[The Good Shepherds]

The Origin Story (Pt 3)
Tulsa, OK; December 26th, 2015

Before the cross, I think of many things. Where I came from. What I’ve been through to get to where I am. Mistakes. Blessings. And through all of it, I am thankful. The scars of my mind, and of my body, all disappear once I’ve knelt before Him, confessing all that’s broken. Each time, I feel like something has been fixed, and little by little, I become the man that I’m supposed to be. So on this day, I came to humble myself before The Lord, after the day of His son’s birth, to reflect, and to ask for the ultimate healing.  My biggest sin, the only thing that is tying me to this earthly plane.

The night before, I spent Christmas with the members of the Church of the Good Shepherds.  Inside of the church, we had my father, mother, sister, and myself. We were joined by Andrew Borg who accompanied my sister to the feast.  Plus, the more than a dozen congregation members who were able to make it to the celebration.  Father had just delivered an amazing sermon not more than fifteen minutes ago.  The intimate lighting of the banquet center is accented by the warm glow of white Christmas lights tastefully lining the room.  Candles adorn the large wooden table, lined with cloth and place settings for everyone who arrived, and who may arrive.

This had truly been the first Christmas where things felt right.  The spirit was alive and flourishing throughout the entire room, and I was living in it. Everything just felt so… perfect.  Mother and Ginny served dinner, and mom rang the dinner bell.  There was a hush around the room as people moved to find a proper seat amongst those they were closest to.  I walked over and took an empty seat at the edge of the table where no one else was seated on either side of me. Seeing the couples, the mothers, fathers, and their grown children, I just felt better to sit off to the side, and not to encroach upon their celebration, and I was in a much better place to not be bothered by it.

I stare down at the empty plate as my dad takes a glass of wine and a silver spoon. He taps the side of it to finish drawing attention to the head of the table.  The smell of honey ham, sweet potatoes, cornbread, greens, and the kind of macaroni and cheese that sticks to your gut just filled my nostrils, and I was once again at peace. With all eyes on him, Father Gerald cleared his throat and started to speak.

Gerald:  Thank you all for joining us this evening. The eve of the birth of our Lord and Savior.  Congregation is so important at this time of year.  We grow in spirit when we gather. But this season brings more power when we remember that Jesus Christ laid down his life to forgive us of all our sins. He died so that we may live. And it is our duty to remember this, and to live according to scripture. We…

Just then, the door flew open and the cool wind blew in fallen leaves and a rain so cold that it can be felt on the other side of the room.  Standing there is a man in wet and tattered clothing.  A scarf that is stained with soot and greyed out.  His knitted cap flew off of his head and across the room when all eyes turned to him.  He apologetically closed the door tightly and looked around at everyone staring, judging him instantly.  His drenched locks dripped down his face and neck as he shivered relentlessly. I got up immediately and found the first thing I could to wrap around him.

Me:  Child, what is your name?

He didn’t speak, but I could tell that he didn’t appreciate being called “Child” by someone who was likely younger than him. But he accepted the blanket and he took a seat near the hearth burning in the corner.  His voice was raspy and dry as he tried to speak up.

Man:  Sorry, sorry. Sorry to interrupt.

Dad looked at him with head tilted to the side. He was studying the man. I brought him a cup of coffee and another blanket.

Gerald:  Son, what brings you to us on this, the evening of the Lord?

The man gulped down the scorching hot coffee like his life depended on it, and it likely did. He placed his cup down, still shivering.  The man tried to muster up the words, but between the embarrassment and the cold, it was truly a struggle.

Man:  Nowhere else to turn. I’ve… lost… everything. When I warm, I can go.

Me:  Nonsense. We are just about to enjoy a Christmas feast, and we have extra place settings. We insist that you join us.

Afterall, that was the spirit of the season.  As a good Christian, that’s what we were supposed to do. Father looked at me as if I had just suggested the sky were green and falling upon us.

Man:  Thank you.

Gerald:  Might I suggest a… warm… shower first?

The man reluctantly nodded. Esther started to stand up, but Father held her back and gave me the nod. I led him from the banquet center, down the hall to the stairs.  In the attic, we had a space set up as living quarters for the wayward. Mostly women with children that had been misplaced due to domestic abuse and overcrowding of shelters.  A trip through the lost and found and I was able to find some clothing fitting for the evening.  I brought them back up to the room as the man finished preparing for his shower.

Man: I can’t turn on the water. Could you help me?

I walked into the room, assuming the wrong thing entirely. He had not been wearing a single stitch of clothing, and my eyes drank in his physique. Tattoos, hair, and a very proud endowment. My eyes quickly turned away as I stumbled over to the shower stall, I fumbled around to crank the water on. It had truthfully been tricky due to old fixtures that needed replaced. He stepped into the shower and I left him to his task. My eyes couldn’t help but watch the dirt and soot drain off of him and toward the drain. But then I realized something. My eyes were not fixated on him, and this felt like a major victory.

