While a growing institutional church  may be a byproduct of Jesus’ love being shared; Jesus’ love being shared is not necessarily the byproduct of a growing institutional church.
• Jesus intended for his followers to be defined by a shared lifestyle of reckless and messy love, but instead we were defining them through shared programming.
• We were participating in an unhealthy hierarchy which unintentionally elevated some believers over others removing the responsibility of mission from most of the congregation.
• Because the institution was program dependent (growth was measured through programming growth, staff was hired around programming, and people joined because they loved programming) the money which made programming possible had a powerful voice in the direction of the institution.

I could go on and on here, but I’m drifting from the real point.  If you want more “wants wrong with contemporary forms of church” ranting ask for it in the comments.  Back to the point…

We recognized the current definition of church, the definition we lived under, the “institutional church”, had some serious problems at its foundation which needed to be fixed.

But how does someone bring healing a patient who won’t admit she is sick?  

Most church leaders will agree that tweaks need to be made.  They will admit the living room walls need to be repainted.  They will confess the kitchen counters are out of date.  They will talk about how they would love to buy a new couch.  Few church leaders will admit the house needs major structural repair, that the floors tilt to the right, or that there are cracks in the foundation.

I completely understand this denial by the way.  I often long to return to it.  My current perspective was not an easy pill  to swallow for me either.

Seeing the huge problem and the uphill battle getting an existing church to join us would be, we decided to start from scratch.  We banked on the belief that there were lots of people who felt like us out there and that they would get excited about finding non-institutional patterns of following Jesus.

We were half right.

There are a lot of people out there who recognize the problems with the institutional church…but very few of them share our passion for finding solutions.  People who shared our understanding of the church are wounded.  They aren’t looking to develop a new definition of church.  They are just happy to be free and clear of the institution.

Around year two I was discussing this with a friend from London.  He explained to me the difference between the European church and the American church in a way that helped me understand:

• When his great-grandparents were in their twenties, everyone belonged to an institutional church.  So in his grandparents’ elementary school class everyone went to church.
• When his grandparents were in their twenties, people began to grow frustrated with the institutional church and many of them stopped participating.  So in his parents’ elementary school class about 60% of the kids attended church.
• When his parents were in their twenties even less people attended an institutional church.  There were those newly waking up to the problems of the institution and then those who had simply grown up without it.   So in his elementary school class about 30% of the kids belonged to a church.
• Now he has kids.  In his kids’ class, only about 10% of the kids belong to an institutional church.

I look at my kids’ classes and we are somewhere around 60%.  If trends continue, the basic difference between the American church and the church of Europe is time.

But when Wendy and I founded the Thingy were pretending our kids’ classes were at 10%.    They aren’t.  Not yet.

Somewhere around year one a pattern formed I found informative:

• I would make friends with someone in the community.
• After a while, Jesus stuff would come up.
• We would then have a series of fantastic conversations about God.
• They would connect/reconnect with Jesus.
• Then they would go to an institutional church.

Note – not join the Thingy.

We would always talk about the Thingy.  Sometimes they would visit the Thingy.  When they did they often were intimidated.  One friend told me the Thingy was like “the Green Berets” and he simply wanted to “re-enlist in the army.” They would go to an institutional church because somewhere they could remember it.  They attended as a kids with grandparents, or their parents were members somewhere, or they had been in a youth group.  Sadly, it was never long before the problems of the institution began to creep up again and they would settle for a weird middle ground of consuming but not joining.

We were too different.  We were too much.  We were too fast.

We weren’t just trying to reduce pollution in vehicle emissions   We were seeking to eliminate driving altogether.

We weren’t just trying to drive people to healthy eating.  We were working to replace every meal with a shake.

We weren’t just trying to teach people to slow their energy consumption.  We were looking to them to unplug from the grid completely.  Down with electricity!

Conclusion:

I still believe the American church desperately needs reformation.  Things have to change.

But I’ve come to understand that reformation needs to come from within existing structures.

If you don’t want to work within existing structures, then wait a few generations.  If trends continue you will have your clean slate to work from in about sixty years.

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That’s depressing.  I can’t end that way.  Dr. Gloer at Truett told me to always end stuff with joy.

Here is my encouraging, happy ending…

Working in the institutional setting is not as hard as I thought it would be four years ago.  Helping Valley (the church I currently work at) for the last three and a half years through a season of transition has been surprisingly restorative with me.  People don’t live in institutional church because they think it’s awesome.  People live in institutional church because they love Jesus and they were told this is what loving Jesus looks like.  If you, fellow reformers, walk slow and are willing to defend your thoughts over and over and over – you will see change.  It will be slow, but it will come.

And I must say, there are few things more beautiful than watching a Christ follower come alive and join Jesus’ mission in the world.  It’s fantastic.

Alright.  Those are my thoughts.  Feel free to push back, challenge, yell, question, or agree with anything I’ve said.   Bring it!

