Sinaholic's Anonymous

Eugene Peterson, teller of hundreds of tales from his interpretation of the Bible named The Message, used this one -- one of my favorites -- from the first chapter of Psalm, the first two verses.

"How well God must like you -- you don't hang out at Sin Saloon, you don't slink along Dead-End Road, you don't go to Smart-Mouth College. Instead, you thrill to God's Word, you chew on Scripture day and night. You're a tree replanted in Eden, bearing fresh fruit every month. Never dropping a leaf, always in blossom."

I've visited all those places from time to time, with the majority of my time at the venues Sin Saloon, Dead-End Road, Smart-Mouth College and even a moment or two in Eden.

My leaves, however, have been dropped often.

I guess you've known this state, as well.

Here's the deal. My dear wife, Mary, with whom I can not act, can not find my keys, can not eat dinner or even locate my watch or glasses, is visiting her mother in Natchez, Miss. This is a rare occasion, I admit, but it happens every, oh, decade or so. 

When it does, I go in search of all things dear because I couldn't find them with out her.

Now, I found my glasses after a thorough search of all the normal locations -- refrigerator the cool culprit this time -- so the day began like most days begin, on a logical and meaningful manner. I located them with only a bit of canine help (and by the way, why are glasses a them and not an it?) and none of the feline variety (why do the cats always refuse to help me locate my glasses anyway?). Dogs, like the vicious bloodhounds they are, were able to do their thing in minutes of amazing work. Cats, like the indifferent animals they are, refused to lift themselves from their staked out spot on the couch.

So, with Mary safely ensconced in the Mississippi hill country, I began the work day pecking away at the million-dollar making lap top, drilling figurative oil with my pudgy fingers, savoring the Savior's teachings, cruising with the Christ, messaging with the Messiah (whew, do you get the somewhat obvious word play here or must I go on trying to litter the landscape with lingering language lollipops?). 

I love, by the way, the word ensconced. I promise one day to look it up in the dictionary.

But not today.

No, today I'm simply going to tell you about a day or two I spent at the Sin Saloon, a marvelously minimally decorated and painted place where I spent much of my office time for 20 or so years. I was partial to mornings there, but you could probably find me morning or afternoon or a glorious evening or two a week. Oh, I was a Sin Saloon patron, well, daily, if you just have to know. I didn't stay all that often, you know like all night long, but I visited enough that they knew my first name like I knew Marcia's on the bathroom wall.

In other words, they knew me, like I knew them. I was drenched in their Sin offering of the day.

They sweated my feelings out, frequently. I didn't have to reach deeply either for me to share those dang things. "Billy, the usual sin?" Bartender/counselor/studious theologian Phil or George or Jerome or whomever could and/or would ask. To which I would reply, "Yep." And the sin night/day was on like St. Jerome's Tuesday at the, oh, whatever it might be this time because I couldn't come up with a great name or St. Phil's Wednesday on the River.

Been there? Done that? Sniffed that? 

Yeah, I figured as much.

That is to whom this morning's epic tome is dedicated.

Friends, when you're a usual patron at the Sin Saloon, when the Sin Saloon Tee-Shirt is yours, you might ought to think your life through. If you're not salt and light enough to be salt and light, you might need to think the whole dang life through anyway. 

Just saying.

Here's the deal, such and gloriously as it is.

If you gulp deeply at the offering at the Sin Saloon, hitting the philosophical tap with some reverence and noted frequency, recognizing the bartender/petty thief behind the bar's name just by looking at his stooping shoulders and crumpled pillow hair from behind, then you might just be a Sinaholic and you might need to check into whatever Sinaholic's Anonymous is happening tonight around town. 

Heck, if you can spell Sinaholic's Anonymous without red appearing underneath either word as you type, if indeed you type, you might need to do some holic Googling, if you know what I mean.

Let me be clear. We're all Sinaholics of some kind; it's just the name on the blank white tag on our shoulder that needs some black permanent marker printing. We're on the road to identity, not blood-type.

If we can't make that distinction, we have a chance. If not, we're just wasting Brother George's time.

Seriously, there is but one way out of the Sin Saloon, and it ain't the wooden door. It's THE door. His door. The door that surpasses all understanding. 

When you come upon that door, you've got a chance, friends, a chance. Put a hand in the hand of the man who calms the seas (as I sang somewhere around the early 70s), who opens the door, who swings open the gate. 

This round's on Him. He died for it.