The Stuff of Dreams

This has been the week for odd dreams. I won’t go into the two this week that featured George W. Bush (is this a new Republican tactic?) who seemed like a nice guy, but who I still probably won’t support in November.

This mornings was a doozy though. It began with stress — trying to figure out with Kay my wife how we were going to juggle the kids on that day. That is actually a fairly normal state of being, but on the day of this dream I had two funerals in two different parts of town and couldn’t figure out how I would get the kids to Kay. Somehow, we came up with a plan, and I headed to the local funeral home.

This first funeral was a family member of one of my church members, a lady who is known for propriety. She was being casual, though, about this service, and had spread the word that the dress was “normal colors,” which made no sense to me. Anyway, I went to the funeral home with my robe and chatted for a short time with the funeral director. Then, as I robed, I realized that in my haste to leave, I had put on a shirt that was holographic, irridescent, rainbow colored. It didn’t seem like a “normal color” to me. No worries though, because I had a robe, right? Well as I put on the robe, I realized that you could still see the color, so I was rolling it under and tucking it into my robe as I walked into the chapel.

At that point something changed in the dream. While the deceased was still connected to my church member, somehow she became a staff member or some big wig in the United Methodist denomination. The chapel was filled with United Methodist denominational staff members . . . and a bunch of kids.

As I walked in, I realized that I didn’t have my Bible with me. So I ran into a side office and grabbed the first Bible I could find and headed into the chapel. When I opened it, I realized that it was written in Hebrew, a langage that I don’t read.

So I’m at the front of the chapel with a Bible that I can’t read when I realize that I can’t remember the full name of the deceased. I can remember her last name, but I have completely lost the first name. But I’m a United Methodist pastor, so I stand to offer the greeting and sin boldly so that grace may abound. I offer some opening comments with authority, which I’m fairly pleased with.

Someone else then reads some scripture, and a full choir stands to sing. At that moment I realize that the chapel is the size of a Hollywood sound studio, and watch as the pews are transformed into pirate ships. The children gather in the area between the ships and the casket, and the adults shower candy down on them as they sing.

After the choir finishes, and the pirate ships turn back into pews, I stand to offer the eulogy and sermon. I realize with horror that the woman who I had named so authoritatively earlier “Wanda” is actually named “Yolanda.” I’m trying to think of how to work myself out of this pickle when I see Jim Lawson, a retired United Methodist minister, civil rights activist, and social justice crusader coming toward the front, dressed in full biker regalia. I watch as Jim turns to the crowd, offers a benediction, and dismisses the crowd.

I am trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do next when I woke up.

No, I haven’t been dropping acid.

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