Wednesday, November 18, 2015

That Bad Moon is (still) rising

"Put in a candle in the window, folks. I feel like I've got to move," John Fogerty sings in that rough, ragged voice that only he ever has had.

The Bible says it this way: "I give them a mission in the world.
I’m consecrating myself for their sakes,
So they’ll be truth-consecrated in their mission."

Wow, some folks echo. The clarion-call rings out from their guitars, base, electric and devil ringing. Sing it out, those folks in plaid sing down the halls like some sort of, well, 60s band or something.

Things are different now, folks. We're different now, folks. God has given us a mission in the world just as piercing as ever, and that mission in the world is -- well -- different than others before it.

See? Taste? Heck, hear? Yep. All that has come before us has for all great intents and purposes come before us like a rain-storm on a great Fall afternoon.

Seriously. It's all different now than it was before. Can't you sense it? Honestly, all that came before is different. I can see the differences in new and exciting ways. Have you ever seen the rain coming down like water?

I have. It's as different as rain on a wonderfully warm afternoon. It comes pouring. It comes a chugging. It comes down.

We're different.
The world is different.
All different. All can't stop, I wonder.

Can you get that? I suspect that you can.

Let it pour. Let it frothe on sidewalks and in drains. Let it come on down. I'm waiting,  yeah, we're waiting, and it's about to go all shiny, shiny, shiny.

Like smily ol' Captain Tight-pants on Firefly (and if you don't know what that means, you're nicely unknowing), I rode in on a train and I'll be walking out when I go.

A man from a magazine said I was on my way. Somewhere I lost connection. Ran out of songs to play. Looks like my plans fell through.

O Lord, stuck in ol' Lodi again.

I would love to tell you that I had a dollar for every song I've sung, but I don't, won't and can't. I have no money like that. But what I do have is a smile for every time I've sat there drunk, singing a raspy song for what passes for entertainment on a Wednesday morning. You get that? Really?

Down on the corner, Willie and the Poor Boys ... oh, you know the rest don't you?

Here's the deal. Put your money down on the table and scream out, "Black. Thirteen." And you've placed your bet. It's a done deal. You've set the commotion racing. The raggedy steel guitar has started to sing its septic-shocked tune, and we're on our way once again. The band is half dead, but ol' John is still a singing.

Oh, Lord, stuck in ol' Lodi again.

Lodi, California, it hollers for its dollars. Fogerty is cranking his tunes and lo and behold Sonny, there's a Bad Moon on the Rise.

The mission is decidedly less complicated this morning. Sing a tune and let the moon rise and someday you'll understand, we'll get it. C chords will morph into D and into G and before one knows it, the stagger becomes the dagger and understanding grows like a path through the California wood.

Oh, Lord, stuck in ol' Lodi again.

Sing it John. Time has crawled past, but it has passed. Oh, Lord, stuck in ol' Lodi again. 

That's the tune that has stuck there since the late 1960s. Stuck in ol' Lodi, again, and again, and again.

That's the greatest hits of that little band called (for some reason) Creedence Clearwater Revival. Sing it out, friends. Sing it clear, friends. Sing it as if there was nothing better. There is and has always been a Bad Moon on the Rise.

This band was my Beatles. This band was my Stones. This band was my wordsmith and my be all and end all. This morning, that is my mission whether I accept it or not. Stuck in ol' Lodi, again, and again, and again.

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