The Power of Sunset or Who Owns this Beach Anyway?

Last Sunday was our first full day on the white sugary sand of Siesta Key; our vacation destination last year and this year. Located near Sarasota on the Gulf Coast, we crossed through long stretches of South Carolina, Georgia, and Florida to get here. A tiring trip, but worth it because once you make it here it truly lives up to its name. A perfect place to relax.  After dinner, we sauntered back down to the shore to watch the evening sun make its magnificent descent into the clear line along the horizon. We had realized last year that this was something we had never seen before, having been East Coast people our whole lives. Watching the last sliver of bright orange disappear into the water gave me a comforting sense of order in the universe. And this year I needed that sort of comforting reassurance more than ever. My previous post, Finding Balance in a Wobbly World, is about needing a reminder of G-d’s presence in our lives ever since my mother passed away in March of this year.

So as we passed through the last of the thick sea oats along the dune line and the sand and sea opened up before us, I was eager for the sun to put on its show. We were surprised to find that another type of show was about to begin. There were rows of benches in the spot that we had staked out as “our own” last year. In front of the benches, a crew of two men were busy setting up large sound equipment. And there were far more people gathered in this particular spot than we had ever seen last year. Then we saw the sign. “Public Welcome, Sunset Worship Service.” Then I noticed the 8’ tall wooden cross that had been planted like a beach umbrella in the sand.

In another post about my interfaith marriage, I talked about how being married to a Jew had made me more keenly aware of our society’s insensitivity toward people that are not Christian. So this awareness shaped my view of the activity being organized on the public beach where I had planned for my family to watch a quiet solar display of G-d’s power.   It was a jarring and unwelcome intrusion on my imagined vision for the evening. The large speakers, the gaudy sign, and the flyers being passed around touting the impending sermon and musical performance by an “America’s Got Talent” celebrity felt wrong to me. It seemed unnecessary.

The universe itself was about to pay tribute to our divine creator, so what did we need loud music and amplifiers for? And what about the people on this public beach who did not subscribe to whatever religious doctrine was about to be sung and shouted over the PA system? I mean these are public beaches maintained by tax dollars, right? I had to admit to myself that I really did not know the answer to that last question.

I remembered having read something, perhaps in my Real Estate training about this, but I could not remember exactly how the law regarded beaches. I have never been denied access to any beach, so my assumption has been that they are public and maintained with tax support. So, as I continued to watch the preparations being made for the church service on the sand, this became all I could think about. These holy rollers were disturbing my peace. This has been a pattern in my life; Religion was interfering with my religious practice. So I needed to know what gave these folks the right to hold a religious service on “our” beach.

So here is the tricky part. 

The particular spot on the beach that we were calling “ours”, was situated directly in front of a structure that could not be called anything else but a mansion. Not a McMansion, a real mansion. The chiropractor who founded 800-Ask-Gary owned 7 acres of beachfront property and built a 30,000 square foot Beaux-Arts style single family residence on it. It is a beautiful piece of architecture but the community has complained that it is not appropriate for its location. I wondered if the ability to hold a church service on the beach was a kind of wealthy white privilege that is taken for granted in our country. 

I walked up to the two guys setting up the sound system. “Hi”, I said. And then asked in a friendly and curious voice, “What are you guys setting up for?” One of them explained that they were about to hold a worship service hosted by the local Church of God. Still smiling and inquisitive, I asked how that worked. Did they have to get a permit? The sound guy politely explained that there was not a need for that as the location was on private property and pointed to the mansion. He said that Gary was letting the church use the house and the beachfront for the service. I thought about this as I watched the flip-flop wearing worshippers trample close to several sea turtle nesting areas that had been taped off. In fact, one speaker stand was placed within a foot of a nest. 

“Did baby sea turtles like loud praise music?”, I wondered to myself.

I pressed a little more and suggested that the beach front was public and it seemed like a permit would be required. The friendly sound tech explained that 800-Gary owned the land and water from the corners of his lot all the way to the start of the international waters, but that he just let the public use his beach for free.  I was doubtful of this, but I was not looking for an argument. I went back toward the public access where my family was eagerly waiting to see what I had heard. I explained what I had been told. My wife immediately began talking about this Gary guy being able to take over the beach just because he was rich. She voiced concern that this would be a nightly occurrence during our one week of vacation. My 16-year-old daughter was exclaiming that this just was not right, convinced in the way that teenagers often are that something is either right or wrong. My 11-year-old daughter, however, was giddy with excitement! She loves a bit of drama!