GROUP SIZES – WHAT DIDN’T WORK PART THREE

A few weeks ago I wrote a post reflecting on what didn’t work with the Thingy.  The Thingy was an innovative church group Wendy and I helped found and led for a little over four years.  Earlier this year we let it go.  There were lots of awesome things about the Thingy.  Overall I would say the experiment was a success.  I loved it.  Wouldn’t take back one moment. But there were some things that didn’t work and I think, especially when in the process of intentional innovation, it is important to talk about those things publicly so everyone else can learn from our journey.

Last week I wrote about our attempt to tap into an unfelt need.  This week I’m going to tackle #4 on my original list – group sizes.  

Let’s go!

There are three types of  gatherings institutional churches need to grow in our current culture:

1. Gatherings of intimacy in which people can share, be vulnerable, and grow to know others.
2. Strategic work gatherings where brainstorming, planning, and productivity happen.
3. Inspirational gatherings where the entire community is brought around the mission and vision.

Last night in a meeting I asked a group of 12 leaders to be vulnerable.  They did great, but my request was pushing their comfort levels.  Vulnerability in our culture demands trust.  We don’t just open up and admit our failures to any Joe Sha-moe.  If we want people to be open and honest about their struggles, to reveal their inner turmoils, to stop caring how they are perceived in a room, then we need to take in account group size.

I find I’m most comfortable being intimate with groups less than four people around.    If I have a strong, long term relationships with everyone in the room, I can push that group size to ten or twelve.

Think about it.  Where have your most intimate, personal, life probing conversations taken place?  My guess would be with a very small group (maybe even just one other person) and there was probably some sort of food or refreshment involved to break the ice.

In our culture, intimacy happens in small groups – ideally less than ten.

I love to workshop ideas.  I love pulling out white boards, asking compelling questions, and watching a group build a solution together.  It’s always great.  When something truly innovative is produced, it is off the charts awesome.   For me, the best size group to do this with is around twelve.  Less than five and you don’t get enough conversation-juice going.  More than twenty and people get left out or the session goes to long.  Twelve to fifteen is the sweet spot.  Twelve to fifteen = great size for strategic teamwork.

This goes for hands on projects as well.  If I take twenty-five people to garden, I’m going to run around finding stuff for some of them to do.   If I take six people, we aren’t going to get it done.  A team of around fifteen is just right.

In our culture, strategic work happens in groups of twelve to twenty.  

Large groups are great for inspiring participants.  Being in a full room makes us feel a part of something larger than ourselves.  (This is type of connection is growing in importance in our culture.)  A large group is key to  generating and sustaining momentum.  In my experience, these groups need to be larger than twenty people and fill between 70 to 80% of the meeting space.  Less than twelve people and you are having a group discussion, not a time of whole group inspiration.  (There is an “unless” here.  A charismatic/dynamic leader can transform any size room into an inspirational moment…but those leaders are rare.  I certainly am not one.)

In our culture, inspirational moments are best in groups larger than twenty that fill the space between 70 to 80% capacity.

To be clear, I don’t have any hard research to go with this.  It’s just gut experience.

One of the things that didn’t work with the Thingy was that we completely ignored the need for inspiration (something I will discuss more in my next post) and tried to force intimacy and strategic work into the same space  - a move which always held us back.

There is a group out there right now - 3DM led by the Breens and Jo Saxton – that stick to these grouping sizes religiously.  Part of what opened my eyes to our miss-step was studying their systems.  My only hesitation with the 3DM stuff is that they defend the group sizes with Biblical examples.  I don’t agree.  I don’t think these group sizes are pre-ordained and necessary for the church to work in every culture in every time period of history.  I think they are byproducts of our culture: six people is a dinner, twelve people is a community meeting, thirty people is a party.  I think as culture changes, group dynamics that can’t be ignored will change as well.

What do you think?  Disagree with any of my cultural sizes?  Push back?  Did I miss one? Leave a comment.

Three Paintings (Short Fiction)

Chuck Windig over at Terrible Minds put up another writing challenge on Friday (May 3rd).  This time Chuck gave five random sentences and challenged writers to use one and build a story around it.  

I had nothing until last night.  I was awake at 2am for no good reason when inspiration struck. A way to use all five sentence in one story smacked my brain.  Here is what I came up with.  (The sentences Chuck gave are in bold in the story.)  Enjoy!

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Three Paintings

In center of an old spaceship hung three paintings: an oil portrait of a purple cat, a charcoal drawing of an abandon home, and a water color of a tree in springtime.  Each painting had its own wall, reached floor to ceiling, and was beautifully framed in golden, ornate wood.

The paintings enjoyed their lives together.  They had a window to look out. They liked discussing the furniture arrangement of their room.  Occasionally they partook in rousing philosophical debates; but most days the paintings gazed out their window and appreciated the world.

The spaceship had long ago been decommissioned and now served as a makeshift home for two humans.  The paintings hated the humans.  They were always moving, always busy.   The terrible things would come in the room and then go out again.  In and out, in and out, in and out, day after day after day; never satisfied to simply sit, and be, and watch the world from the window.  The paintings often dreamed together how nice life would be without the filthy grubs always walking about kicking up dust.

