John Shore

My book, "I'm OK--You're Not: The Message We're Sending Nonbelievers, and Why We Should Stop", is one of three finalists for a 2008 San Diego Book Award, in the category of Spirituality. (My book "Penguins, Pain and the Whole Shebang" won that award in 2006.)

If, on the evening of Saturday, May 17, I attend the SDBA awards ceremony/ schmooze-fest, my 80-year-old father will be with me. To me, this is like saying I'll be accompanied by Popeye, or that on that night I'll sprout wings and fly to the affair. It's that unimaginable. As it happens, my father will be visting me that weekend. My father hasn't stayed overnight in any town I've lived in since I moved out of our family home when I was 16 years old, which was 34 years ago. From then until I was 45, I don't think I saw him five times. I grew from a teenager to a middle-aged man without him.

I became a Christian when I was thirty-eight. Then I wanted to be closer to him: Honor your father, and all like that. So I started writing to him. One day he wrote me back. Then I called him. Then I called him again. Then he invited my wife and me to come to his home for a week and visit with him and his wife, my stepmother. So we did. The following year, he invited us out again, and of course we went again. A lovely time, both times, was had by all.

In February of this year, my dad's wife of 40 years, my stepmother from way back when, succumbed to cancer, and passed away. (I wrote a little about that here.) Since that sadness, my father and I have grown considerably closer; I would say we have become good friends. My wife and I would like him to come live with or near us. It's for the purpose of exploring that possibility that he's coming out to stay with us the weekend of the San Diego Book Awards.

My dad -- who is straight from the 1950's school of Responsible Living -- thinks it's Beyond Bizzare that I'm a writer. To him it's like I make a living making balloon animals, or ... I don't know ... stacking rocks. (Wait. Writing is a lot like those two things....) He doesn't understand how I can possibly make a living doing something so nebulous and ... weird, basically.

And, of course, all I ever wanted my whole life was for the guy to take me seriously. Same as all sons want from their fathers.

I don't know if my father's going to be in the mood to go the San Diego Book Awards. I don't know if I will be. But we'll probably go. And if we do go, and I do win, I could see, once I'm back in my seat with him, having to take more time than I really should to stop smiling.

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The Blind Boys of Alabama. Jimmy Carter's on the far left. The guy who looks like he's yawning, Bishop Billy Bowers, has a voice of such arresting intimacy it stops their shows.

My wife Cat and I recently went to see The Blind Boys of Alabama. The group's lead singer, Jimmy Carter, has a voice like a mint julep infused with the rawest moonshine. (Yes, it is that Jimmy Carter: in between hammering away for Habitat for Humanity and solving the Middle East crisis, our former president is an old blind black man who fronts a gospel singing group. How he pulls this off is a mystery known only to God and Jimmy's make-up artist.)

Being in the show's audience was at times a tad uncomfortable, insofar as it was clear just about no one present came into the show knowing that The Blind Boys are a gospel group. Most thought they were going to see hardcore rural blues---acoustic, field holler, juke-joint type stuff. And in a real sense they did get that. But mostly what they got---what in fact they got with every single song -- was pure, unabashed gospel.

Oh, no! Young, organically-inclined, ganja-friendly white people adorned with hemp-cloth shoulder bags and wearing sandals, macrame-berets, and yoga pants having Christian songs sung at them! Not good. Not what they showed up for. Expecting low-down funky blues; getting hands-up joy in the pews.

When the word "Jesus" first came roaring from Jimmy's reedy, bourbon-cured vocal chords, I could feel people around us sort of freeze in mid-groove. Did he just say, "Jesus"? It was like a record had skipped; for a split second it threw everyone off the rhythm of their happy rasta-hop. Makes sense. If I went to see a gospel group, and they started singin' about pimpin' and robbin' jewelry stores, I, too, would feel a stammer in my step.

But everybody got right back into it. They'd probably misheard the word "Jesus,", or it didn't really have much if anything to do with the song. No worries.

Then Jimmy very distinctly sang the word "Jesus" again. People quit committing so much to the physical expressions of their pleasure, and started listening more, particularly to the lyrics. What the heck was going on? Was this some kind of ... Christian show?!

