"London Calling…"-The Clash

Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.
Ring, ring.

"Hello?"

"Hi, this is your multi-national, super-global, uber-friendly monolith of power operator with a collect call from 'the call.' Do you accept the charges?"

A Call? The Call? Charges? Guilty? The Call? What call?

Sunday I stumbled through my usual morning routine. I showered; I shaved; I dressed for church. I even spritzed a little cologne, cuz I know God doesn't like a stinky Rob. Neither do my pew sharing Lutheran friends.

For this process, my body is on auto pilot, simply going through the motions while my mind wanders. My mind? Well, Sunday's mind is bonnie and blyth, good and--well not so gay (not that there's anything wrong with that). Sunday's body is thrashing through the closet, but Sunday's mind is lilting around the Church: Is this Communion Sunday? I wonder who's giving the sermon? I hope it's Pastor David. I like Pastor David. (Pastor David is our Santa Pastor. You just want to sit in his lap and listen.). Speaking of pastors, did the new guy accept the call?

The call.

Jack London wrote about a call didn't he? Jack's top dog lost his lap of luxury and needed to find a new path in the bitter cold against bitter dog rivals. We watch Buck the pack dog became Buck the head wolf.

My church is without a head pastor right now, and the wolf is at the door. Ok it's not that dire, but it sounded so cool, didn't it? I mean I'm dealing with Jack London, I should sound semi-literate, or at least half-assed. You can admit I'm that, right?

Really, We had an interim guy for a while who was a good fit, but he got another call, and he needed to deliver in 30 days or less. That was his call, he filled emergency gaps. Our gap was no longer a gaping wound. We were beginning to heal. Still, we haven't had a real head pastor since I first showed up 3 years ago. We're a headless body of Christ throwing pumpkins at passing cars. It's cool on Halloween, but the rest of the year it's a little frustrating. We lack aim and direction.

We've just been ambling since the last pastor was run out of town. Don't ask me why, I have no idea. There are plenty of people at church willing to tell me. In fact their torches were still smoldering, and the "angry villiager" garb still hadn't returned from the dry cleaner's to be hung in the closet of righteous anger, but I didn't want to know. That's the past. I already have enough baggage of my own. I don't need the Churches too. I was promised the light yoke of Christ. Where's that?

Now the seething has subsided, we've put out a call. People like angry calls less than they like drunk calls. At my church we don't do any of those. We're were sober when we voted on the guy they liked. We gave him a call, and are waiting for him to reply. It's been a month; the elders are fidgeting by the phone like an anxious prom date.

Me, I've been here before. I'm here now if you think about it. I do, as Sunday's mind ties things together. Sunday's body works the Windsor knot, while Sunday's mind draws lines between the Church with Rob. Both have been jilted. Both expect brighter futures. Both have a nougaty center with a sprinkling of nuts.

Both want answers to the call.

My call? Oh mine is more of a vibe than a call. It's a smoke signal puff from a distant mesa. Don't interpret my smoke signals, it'll only drive you crazy. Granted, my call isn't on a private line. My call is open to all and many will interpret, but few will understand. Only the chosen.

"That one looks like a cherub."

Who are the chosen I called? I don't know, surprise me. I'm not like the church. I didn't have a list of pictures and profiles from PastorMatch.com. My call is more about faith than about literature and liturgy. I only know that the right person will receive the call, will know it's meaning, and will reply accordingly. I have faith.

I have faith in the marriage call, I have faith in my career call. I have faith in my faith call. Now some of the lines are dead, others are breaking up, but I'm not worried. I have the ones that matter. The rest will connect when the right party gets their call. I have faith.

So does my church. They believe this pastor is the man for the job. I guess he believes too. One of the first announcements in church: The new pastor accepted our call. He's taken his dear sweet time, but we're Lutherans, we'll forgive him. Look, we've already put away the stockades from the last time, and it's only been a few years. We're healed and ready to move on.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

Ring, ring.

"Hello?"

"This is The Clash, we have a Jack London calling."

"I'm sorry, you have a bad joke and a wrong number."

"No, we have you as the call center for joke rehabilitation."

"Oh, well then patch him through."

That's what London's call revealed too. Not bad jokes, I don't need those, I have plenty. It revealed Buck, the dog fighting through adversity to answer the call. In his story we learned that troubles may continue to shape our lives, but the Buck stops here.

So does the Rob. I have a call and my life moves on. This call isn't just about who to spend time with, but how to live it. I'm not my church though. I'm closer to Buck. I'm not sitting by the phone. This is the iPhone era. If a call comes I'll answer. In the mean time, I have a few calls to place of my own.