“The rain is beautiful,” purred Portrait Cat as she gazed out the window.  “I feel it symbolic of the passing of time.  Each drop is like a second which is created with wonder but then just as quickly spent in a splash, never to be seen again.”

“That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard you say,” groaned House Abandoned with frustration.  “It makes me want to rip you from that wall, toss you into the rain you love so much, and watch your colors would run.”

“That’s enough House,” Watercolor Tree interceded, seeing Cat’s feelings had been hurt.  “If Cat wants to see beauty in the rain, let her see beauty in the rain.  What’s it to you?”

“You are a wise and stately friend.  Thank you Tree,” Portrait Cat replied.

“Both of you.  Ridiculous,” the house grumbled.  “Am I the only sane one here?  You two, with your bright and fuzzy optimism.  You would be the death of us all without me here to talk sense into you.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” grinned Tree.

“Don’t do that!” House exclaimed.  “Don’t patronize me.  Do it again and so help me, I’ll come off this wall and…”  House’s threat was interrupted by the entrance of a human.  “Oh great!  This just makes for the prefect day!” House moaned sarcastically.  ”It’s probably here to spill something one me!  Again!”

“Oh stop,” said Cat.  “That was a long time ago and it didn’t ‘spill on you.’  It dropped its glass.  It wasn’t on purpose. Clumsy yes, but not malevolent.  The humans are not malevolent.”

“Filthy beasts,” the House retorted, glaring at the human.

From a drawer the human took a journal and pen.  The paintings watched as it then drug an arm chair in front of the window, sat down, and began to scribble.

“Since when does the family document the thunder?” Tree wondered.

“It isn’t documenting thunder nimrod,” House dismissed.

“Maybe it’s writing a story,” Cat mused dreamily.

“A story!” exclaimed House.  “Have you lost your mind?  It isn’t capable of stories!”

“Maybe it’s a story about an amazing purple cat and her wonderful adventures in a spaceship,” Portrait Cat continued fancifully.

“Well now you’re just talking crazy.  A story.  Absurd.  And you,” House said turning his frustration toward Tree.  “Why do you insist on calling these things ‘family’?  So irritating.  As if they are capable of compassion and care.  I’m not sure how I got stuck here with the two of you, but some days I wish I could hop off this wall, run in the rain you love so much, and free myself from this nonsensical dribble.”

“Watch out,” Tree said with a smile.  “Here comes the other one.”  Tree faced the door to House’s right, so he could always see what was coming before his roommate.  It walked inside the spaceship and then it sat down next to the other.

“Oh great!” snapped House.  “Now they are both here.  They’re probably going to mate and we’ll have to watch!  I wish they wouldn’t do their disgusting stuff in here.  Take it outside”

“They won’t mate,” Tree assured House.  “There’s none of that sticky smoke.  The rough sex arrives by adhesive smoke.”

“No, no, no, you moron,” House corrected.  “The smoking comes after the rough sex.  Not before.”

“Oh yes.  Oh yes.  Quite right.  Quite right,” Tree agreed.

The second human walked over to the first, stood behind it, and looked over its shoulder.  The two beasts made nonsensical noises at one another.  Then the second placed its hand on the first’s back and rubbed gently.  The portrait cat sneakily gestured at everyone, rocking her frame slightly, hoping not to disturb the scene.  “Look!  Look!,” she whispered.  “They are in love!”

“What is wrong with the two of you!  In love!  It’s just a mating ritual!” House yelled, now at the peak of frustration with his friends.  “And why are you whispering?  It’s not like they can understand you.  Talk at full voice, moron! ”  To prove his point House began to chant a common rhyme they had all sang as children. “London, Paris, Spain, and France.  Humans are so dumb they can’t pull up their pants.”

Suddenly, to the shock and awe of everyone in the room, the second one looked up at House and walked across the room to him.

“I warned you to whisper,” Cat chided.  “Now you’ve got it’s attention.”

“Get it away!  Get it away!” House screeched.  His shape fought his motionless ink longing to jump from his frame and run.

“Oh be still,” Tree said hoping to calm his friend.  “It will leave in a moment.”

“Don’t let it touch me!” House cried.  The second human cross its arms, cocked its head, and looked at House quizzically.

“Look!” Portrait Cat teased.  “It’s wondering why your such a jerk.”

The first human stood from the chair and barked nonsense at the second.  The second laughed, barked back, and the two left together.

House whimpered.  “That was to close.  I thought it would smudge me.  I thought it would put it’s filthy fingers on me.”

“You need to chill,” purred PC.  “I think they’re cute.”

“I think they’re cute,” House mocked, mimicking Cat’s voice.

“Look,” remarked Tree changing the subject.  “The rain is letting up and the sun is coming out.”

UNFELT NEED – WHAT DIDN’T WORK PART TWO

A little over a week ago I wrote a post about the Thingy – an innovative church community Wendy and I helped lead for four years.  Specifically in the post I tried to tackle what didn’t work with our experiment.  You can read that post by clicking here.

As I promised, this week I’m going to work through in more detail the things I believe didn’t work.  Because I get to choose, I’m going to start with #3 – The Need Was Not Felt.

