Sky Pilot, the quick introduction and Chapter One

A couple of years ago, Dan Krotz, the author of "Coffee with John Heartbreak" suggested I write a book. He has always been supportive of my ministry and my writing. Recently he suggested I write a "Christian Science Fiction novel. *smile* The "protagonist" will deliver wonderful sermons to burnt out Christians living in the ruins of organized Christianity and, along the way caution them to stop listening to new age crap music." Along with Dan There are others deserve thanks for this work beginning with my wife Marie, without her none of this would be possible. Without her, none of this would be worthwhile. It was the Reverend Doctor Cynthia Rigby who told me that there’s a place to consider and celebrate where faith and music and writing dance together. Not her precise words, but that’s how I got here from a Seminary project called “A Theological Conversation between Karl Barth and Lenny Kravitz.” Finally, thanks and praise to God Almighty who makes all things possible. Especially love and rock music. Here's the first chapter of Sky Pilot. Here's hoping you enjoy finding out as much about him as I will writing about him.

Chapter One

It’s six o’clock on a Monday morning and I’m sitting in a bar with a bottle of beer, a shot of tequila, and my last cigar. The last cigar on this whole barge unless someone is better at rationing theirs than I am with mine; and if they are then bless their heart. It’s been five, almost six years since we left port, and that’s a long time to keep a stash. Then again that’s why the butt tastes stale. Humidify all you want, six years is too long. Who would think Earth is the only place in the galaxy that grows tobacco.

Other planets have their own herbs, but only Earth has Cuban cigars, thanks be to God. Now there’s a phrase that has gotten me into more trouble than I ever thought it would, “thanks be to God.”

When I left the Seminary they told me that sharing the Word of God was an honor, a responsibility, and a burden. People will love you for it, but not enough, and people will hate you for it, but more than you can ever imagine. It’s Monday morning and after yesterday these words never rang more true. That’s why I look at the tequila and shoot it down.

Agape and agave. One is a word in ancient Greek and the other is a cactus. Agape, that’s Greek for love, not family love or brotherly love or erotic love either. Agape is the everlasting eternal love of God. Agape is the love that Paul writes about in his first letter to the Corinthians.

Agave, that’s the cactus that makes tequila. Thanks be to God and that crow on the label. It’s Monday. It’s six in the morning. I’m on my last cigar, the one I meant to smoke when I finally got off this stinking barge, and I’m in a bar. I can’t find agape, but I found agave. Here’s to agave. “Bartender, another.”

Out in deep space, where there is no sun, no stars, and gravity is artificial, why do we stick to a twenty-four hour day and a seven day week? It’s not my fault. I’m fine with “Remember the Sabbath and keep it holy,” but on Earth and here before my current posting when I led a regular “Sunday” service I took my Sabbath day on Friday. It’s important to rest and recover. God wants it, we all want it. Everybody needs a day of recreation—break it down—re-creation. We need it. God commands it.

In space though, the whole twenty-four-seven thing seems arbitrary. I would have thought those medical and psychological experts would have studied this long enough to be able to find a more optimal schedule. Something with a siesta! Please God a siesta! What would possibly be wrong with that?

I wonder if it’s military. They do love that whole 1600 hours thing. If the day suddenly had 3000 hours or 2000 hours then all of their reports would have to be translated from their automatic group think, the rest of us be damned. Then they would have to get new clocks and that would cost billions. I bet it’s the military, but now I’m military too, so damn them, damn me.

So if time is arbitrary, aren’t the “hours” this tavern is open arbitrary too? On a barge that operates twenty-four-seven, why would this place be closed from two until six in what we arbitrarily call the morning? The overnight? The predawn hours? Speaking of arbitrary! When the station controls lighting controlling night and day, nothing could be more arbitrary than night and day!

But this leads to another question; who in the cosmos would be the poor sap stuck opening this joint at six o’clock on a Monday morning. I mean God bless him, but that’s a shift nobody should want. Who comes in this time of day? Oh, look around, just me.

Yeah, that’s where my mind wanders at six in the morning when disaster and melodrama loom. I’m making too much of this. Most of this won’t matter a bit in the turning of time and space, but to some it’s everything. That makes me too drunk or not drunk enough; it’s a fine line when I have to be on the flight deck at nine. No, that’s now 0900 hours.

To drink or not to drink?