Four songs into the set, the hemp crowd was looking downright disgruntled -- whereas the previously clandestine Christians in the crowd were now waving their hands in the air like they were at an old-time travelin' tent revival. In no time, they had unexpectedly gone from being the old and square ones, to being the hip ones!

Seven songs into it, nobody cared who was old, or who was hip, or who was Christian, or who wasn't: All any of us knew was that we were listening to music as rip-roaringly, foot-stompingly, soul-rattlingly fine as music gets. No one resisted the gospel that night. I believe some folks were converted that night.

After the show, Cat and I were invited backstage to meet the BBA. "Now remember," their manager warned us, "you can't just stand around and smile. You gotta go right up to 'em, touch 'em. They're blind."

"Cool," I said. "Finally, it's proper for me to touch people I don't know."

Cat, sensing I'd probably say something just like that, was already headed back stage. "Wait up!" I said, waving goodbye to the manager. I totally saw her pick up her pace. "Don't touch anyone without me!" I hollered. She practically started jogging.

Like most backstage areas, this one was pretty dismal: couple of couches, a mini-fridge, a table holding a little spread of cold cuts, chips, veggies, dip. Nothing you wouldn't find at a frat party. I espied Jimmy Carter sitting alone on one side of one of the couches, his folded hands in his lap. He was still wearing the highly stylin' seersucker suit he'd performed in. I sat down beside him.

"Can you tell I'm here?" I said. "Not only that," he said, "I can tell you need to go on a diet. Unless you're about seven-foot eight, you obvious lard***."

No, he didn't say that. He screamed for his manager.

"He told me to touch you," I said. "Should I do that now, or wait for him?"

But I jest. In reality I put my hand on Mr. Carter's arm and thanked him for bringing us all a little closer to God that night. Basically, I went around the room to each one of the guys, and thanked them, and chatted with them a little about the quality of what they do. Cat did the same.

Worked for them. Definitely worked for us.

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Related-type posts: My Name Is Not Pato Banton (about the night I went to see reggae star Pato Banton at the same club where we saw Blind Boys) and My Private, Difficult Conversation with Chrissie Hynde.

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Okay, the questions aren't so tough. But on her blog Through My Eyes , Ingrid Moore Curry -- Ohioan, music fanatic, snooty people hater, Ving Rhames rebounder, proud member of The Secret Council Of American Negroes -- did  ask me a few questions in the course of interviewing me as her Writer of the Month for May.

It is a mystery to me how, in the course of our short e-chat, I went from talking about the difficult relationship between The Great Commission and The Great Commandment to talking getting hunted down by torch-wielding villagers and beaten to death with sticks. Shows Ingrid's genius as an interviewer, I think.

To anyone else who would like to interview me as their  Writer/Genius of the Month (or of the year, or whatever), I'd like to say do it!  Right now!

Thank you. Thangyaverymuch.

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Adam: I sure wish we hadn't eaten that apple. That was dumb.

Eve: Really? Ya' think?

Adam: Where are we?

Eve: I dunno. I know where we're NOT.

[both together, dreamily]: Paradise.

Adam: Paradise! I miss it! I want back there so bad!

Eve: Me, too. Maybe if we begged him to let us back in.

Adam: I don't know, man. Even though I'm new at ... well, being alive, I guess, I HATE begging. Something about it.

Eve: Really? I've seen you beg. You're quite good at it.

Adam [blushing]: Well, that was different.

Eve: Sure was for me.

Adam: Let's do it again.

Eve: Will you stop? We've got real problems here.

Adam: I know. But what can we do?

Eve: Well, maybe if we just asked him to let us back in.

Adam: I don't think it would work. That was one angry control freak.

Eve: Don't say that! You know he's still watching us.

Adam: I don't care. What's he going to do to us? Banish us some MORE?

Eve: He still loves us.

Adam: Maybe.

Eve: I think maybe if we just asked him ...

Adam: I don't. He was seriously ticked.

Eve: He really was. I was, like, "Have a COW about it, why don't ya'?"

Adam: I know. I LOVED it when you said that!

Eve: He didn't.

Adam: He has no sense of humor.

Eve: No kidding. Look at this place. What IS this stuff?

Adam: Who knows? We can call it anything. It's not like HE'S already got a name for it. I had to name everything! I can't believe I spent all that time coming up with names like "aardvark," and "koala." And now all those guys are in there, and we're stuck out HERE.