I’m going to come at this one sideways…but stay with me…there are methods to my madness.

When we started the Thingy I realized our system of church – the way we do church – no longer matched contemporary culture and needed a reboot.

We (the collective American church) have designed church to be a “disciple factory.”  People are put on the conveyor belt of programming which we believe will develop them into our local church’s brand of fully functioning Christ followers.

To inspire people to keep moving through the assembly line we develop a reward/consequence system.

Rewards come in the form of:

• Public praise and pats on the back
• Increased responsibility and ownership of the congregation
• Greater access to revered leadership

Consequences are more passive:

• Shame through consistent reminders that everyone needs to follow the system
• Restrictions on participation (you can’t be a “deacon” unless you have been faithful to follow the system)

This is type of system is what Daniel Pink calls an “extrinsically motivating system”.  (Check out his book Drive, or if you don’t read watch this video of his TED talk.)  Pink explains that these incentives are fantastic for simple, straightforward tasks; but for complex, conceptual, creative tasks (like living as a missionary) this type of system discourages innovation and inspires people to do only the bare minimum required to receive the reward.

Church leaders: Want to know why there is a funneling effect in you congregation?  Want to know why people who are successful and creative in their professional life simply show up week after week and barely participate in your church?  Part of the reason is you are operating in a closed, extrinsically motivating system.

Our hope with the Thingy was to move from an extrinsically motivating system to an intrinsically motivating system, which I believed would end the funneling effect.

An intrinsically motivating system is one in which:

• individuals own the mission of the organization, are fully engaged in the life of the church,
• individuals are excited about mastering necessary skills needed to carry out that mission,
• individuals have the ability/competency to direct their own path in accomplishing the mission.  (The mission I’m referring to is the mission of the Kingdom – the imitation of Jesus through devotion to God and the sharing of His love with the world around you; also known as love God, love your neighbor.)

When I looked around Baltimore, an organization I thought was already working well as an intrinsically motivating system was Alcoholics Anonymous.

Members of AA are given 12 steps – which are not programs to participate in but guidelines for personal growth members translate into their unique circumstances at their own pace.  Routine attendance at a specific meeting is not the goal. Attend any meeting whenever you want.  The goal is character development, a life free from addiction.

We began the Thingy by building our own version of the 12 steps; but instead of life free from addiction as the end goal, we put imitation of Jesus.  We spent four months building character traits.  It was fun, exciting, and challenging.  Then we began meeting in AA style.  We would read the character traits and discuss how we were progressing with each one.

That was where things went wrong.  The discussion made everyone feel like crap.  We never measured up.  Even small successes were outweighed by massive personal failure.  The system lasted four months before we couldn’t take it any more and were back into a redesign phase.

Moving to an intrinsically motivate system from a conveyor belt by open sourcing discipleship through giving lifestyle goals not programming goals was good.  I’m more convinced than ever it is where the church needs to go if it is to once again be a voice in culture.  The problem was not the big idea.  The problem was the end goal we established.

When someone begins attending AA they have hit bottom.  Their addiction has become so overwhelming and destructive they must take drastic action.  There is an ever present need to change their character.  They can feel it every day, in every muscle of their body.  The need is tangible.  It is painful.  It is urgent.  I fantastic sponsor once told me, “The only way an addict stops drinking is if he is willing to kill himself before he takes a drink because he realizes taking a drink and suicide are the same thing.”

The need to be a more mature Jesus follower is not the same as the need to overcome addiction in our culture.  It is something we think about after personal failure.  We don’t feel it every day.  We don’t see it as urgent.  Therefore, it is not a problem we direct our lives after.

I don’t really want to discuss rather the state of culture is right or wrong.  It simply is the world we are in.  Let’s blame Constantine.  We can pile on him.  The list of the ways he destroyed Christianity is so long already he won’t notice one more thing.

If I had it to do over again, I would have made the end need something more tangible, something people can see, something they feel is urgent.  Something less introspective.

We the goal was about our personal development, we spent a lot of time looking inward, navel gazing.  This contrasts with Jesus’ mission to the world, which is not about me.  It is about others.

The goal needs to be something outside of my personal development.  Maybe the pain of a city?  Something like:

“We need to imitate Jesus because it is the only way to bring healing to the city we live in.” 

Changing the goal will shape how people innovate.  Questions will not be, “How forgiving were you this week?” (a question Thingy members asked ourselves).  Rather questions will be “did you show forgiveness to one person this week?”  This is where Wendy and I were going with Love Your Baltimore…but then I ran out of steam in February and needed some time to finish reflecting…and thus these posts…and now we are full circle.

I know I dropped a lot of thought in the last thousand words.  If there is anything you want me to write more about let me know.  I will happily spell it out in muddled confusing detail.  It’s my pleasure because the act of explaining helps me more than it helps you.

If there are no questions I’ll post another one in a few days.

Reflections from Boston

This week has been incredible.  Wendy and I got three days in Boston, all to ourselves.  No kids.

You heard that right.

No.

Kids.