I stepped outside to make sure he didn’t need anything else. Within twenty minutes, the man had finished the shower, dried, and was getting dressed. The pants had been slightly big, so I rummaged to find a belt.  He was ready for dinner now, and we returned to the banquet center. Father eyed me suspiciously, but I give him a confident nod, having passed the test he set before me. There was pride and relief on his face when I sat down at the table in my original spot. To my surprise, the man sat down next to me. I could tell he was a bit nervous to be around all of these people.

No one spoke to him, not even me. However, I did help him to fix his plate.  He sat silently as he ate like a starving wild man. This drew in the ire of everyone as they looked at him in disgust. Part of me thought that he knew this, but the other part of me thought that he couldn’t help it. He was skinny as a rail. I found myself caring for this person on a level I had not felt before, ever. I thought that I had found my cause.

Everyone finished dinner before I did, even passing around the bowls for seconds, thirds in the man’s case.  He finally finished, and muffled a burp politely. His humanity spoke to me. His humility made me see so many things that spoke of our Lord and Savior. He even had a look that reminded me of him, and the little I knew of him, he seemed much like our very own second coming. But, I found myself straying in thought too much.

Dinner had concluded, and the choir sang Christmas carols.  Dessert was served. We concluded with another prayer, and at 11:30pm, we had concluded to all be with our families.  Throughout this whole time, the man sat next to me, following me almost like a scared puppy who only trusted me.  I felt this so much so that when we had our own family prayer at midnight, celebrating the host, he celebrated with us. Father hadn’t taken much time to get to know the man, and he seemed to not have much trust.  And that lack of trust apparently also spilled over to me. He pulled me to the side, away from the man.

Gerald: There is a lot of valuables here, son. This vagrant might try to hock some of it to make drug money. He seems the kind.

Me:  Is this not a sign from God Himself? A man shows up, void of anything, cold, alone, in need more than anyone I’ve ever seen, and on Christmas Eve no less? It seems like we should care for him instead of judging him.

Father snorted at the idea. He shook his head as he glared at the man, who was talking to Esther and Andrew, starting to warm up to them.

Gerald:  Fine. But, if anything goes missing, I will hold you personally responsible. I want you to stay with him and heal him from the inside out with scripture. These Bohemians need it more than ever. And keep your temptations out of it.

Me: I have seen him unclothed, and it did nothing for me. I am truly healed.

Gerald: Then let this be the test. Because I feel that if you were truly healed, you would have asked one of the Winthorp sisters to accompany you instead of sitting off to the side like a pouting child.

But, before I can say another word, Father joined up with the family and they soon left to go home. This left me with the man who looked as if he were going to pass out into a food coma.  I helped him to the bed, put down fresh linens, and offered a pair of pajamas, but apparently the boxer shorts were all that was required. I left him to dress, and then returned to the room with The Good Book. I read scripture until the sun rose in the eastern sky, and we fell asleep, he in bed, and I in the chair next to it.

I reflected upon this as I stared up at the cross, and it became apparent. This is exactly what I was meant to do. And next to me, he was knelt before the cross, his head bowed as he sought out the healing. I had finished, and I felt rejuvenated entirely on the birthday of the Lord. I stood up and walked toward the door, and the man stretched as he got up. He continued to stare at the cross for a minute, and I couldn’t help but call for him, because there was plenty of time for reflection after Father’s sermon.

Me:  Dax?  Are you coming?

The bearded man slowly turned away from the cross and looked at me.  His hair pulled back into a ponytail, his face tattoo staring us right in our faces as the realization of who this man actually is starts to settle in.









Revelations (Pt 3)
Las Vegas, NV; December 18th, 2020

Everyone has a certain feeling about The Church of the Good Shepherds. They think we’re just this collective of holier than thou jerks who think they are better than everyone. And trust me, that’s not far off. But, we’re not entirely bad. I had personally taken up the task of organizing a food and clothing drive back in Tulsa, and had christened the opening of the chapter here in Las Vegas to continue the drive from there.  I was astonished by the amount of donations I was able to gather with Ginny at my side. We had gathered scarves and hats, clothing for all ages and sizes, and enough food to feed over one hundred families.

As we speak, Ginny, Andrew, and myself are passing out clothing to families in need.  The line is formed, going down the street with social distancing.  Respectfully, all are wearing masks provided by Mother Mavis.  We were as welcoming as possible, and I feel truly alive in the Spirit.  Seeing the faces light up as we hand out the holiday meal packages to the families coming through just brings a smile to my face.  Shaking hands as if this were 2018 rather than 2020, but with hand sanitizer.  The Good Shepherds choir is singing carols behind us, and even a Santa from the Salvation Army is walking down the streets. And between handing out masks, mom is handing out hot cocoa. It is everything that I had hoped for.