Eve: That koala is so cute.

Adam: He so totally is. Except for his claws are like ... like ... what's the big nose part of that one crazy looking bird? The big black one, with the colorful ... nose thing?

Eve: Oh, right! The ... toucan!

Adam: Yeah, the toucan. The koala had claws as big as the toucan's nose thing.

Eve: "Toucan." What a great word. You're a genius.

Adam: Thanks. You'd think he'd appreciate it just a LITTLE, wouldn't you?

Eve: I'm sure he does.

Adam: Really? You think this shows a lot of appreciation? I'm glad he's not MORE appreciative of us. Who knows what he would have done to us then? Put us on the ... what's that thing called again?

Eve: The moon?

Adam: The moon. He would have put us on the MOON.

Eve: Hey, I just had a thought. I think we should call this stuff "sand."

Adam: Oh, that is good. I love it. That's just what this stuff is. Sssslips in, goes irritating on you, and then stays. "Saaaannnd." Perfect. Good job. It is kind of fun naming stuff, isn't it?

Eve: It is.

Adam: Well, I hope you enjoyed naming this stuff. Because there's nothing else out here TO name.

Eve: Hey, do you feel guilty?

Adam: You mean that feeling we had right after we ate the apple? When we were hiding from him? You mean do I still feel that way?

Eve: Yeah. Do you?

Adam: I dunno. A little. It's hard to feel TOO guilty, given what I think it's safe to call his slight overreaction.

Eve: Well, he DID say we'd die if we ate from that tree. At least he didn't kill us.

Adam: Don't be so sure. Maybe we ARE dead. I mean, look at this place! It's nothing but ... that one new word.

Eve: Sand.

Adam: Sand. It's nothing but sand. That's ALL we've got! So, I don't know. I did feel a little guilty. A lot, even. But now, really, I'm just angry. This isn't fair.

Eve: It does seem a tad harsh. But ...

Adam: It was that snake! That stupid SNAKE! I'd like to wring that snake's neck, if it had one.

Eve: That was my fault. I listened to him.

Adam: Of course you did! Who wouldn't listen to a talking SNAKE!? I'd probably chew off my FOOT if a talking snake told me to. It's like, "Whoa! Talking animal! All bets are off now!"

Eve: Still. I should have ignored him.

Adam: Hello? Talking snake! Not exactly easy to ignore.

Eve: He was one smooth talker, I'll give him that.

Adam: Well, you can't mate with a snake. So stop right there.

Eve: What are you talking about?

Adam: Oh, please. You were obviously taken with him.

Eve: I was not.

Adam: You were too.

Eve: I was NOT.

Adam: Well, you did what he said, didn't you? There had to be SOMETHING going on there.

Eve: There WASN'T!

Adam: Then why did you do what he said?

Eve [crying]: I don't know! I don't know why I did it! It didn't have anything to do with him, or what he said. I just ... I don't know! I don't KNOW why I did it! But I did! I did it! I ate from the forbidden tree! I don't know why! And now we're ruined!

Adam [putting his arm around her]: I know why you did it. You did it for the exact same reason I would have done it. We were going to eat from that tree no matter what. We didn't need a tricky snake to encourage us to do it. You can't tell people that they can do everything but this ONE special thing -- and then expect them not to go crazy until they do that one special thing. It's not ... natural.

Eve: We could have ignored it.

Adam: The snake?

Eve: The tree.

Adam: I couldn't have. I was probably going to eat from it that day anyway. It was driving me crazy. I used to lay awake at night THINKING about that tree. I almost DID eat from it a couple of times. I'm telling you: I was gonna do it.

Eve: You're so sweet for saying that.

Adam: I'm not being sweet. I'm telling you. I HATE being told what I can and can't do. As soon as he told us we couldn't eat from that tree, that's the tree I wanted to eat from.

Eve: I know. Me too. And now look at us.

Adam: At least we're still together.

Eve: Yeah. SEPARATING us would have been unbearable.

Adam: We'll make it through this. We'll survive.

Eve: I know. As long as I'm with you, I'm still in paradise.

Adam: And we'll get there again. We messed up, sure. But sooner or later, he'll forgive us. I know he will. 

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