Now, don’t misunderstand.  I love my kids.  They’re great.  I’m thankful.  Wonderful words.  Happy things to say.  Yada yada yada.  But with four of them, extended time alone with my wife is difficult to come by; so a whole three days to ourselves was a-maze-ing.  I’m still kind of deliriously excited.  The high hasn’t wore off yet.  Here is the breakdown of our trip with pictures!

On Monday we the house for BWI at 4am, landed in Boston at little after 8am, and hoofed it to our Bed and Breakfast – La Cappella Suites.  (“Hoofed” is a word I adopted this week because Wendy and I were doing so much walking.  She doesn’t like it and would appreciate it if I erased it from my vocabulary.  She said it made her feel like a horse or pig…because they have hoofs…so they hoof it…hoofed.)

After dropping off our gear we went in search of some great food.  Theo’s Cozy Corner absolutely delivered.  (Thanks Yelp!)  I had the most incredible spicy Italian sausage omelet.  The eggs were fluffy but super thin at the same time, and not at all runny – which was great ’cause I hate runny eggs…but who doesn’t?  Right?  It was a great start to the trip.

With eggs and coffee in our systems we decided to tackle the T.  After only a day, I was completely in love with Boston mass transit.  If you’ve never been, there is a fantastic subway (the T).  It goes everywhere!  The first time we were on it was a little unnerving.   It moves fast and is jerky.  Standing without bumping into the person next to you is a learned skill.  But its an excellent place to people watch as well.  I’m sad Baltimore doesn’t have one.  B-More needs a T.  We have a light rail, but it’s not as cool.  Can someone get on that?

The T let us out at Boston Common and we launched into the Freedom Trail.  The Freedom Trail is a walking path through the major happenings of Revolutionary War times.   We saw the State House, Park Street Church, the Granary Burying Ground, King’s Chapel, the Old South Meeting House, the Old State House, Site of the Boston Massacre, and Faneuil Hall.  It was strange to see historic sites wrapped in a modern city.  I loved it.  We had such a great time strolling, reading, and chatting.  I think my favorite of this first block was King’s Chapel.  It has the oldest pulpit in America (blogs coming later with reflections about the evolution of church and preaching in America). Fascinating place.

After the first leg of walking we stopped for lunch at Quincy Market.  I think every major city has to have one of these.  It is comparable to New Orleans and Baltimore’s River Walks.  It is the huge line of over priced, mediocre food stands no local would ever eat from.  From lunch Wendy and I jumped off the Freedom Trail, back on the T, and explored the Beacon Hill neighborhood.  Lots of famous peeps have lived there.  The houses are beautiful.  Reminded me a lot of Baltimore…but more expensive with bigger hills.  (Below is a picture of Robert Frost’s house.)

After Beacon Hill we needed a nap, so back on the T to the North End it was.  We re-emerged for dinner at Antico Forno.  Best pizza I’ve ever had.  The crust was amazingly thin.  Mozzarella was fresh.  It was incredible.

So our waiter at Antico Forno had a thick Italian accent.  When I hear a waiter with an accent matching the restaurant he/she works at, I immediately assume he/she is faking it…at a minimum, playing it up.  Wendy and I debated this the entire trip.  She says I’m crazy.  That no one would fake an accent to match their job.  Help me out people!  Has anyone ever done this?  I’m certain it happens all the time.  I believe more accents are faked than real.  Back a brother up in the comments please.

Dinner was followed by cannolis at Mike’s Pastry’s.  We got them to go and ate them in the room while watching Breaking Bad on Netflix (a new addiction…probably a blog post on this soon).

The next morning Wendy slept in.  Sleeping in is special.  It never happens!  Never!   We’ve had someone under three-years-old in the house for nine years now.  Thus every morning there is a tiny, crazy person up and loud at 6am or earlier.  Sleeping in until 9 was a huge deal.  Sadly, I can’t sleep in.  My nutzo brain won’t allow it.  Instead I had breakfast on our balcony, sipped coffee, and watched the city wake up.  Here’s a picture of my view:

 

To start day two we jumped on the T and went to Cambridge.  On the train, Wendy sat next to a homeless looking, elderly gentleman who was doing high level (much higher than I understand) physics.  We took the student tour of Harvard, snuck into the Harvard Law Library, checked out the book stores, paused for coffee at Algeries Coffee House, found Julia Child’s old home (from the bumper stickers on the cars in the driveway it appears vegetarian lives there now…which feels like a universal injustice), ate lunch at Mr. Bartley’s Burgers, and toured Longfellow’s house.  (Below are picks from Mr. Bartley’s and Longfellow’s house.)

 

After our Harvard experience it was back on the T to the South End/Back Bay.  We checked out the old churches, walked the shops on Newbury Street, and saw the memorial from the recent marathon bombing.  The memorial was emotionally rough.  There were lots of people reflecting, crying, remembering.  It was a sacred space.

 

After the South End, we finished off the Freedom Trail in the North End by checking out Paul Revere’s house, and then returned to the B&B for rest.  That night we had an amazing dinner at Mamma Maria.  Incredible food.  Intimate setting.  Wonderful service.  It was great.