Coming through the line, I see a familiar face, and I have to roll my eyes. It’s ridiculous given the state of our friendship. Dax Beckett walks by Ginny, who smiles wickedly and hands him a bag. He holds a hand up and shakes his head.  Once it is time, he comes up to me, and there is one wicked stare down between us that seems to last a solid thirty seconds before I break the silence.

Me:  Well, well, well. Look who we have here. Your new heathen friends couldn’t spare anything to help you out?

Dax shakes his head and strokes his beard.  I can tell for a second that he doesn’t want to fight, and that only serves to intrigue me.

Dax:  Look, I know your crew and my crew got beef in the ring. I don’t have anything against you personally.

Me:  Well, the feeling is very much not mutual.

Dax nods his head.

Dax:  I figured. But that doesn’t change the reason I’m here.  I didn’t forget what you and your family did for me. Some of it might’ve been kinda fucked up with the conversion therapy, which obviously didn’t work.

Me:  As is evident by your failed marriage to two men.  Couldn’t even keep one.

I sneer at Dax.  He holds back whatever it is he truly wants to say, and just licks at his bottom lip in an annoyed sort of way.  He gets that dumbfounded look he’s well known for before speaking again.

Dax:  Despite that part, you and your family put clothes on my back when I needed it the most. You guys fed me. You got me back on my feet. And you guys trained me in the ring. You gave me a purpose. And even though it’s not the same purpose that you guys had hoped for, you’ve turned my life around. I couldn’t think of a way to thank you all until now.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a check. Obligatory scoff from me and then I roll my eyes.

Me:  I don’t want your blood money. No amount of money is worth compromising over for everything you’ve done. Forgiveness is off the table, because you are far too gone for that.

Dax:  You mean to tell me that I’m beyond redemption?  Didn’t you teach me that nobody is beyond that? Ever? Or maybe I just read it in a Book somewhere.

Dax winks at me, trying to be playful and argumentative as well. I simply don’t have time for this.

Me:  Take your money elsewhere and let the line continue to move, please.  Or I may have to call the cops.

Dax sets the check down on the table, folded up.  He shakes his head.

Dax:  No need. I will go.  But, I am leaving what I collected from everyone in OTE, which wasn’t easy to do. And I matched the total collection. This isn’t about forgiveness. It’s not about you and me. It’s about these people standing in line, and those who will be standing in line over the next six days, to make sure there’s enough for no child to go hungry or cold. That’s what it’s truly about…

Before I can say anything, Dax walks off.  As the next family shows up, I stop and take a look at the check out of curiosity. And indeed, it is a lot of money. So much that even I nearly fall out of my seat.  I watch as Dax walks over to a black vintage Challenger and gets inside. He takes off as I blindly hand a ham to the people in front of me, and my jaw is very likely hanging open until Father Gerald comes walking up to me.  He gives me a tap on the shoulder.

Gerald:  They’re ready inside.  And they want you.

For a second, I can hear the pride in my father’s voice. No hint of jealousy or resentment.  No, he saves that for when I get up and walk to the door.  The check is still clutched to my chest until I place it in my suit jacket pocket.  A few members from back in Tulsa take off my leather jacket for me, and help straighten out the suit jacket.  Another one hands me The Good Book as the other two rush to open the double doors.  Of course this is much more of an intimate space than in Tulsa, but it looks almost exactly the same.  I walk down the white carpet, pure as snow, until I make it to the pulpit. I take the few steps up, nodding to the altar of lit candles and the blood and body of Christ symbolically displayed and ready to be consumed after the service.

Upon inspection, everything seems in order.  But, I can’t seem to stop myself from thinking about the check. This check was truly a game changer, not just for the drive, but for the church in general. A quarter of a million dollars. Wow. Now, I walk up to the altar and I stand, looking at the crowd gathered. Social distancing isn’t even a factor, as we’re packed to capacity. Everyone wears masks, and they spread out as much as they can, but it’s still not up to code. However, this is not about COVID right now. It’s remembering the purpose of the season. Therefore, I open The Good Book to where it needs to be. I straighten out my jacket, and then I look out into the crowd.

Me:  Good evening, and welcome to the opening of The Church of the Good Shepherds, Las Vegas chapter.  It was brought to my attention that this drive would be incomplete without a special sermon.  On a Friday night?  I’m just as shocked as you, and yet, here we are, and I could not be more thankful.

There is an ovation for me. For the church that I’ve kicked off.  And unlike back home, these people seem like real people. Not uptight, stick-up-their-backside-holes, pious jerks.  Everyday people who need God in their lives.  Most are likely here due to my level of celebrity within wrestling, but that’s all part of the grand design.