On our trek across three southern states my daughters had heard me complaining about the billboards along the interstate. One read, “If you die in bed tonight, what will it be? Heaven or Hell?” Another one said, “Jesus is the ONLY way to God!”

Many of them proclaimed that Jesus is STILL the answer. We also talked openly about the numerous and large rebel flags, being flown over the interstate.  I talked openly about my feelings that these flags were meant to intimidate.

I ranted a bit about how Christians are always complaining about not being allowed to talk about God or Jesus, yet they are the only religion that I see advertising on billboards that it is their way or an eternity in hellfire!

Lyric, as my younger daughter is insisting is her new name, loves when anyone in the family gets wound up about something. She will push all the right buttons to wind things up even more. “Ooooooh, Mommy and Daddy are not going to like this!”, she exclaimed. Then gleefully adding, “They are going to be talking about Jesus over those speakers!” She was giggling and doing her best to stir the pot. As we were discussing the issue at hand, Lyric then said, “Here they come!” Two heavily tattooed guys were making their way along the beach handing out flyers inviting the public to participate in the worship service.

This is the part where I would normally express my opinion about public rights versus free speech rights to a couple of guys who probably could have cared less. They tentatively offered up the flyer and asked if we were interested in having information about the service. Before I could launch into my dissertation, Lyric announced loudly and happily, “Sure! We would love a flyer!” I had to smile at this. The tattooed men went on to explain how exciting it was that an “America’s Got Talent” star was going to be performing during the service. Lyric interrupted, “Is there going to be food involved in this?” Now my smile was approaching a laugh out loud moment. The tattooed guys said that they didn’t think so. Lyric replied, “Well, we will have to just think about it.” Now I was laughing. The two Christian soldiers seemed unsure what to make of us and proceeded down the beach to find better prospects.

My wife was relieved to see that the flyer said that the services would be held once a month. We would have “our beach” back for the rest of the week. Satisfied with this information, we skipped the sunset and the service and headed back to our vacation rental. We let go of our resentment toward the event organizers who were clearly happy in this moment sharing the “Good News” that they believe is theirs to spread.

We could return the next evening. G-d would put on his magic display again. He always does.

One

“How long? How long must we sing this song? How long?Because tonight, we can be as one. Tonight.” U2 

This is what we should be asking. This is what we should be joining hands and singing.  Watch the video (here) of the U2 performance from the Rattle and Hum tour film. In my opinion, it is the single most powerful Rock and Roll performance crying out for an end to people killing people. The emotion expressed by Bono is palpable. As an Irishman, eleven of his fellow countrymen had been killed just that day.

Now, in America, we have weekly mass killings. Some in the name of revolution. Some in the name of Jihad. Some in the name of God. Some in the name of hate. The wide proliferation of guns makes this type of killing easy and more likely. The fear on every side is amped up by the knowledge that every encounter between a police officer and a civilian may end in bloodshed, because there is a good chance that the civilian is armed. The fear is with all of us because entering a movie theatre could be a deadly activity. Or going to a nightclub to dance may end in mass carnage. An unhappy motorist may randomly decide to shoot you right through your car window.

“How long, how long must we sing this song?”

How long will it take for white people to utter the phrase “Black Lives Matter?” To just acknowledge that we have not ever equally valued the lives of People of Color? How long will it take for us to show respect to a black President? How long will it take for us to admit our complicity in oppression whether it’s through silence, or denigrating People of Color, or just feeling that we are superior because we are white? How long before we stop fearing every black man we encounter?

“Because tonight, we can be as one.”  

This has been true since the beginning of time. We can be as one. It’s madness that only the prophets, the artists, and the poets seem to be able to see this. It should be so easy. We are all human. We all want the same thing. We all want to live a free life, to be treated fairly with loving-kindness. We all want our families to be safe and healthy. We all mourn when our loved ones die. We were all created with certain inalienable rights. We all agree that life is sacred and should not be destroyed. Why then, are we spilling each other’s blood? How long will this go on?

  “How long must we sing this song?”

Watch the video. If for no other reason than to see one of the greatest live rock performances ever. Watch it and hear the passion in Bono’s voice. Hear the passion in the playing of every instrument in the band. Watch it and listen to the lyrics that cry out for us all to acknowledge that we can be as one. Tonight. Watch and listen to the impassioned speech that Bono makes about the revolution in Ireland. About how sick he is about the Irish Americans that come up to him saying that they support the revolution, never acknowledging the killing brought on by it. Bono shouts “Fuck the revolution.” He has witnessed the ugliness of human beings being killed in the name of revolution.