Day three began with a visit to Paul Revere Mall, a walk through of Old North Church, and then we hoofed it over the Charles Street Bridge to the U.S. Constitution.  Old North Church was incredible.  There is a bust of George Washington there that is supposed to be most like the real man in appearance.  It is the first time I’ve seen a representation of him that didn’t look like an English gentleman.  Looking at it I thought, “Yeah, I would follow that dude into battle.”  We had lunch at a tavern in Charles Town that was completely forgettable and therefore shall remain unnamed.

 

After lunch it was back on the T to the airport and home.

The trip was amazing.  Most of what we did was completely free.  It was my first time in Boston and I loved it.  If Baltimore didn’t have my kids, we might not have come back.

I know I owe many of you blogs on why the Thingy didn’t work.  They will be coming next week.  Then I will put some reflections on the difference between contemporary forms of church systems and church systems from the Revolutionary era.

Final note – Last night I started reading Jackson history from the American Revolution.  Thanks Boston for the inspiration!

The Window-Washing Boy

“¿Puedo lavar la ventana?” said Jose with a hopeful smile.  The ten-year-old was not Mexican.  He was Brazilian, and in truth spoke very little Spanish; but white grown-ups couldn’t tell the difference.  Jose hoped the facade might someday help him in an escape.

Jose wore his usual: a white, over-sized undershirt and jean shorts with beat up tennis shoes.  In his right hand he carried a black, plastic window squeegee he had stolen from the gas station a few blocks south.  Jose moved into the young professional’s eye sight and said again waving the squeegee, “¿Perdón senor?  ¿Puedo lavar las ventanas por un dólar?  Wash your windows?”  He faked broken English to complete the deception.

The thirty-something-year-old professional didn’t look up from his iPhone.   His suit was charcoal, his tie hard red, and his shoes freshly polished.  He leaned against his black, sparkling Escalade pumping gas with his left hand and gripping his phone with his right.  His sunglasses looked expensive.

Jose was sure this was the one.  Lucky number thirteen.  None of the other twelve candidates had given him the deep, spin shaking chills he needed to assure a guilty verdict.  Sure, some had given back small tingles; but no one had spiked Jose’s internal meter.  Close was not enough.  Not in this work.  Jose had to be sure.  He couldn’t live with himself if an innocent was executed.

“Mister?  Mister?,” Jose called in his best Hispanic accent, waving the squeegee to catch the man’s attention.  Jose needed the subject to touch him.  It didn’t work the other way.  Jose couldn’t touch the man.  The candidate had to be the aggressor.  “Mister?  I wash your window?  ¿Puedo lavar la ventana? Okay?  Mister?”   Jose put the dirty, dry squeegee on the window and scrapped it across with a bumping screech.

The business man didn’t respond.

The boy ground his teeth.  Impatient he ran the squeegee down the side of the door.  The hard plastic scrapping down the car’s exterior produced a terrible squeal.

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man lurched forward, pushing Jose away from the car.

Jose flashed an apologetic smile and shrugged.  Then he moved to scrape the window again.

“Here, here,” the man said placing his phone on the top of the car while retrieving his wallet with his other hand.  He grabbed Jose by the arm and extended a five dollar bill toward him.  “Here!  Just take it and go!” the man demanded.

Jose was immediately dazed.  Electricity ran up and down his spine.  It spread through his limbs and threaten to shoot from his toes and fingers.  The boy steadied himself on the Escalade to keep his balance.  He willed his shaky hand to reach forward and accept the bill.  “Th-th-th-thank you,” he managed to mumble.  “Thank you, mister.”

The guilty man grumbled and returned to pumping gas.  Jose knew he needed to hurry now or the wrong-doer would finish filling his car and escape.  He forced his skinny legs to walk.  The first few steps away from the front of the SUV were painful.  In the sixty-four times he had worked with the Reaper, never before had he experienced a guilty vibe so strong.  “Who was this man?” Jose pondered.  “A sadist?  A child molester?  Did he have a girl chained in his basement?  Today his reign of terror ends!” Jose assured himself.

With renewed confidence in his mission Jose pushed the vibes aside and increased his pace.   The Reaper was only a few yards ahead.  He sat on the dirty bus stop bench, hunched over as if in a hung-over slumber after a long night of drinking.  He wore his usual battle gear: a faded and worn army jacket with a black hoodie underneath, black cargo pants, and black boots.  There were several empty, plastic, tipped over forties at his feet.

Jose sat next to the horrifying figure and whispered, “Black Escalade.  Hurry.  He’s almost finished.”

The Reaper looked up at Jose from his slump.  His broad nose and his thick lips made him appear African-American, but his skin was ash grey and his tightly trimmed goatee was ghost white.   Two black pools of moving liquid filled the caverns where eyes belonged.  He smiled menacingly at the young boy.  His jagged teeth gleamed.  “Thanks kid,” the Reaper’s heavy voice boomed.  “Good work.  See you tomorrow.”