Me:  We are in the season of perpetual hope, wonderment, joy, peace, love, and so many other wonderful things. We are kinder to one another. We give.  And that has been proven to me by all of the families who are going home with kits to make a proper holiday meal tonight thanks to the generosity of this community. So please, give yourselves a round of applause. And me, because I organized this.

More clapping. It makes me feel like a rock star, but a Christian one like the John Cooper of Skillet.

Me:  It just warms my heart so much to see.  The collection baskets will begin going around now, and once again at the end of the service. Tithe. Give to a worthy cause; your eternal souls.

As it comes out of my mouth, it sounds fake as heck, but the smile on my face sells it as everyone begins reaching for their wallets for the basket coming around.

Me:  Hope.  It is something that we don’t think about a lot this time of year, and yet it’s everywhere.  Little Bobby Sue wants that new Veggie Tales video so bad she can hardly stand it.  Billy Joe wants that practice pistol to exercise the Second Amendment as Americans.  Mom wants the indulgent spa day that her husband has worked so hard to pay for.  And Dad wants that flat screen TV to watch the Sooners on.  And Stephen Calloway wants the SCW Roulette Championship.

While most would cheer at this idea, my congregation boos loudly at it.  I nod my head to them all, gesturing to them as well.

Me:  Wanton is hope. Selfishness, but hope.  And sometimes it’s attainable.  But, like Stephen Callaway, it may not be. His entire career has proven that. One failed attempt after another, and he’s still chomping at the bit to be something he never will be.  At least, not on my watch.

The boos have turned to cheers now, and I watch as the crowd really gets into it, while still tithing to the collection baskets.

Me:  And while it is the season of giving, I will be damned if I’m going to give the SCW Roulette Championship to him.  There is no way in Heaven or earth that I will do that. I proved it two weeks ago when I won the belt in a Ladder Match, which included Stephen himself. A lot of words were spoken, but the truth of the matter is that, well, none of that mattered. In the end, I walked out with the title, and he walked out with another failed attempt under his belt.  Another chapter in his career with nothing of note to show for it.

I almost feel bad for him at this point. It truly is sad. I shrug my shoulders and continue.

Me: The joy that I will feel as I beat the heathen out of him on Sunday is unrivaled.  For anyone who doubts that a relative rookie is capable of beating a ring veteran, all you need do is rewind about two weeks and watch me beat him, another ring veteran, and the former champion, in one fell swoop. I climbed the stairway to Heaven, and I came back with God’s bounty.  Just as I will walk through fire if I have to. Or crawl through barbed wire. Or whatever maniacal hellscape the Roulette wheel chooses for me.  Stephen Callaway can say the same potentially, but not with the added bonus of carrying the strap back with him.

I realize I have gone off on a tangent, but those in attendance are appreciating it, so a sly smirk comes across my face.

Me:  Inner peace is what is brought to me by the Roulette Championship.  A validation that I’m not just some lucky schmuck who came out of the ladder match as a fluke winner.  When I beat Callaway, I know that the stirring deep within my soul, the nagging question from all of the naysayers will fade away.  And that is something that I’m going to love.  See?  I’m feeling the spirit of the season.  And this can be a lesson for all of you in attendance today. You, too, can enjoy all of the Lord’s bountiful blessings just by confessing your sins, giving up your struggles, fears, and worries to Him.  Anything that you dream can truly be yours.

I stop because this is the part where I need to give credit where credit is due. I give a gesture to the back.

Me:  Andrew Borg, everybody.  Give it up for the man who taught me how to unlock every achievement, and the many more that rest before me.  His best selling book Yes You Can, available for purchase in our all-Christian bookstore, or online at the Sin City Wrestling merchandise shop next to The Good Book itself.  Combine the two together, and you will be turning your dreams into reality.  Even Stephen can.  You know what?  It is the Christmas episode of Climax Control, and in the spirit of giving, I will bring Stephen both books as a showing of good faith.  By the time he gets through them, I’m sure I will have moved on to bigger and better things. And then he can be the Roulette Champion finally. He’s got a better shot than Bill Barnhart afterall.

I shrug my shoulders because no one can argue that fact.

Me:  So if someone like Stephen Callaway can achieve greatness, then surely you can too. It all rests within the Lord.  And your continued support of the Church of the Good Shepherds Las Vegas chapter will ensure that we are there for you to help you along the way.  Now, if you will excuse me, I need to return to the drive.  Any volunteers in the crowd are more than welcomed to join me.  Or, feel free to check out the bookstore for great literature, and be sure to join us for Christmas Eve dinner in the banquet hall. Mother Mavis’ candied yams are life changing.  Amen!

Crowd:  Amen!

I wave as the audience claps. A few members of the choir begin singing “Hallelujah” as I make my exit from the stage.  I shake hands and kiss babies like a politician.  After several minutes of meeting my new congregation, I make my way out of the door and back to the streets to continue what I’m doing before total darkness settles in.