As Americans, we need to be careful in the use of our language. Words are powerful. Words can incite violence. Words can incite murder. Words can drive a mentally unstable person to grab his legally obtained semi-automatic rifle and shoot up a theater, a school, or a nightclub.

How long before we dial down the rhetoric? How long before we admit that the wide proliferation of firearms in this country lends itself to more death, not less?

People come up to me and talk about their second amendment rights. The say that our founding fathers guaranteed our right to have guns. They don’t talk about the fact that there were no founding mothers weighing in on that decision. They don’t talk about the fact that people of color were still legally treated as chattel when that document was written. They don’t talk about the fact that the idea of citizens owning weaponry capable of killing dozens in a minute would have been a completely alien concept to those founding fathers. They don’t talk about the children whose lives should have continued past elementary school in Sandy Hook. They don’t talk about the now dead potential of the students at Virginia Tech. They don’t talk about the police officers who lost their lives because an angry person had an assault rifle.

"I can't believe the news today. I can't close my eyes and make it go away."

All they talk about is their right to bear arms. In the video of U2 playing “Sunday, Bloody Sunday”, Bono talks of a terrorist attack that had happened just that day. Eleven people killed in the name of revolution. “Fuck the revolution!” he cries out. And I have witnessed the weekly carnage in our American streets. And you have witnessed the carnage in our streets. We should all be crying out “Fuck the right to bear arms!”

“How long, how long must we sing this song? How long?Because tonight, we can be as one. Tonight” 

We can be as one. Let’s make it happen. Tonight.

Being in the Right Place at the Right Time

I almost stayed home last night. A historic music venue in the city I live in, is scheduled to cease operations at the end of this year. The band that both of my brothers are in was taking the stage at 9:00pm sharp. This was my last opportunity to see them play that stage together. I almost didn’t make it to stand beside my sister and play the supportive sibling role that has been our custom for many years. I came very close to letting a grudge get in the way of being where I belonged.

I started writing this blog several weeks ago. I have been posting an eclectic mix of musings, personal narratives, and poems. I have felt a need to prove to myself that I can do something outside of my job. That I can do it well and stick with it. While the blog has not consistently followed a theme or format, I wanted it to convey two things. The first being honesty. I feel that, as a whole, we do not express ourselves honestly to each other or even to ourselves. The second purpose was to honor people who have inspired me. In the past, I have only expressed this sort of sentiment after someone close to me dies. So, I want those who have made an impact on my life to know it now because none of us know when our time is up.

But sometimes we fall short of our intentions. I wrote a post that I felt was honest. But in my zeal to increase readership (a self-serving goal), I had neglected the more important purpose of this blog. I had not honored those who have inspired me. Instead, I thought of myself first and risked dishonoring the shared memories of my friends and family. And in fact, the particular post was not completely honest because it focused on negative aspects in our lives in a way that was out of balance with the overwhelming positive that had been our shared experience.

Before I had a chance to post it, one of my brothers read the draft. I think he said that it was great, but pointed out that I needed to be aware of the fact that when I am publicly sharing my experience that, by default, I am sharing the experience of friends and family members who may not want to be as public as me. But my ego heard him saying that I need to stop writing the blog. My ego heard him say that I was getting too much attention and he was jealous and I reacted as if that was what he really said. My reaction was about me and my self-doubt, not about the truth in his statement. And then I almost made it worse by holding a grudge.

But at 8:45pm last night, I let go of any resentment. My sister was already there at the side of the stage ready to cheer her brothers on. I had fifteen minutes to make the first song. I dropped what I was doing, raced around to clean myself up (not really a necessity at the this particular night club) and hopped in the car. I turned down the main road that heads to the joint only to see the flashing lights of the train gates mark the arrival of what is always the world's slowest locomotive. I quickly made a turn that goes a fair distance out of the way but is usually faster than waiting for the endless line of box cars to pass.

When I arrived there were no parking spaces remaining. I almost went home, but I was no longer under the influence of an injured ego so I knew that this moment was important. I remembered the metered spaces that were close by. Found one. I did a quick parallel park and then race walked to my destination. As I approached I could hear the steady beat of my oldest brother’s drumming. I could hear my other brother’s vocals. Singing. The same vocal chords that he had used to provide honest criticism, were now melodically ringing out through the walls of the dilapidated, but worthy building. He was singing in a voice that I know like it’s my own, but could never replicate. A voice that is familiar. A voice calling me to join him where I belong on a night like this: with my family.