With lightning speed the Reaper rose from the bench, revealing the power and agility of his six-foot four, muscular frame.  As fluid as a professional basketball player on a fast break, the Reaper moved around the SUV, into the business man’s blind spot.  He approached the man from behind, head down and concealed under the hood.  As the Reaper glided toward his prey, he retrieved a straight razor from his jacket pocket and palmed it blade out in his massive hand.

Jose was transfixed.  He loved to watch the Reaper work.   Watching him carry out justice was like watching a master sculptor at the potting wheel.

As the Reaper passed the business man, he effortlessly slid the razor across the business man’s neck and then slipped the razor back into his pocket as he strode away.  Justice took seconds to deliver.

The business man looked up from his phone, uncertain of what had just occurred, unable to catch his breath.   He tried to scream; but no sound came.  Like water overflowing from a bathtub, blood began to pour from the fresh line on his throat.  He fell to his knees and then collapsed face forward into the concrete base of the gas pump.  Blood pooled around him.

Jose wondered how long it would take people to notice this one.  He counted to himself, “One-one-thousand.  Two-one-thousand.  Three-one-thousand.  Four-one-thousand.  Five-one-thousand.”

The pool peaked out from the under the tailgate.

“Six-one-thousand. Seven-one-thousand.  Eight-one-thousand.  Nine-one-thousand.”

A woman screamed.

That was Jose’s cue.  He jumped up from the bus stop bench and strolled away, satisfied with the day’s work.  Tomorrow he would find the Reaper and once again they would stop another evil person from polluting their city.

———————————————————-

This story was written in response to Chuck Windig’s Flash Fiction Challenge over at his blog Terrible Minds.  It’s my first venture into horror/dark stuff.  I’d love your thoughts.

Mark on the Toilet (Short Fiction)

Mark sat on the toilet again, pants around his ankles, watching for the time to change on the small, black, portable, digital alarm clock seated on the sink to his right.

The clock read 1:57am. Three minutes to go.

He wondered if pulling his pants down was necessary for the magic. Not wanting to chance it, he left them around his ankles.

Noise drifted from the neighbor’s yard. The remnants of a raucous party lingered on the back deck. Mark was nervous. Did he need absolute silence for the magic to happen? It had been silent the other times. What if the noise destroyed the moment?

A girl outside let loose a flirtatious giggle. In a panic Mark lurched up from the porcelain throne, shuffled to his left, raised the bathroom window, and screamed in anger, “Shut the hell up already! It’s two-o-clock in the morning! Get a room!”

The clock ticked 1:58am.

He returned to his place on the toilet. He heard the girl giggle again and then a door close. They were gone. He was alone. “Thank God,” he whispered to himself. He tried to relax by finding the special tile on the wall in front of him. Even though at the moment it looked like every other white bathroom tile on the wall, he didn’t have to search for it. His eyes went straight to it.

The clock turned to 1:59am.

Excited and brimming with anticipation, Mark wondered what scene the tile would bring tonight. Maybe he would see the time they shared a bowl of ice cream and Mary got some on her nose? Or maybe it would be the first time they watched You’ve Got Mail together on the couch? Or maybe the time he surprised her with dinner and they made love in the kitchen before they ate?

Mark hadn’t figured out how to control what played. This was only his twelfth night watching the magic. A few days ago, he’d tried meditating on one memory all day, but his strain didn’t seem to have an effect on what the tile chose to display. Before that he’d attempted conjuring up a specific moment just as the ceramic wall tile started to glow, but the image he dreamed of wasn’t related to the scene he watched. One night he had placed items from a specific event all around the bathroom hoping they would guide his journey, but the objects had no power. Finally Mark had surrendered to the mystery of the moment and learned to appreciate whatever vision came.

There were a lot of great memories to relive. Seven years is a long time to share a house with another person. The majority of Mark’s twenties had been consumed by the relationship.  No memory replay had been over five minutes long yet. Subtracting time they were asleep or not at home, Mark guess-ta-mated there were at least 75,000 five minute memories to watch. He would savor each one. These short daily encounters had become the climax of his life. Night after night he stayed awake waiting for the moment when the tile on the wall delivered.

The clock changed to 2:00am.

It was time. Mark concentrated on the white ceramic tile in the center of the wall. He tried to look past it, to direct his gaze through it.

Mark had discovered the glorious, vision giving, white tile by accident. He had been drinking alone on the one year anniversary of Mary’s departure. He had come into the bathroom to pee, but couldn’t keep his legs under him, so he had to sit. To his surprise and disgust, instead of relieving his bladder, Mark leaned forward and loosed the contents of his stomach all over his feet and the floor. The smell of regurgitated bourbon, stale pizza, and chocolate was horrific. When he sat up he noticed the flicker. One of the white tiles was haloed with a faint blue glow. Mark leaned forward, reaching out to touch it, when suddenly, the tile magically lit up like a flat screen, high definition television.  That first night it played a scene from five years before. He and Mary sat at their kitchen table with their next door neighbors engaged in a game of scrabble. There was laughter, conversation, and epic friendship. Mark teased Mary for having to use the dictionary. Mary giggled and pushed him in reply.

After five minutes the tile went white again. Mark pressed it, yelled at it, banged on it; but to no avail. It was still and cold, as if nothing special had happened.

Mark awoke the next morning in the bathtub, still smelling of vomit; sure he had imagined the show.

Hoping it hadn’t been a dream, the next night he sat in the bathroom alone, waiting. To his great delight, it all happened again. This time the tile revealed he and Mary eating Chinese food and watching some stupid reality show. From her haircut Mark deduced the scene was from around six years ago.

Every night since, at 2am, Mark watched the life he had known and lost.

The clock ticked 2:01am.

Mark began to panic. What if the magic didn’t happen tonight? What if last night had been the tile’s final performance? What if the wonder had run its course? He didn’t know if he could live without his five minute replay. He began to sweat with fear. His eyes stung from the intensity of his stare. His heart raced; but Mark refused to break his focus. He glared at the tile before him, willing it to glow, demanding it glow.

The blue halo began. At first faintly, then building strength. Mark sighed with relief. He leaned in closer for a better look.

Mary was there in the tile, sitting alone at the kitchen table, thumbing through a magazine. She glanced at the clock on the kitchen wall.  She bit her nails and gave a heavy sigh.  Mark wondered how he had missed her beauty those seven years. She was wearing a grey tank top and flannel, plaid, pajama pants. Her short brown hair framed her face. Her deep, sea-blue eyes sparkled. When she looked up again at the clock and bit her lower lip, Mark’s heart skipped.

He didn’t recognize this moment. Where was he? What night was this?

Mary heard someone come in the front door. She stood with a look of concerned. “Where have you been?” she asked gently, forcing her anxiety down.

“Oh no,” Mark moaned with pain. “Not this moment. Not this. Not tonight. Not now. Oh no. Oh no.” His eyes began to feel with tears. A knot formed in the top of his throat. He fought the urge the run. He knew he needed this. He needed to see it. He needed to watch.

“I’ve been worried sick,” Mary said to unseen figure. “Where did you go? You got up to go to the bathroom and never came back. Who does that? Who just leaves?” Her brow was furrowed and her eyes confused and frustrated.

A bleary eyed Mark stumbled into the scene. He pushed past Mary and fell into a seat at the table. He sat with sprawled apathy, his legs spread wide. “Why do you care?” he challenged aggressively.

Mary sat down across from him. She knit her eye brows together and said, “What do you mean ‘why do I care?’ You left me. At dinner? I thought you had gone to the bathroom but you never came back. I sat and waited for you for over an hour. I had to call Susan to come and get me. Where did you go?” she demanded with sorrow.

“I don’t know,” Mark said pulling a cigarette out of the box he had retrieved from his pocket. His words were sharp and biting. “I went to get a drink.” He lit the cigarette with a lighter and exhaled smoke toward the ceiling.

“What’s wrong with you?” Mary pleaded. She put her head in her hands and began to cry. “Why would you do that to me? Who does that? Who just leaves someone behind?”

Mark leaned forward close to her ear. “You were having such a great time laughing with Brad,” he said menacingly. “I didn’t think I was needed any more. I thought Brad would bring you home.”

Mary looked up stunned. “That’s what this is about? He just stopped by the table to say hi. I haven’t seen him in six years.”

Mark leaned back again and took another puff of the cigarette. “Well I wanted to give you two some space to catch up.”

A car horn called from out front and Mark stood to go.

“Where in the hell are you going?” Mary questioned, her mouth open with amazement.

“Sarah and Terry are waiting for me,” he said as he crossed the kitchen and opened a drawer. “I just came in to get another lighter ‘cause this one is old and it sucks.” He tossed the old lighter on the counter for dramatic effect.

“It’s midnight,” Mary said standing. “Where are you going now?”

“Why don’t you call Brad and ask him!” Mark scream with sudden, terrifying ferociousness.

“Don’t do this,” Mary pleaded quietly looking at the floor.

Mark loomed over her, challenging her. “I don’t need this crap,” he said at her. Then again slowly emphasizing each word, “I don’t need this crap.”

“Don’t go,” Mary replied quietly in pain without looking up, but Mark didn’t hear. He was already out of the scene moving toward the front door. When it slammed, Mary collapsed onto the hard kitchen floor. She curled into a ball, pulling her knees to her chest, and softly sobbed. “No, no, no,” she mumbled to herself. “No, no, no.” Over and over. “No, no, no,” she sobbed.

The clock changed to 2:05am and the tile went white.

Mark wiped the slobber, snot, and tears from his face with the back of his hand. He stood, pulled his pants up, and moved to look in the mirror over the sink.

He ran the cold water, cupped his hands under the stream, and splashed the gathering reservoir into his eyes. Exhaustion attacked him. He wanted to lie down, to sleep. He wanted a drink. He wanted to forget. He wanted to deny it all, to deceive himself, to find a way to place the blame on her.

He splashed water on his face a second time and gazed listlessly into the mirror. His reflection stared back at him rejecting his hope for denial.

The mirror image was sad, alone, and disappointed in the man Mark had become.