I used to be a Presbyterian minister. That was back in the days before they found a cure (rim shot). But seriously, folks, take my Bible—please!

I kid. Well, not about being a Presbyterian minister. I really was one, in Omaha, Nebraska, serving a little church called Florence Presbyterian. When I tell people I used to be a minister I get a variety of reactions, but when I say “in Omaha,” you’d think I was saying “in the gulag.” People—Omaha is a nice city. The center of the country has much to offer. Everyone should get out and see more of the world. But not during tornado season.

I liked being a minister, though I wasn’t entirely comfortable in the role. For one thing, I’m not sure if I believe in God. Had I known that Mother Teresa was also struggling with her faith I would have felt better. Apparently everyone struggles with their faith (see the Bible, Dostoevsky, etc.). Still, being a leader of a faith tradition can be uncomfortable for a doubter.

That said, there were a number of reasons I enjoyed being a minister. I liked helping people. I liked the music. I liked wrestling with ideas in a very real, non-academic sense on a day-to-day basis; and I liked the food. There was lots of food. The women in my church felt it was their duty to make sure I ate at least fifteen large meals a day, and these women could cook.

I left the ministry nine years ago, but I am still occasionally invited to speak and play for churches. Recently I spoke at the annual retreat of San Jose’s Foothill Presbyterian Church, which was held at Happy Valley Conference Center in Santa Cruz. I was invited by the pastor, Ben Daniels. When Ben isn’t pastoring the church, he is doing what he can to fight for the rights of immigrants crossing the US/Mexican border. He and his lovely and talented wife Anne have two adopted children; Mimi (7), who is very serious; Nellie (5), who is very silly, both originally from China; William (4), their biological child; and Kate, a foster daughter (18) from a persecuted minority group in Burma.

Obviously Ben is some kind of dangerous subversive, and I can only hope that Homeland Security is investigating all his activities, especially his guitar playing. But he is a minister, so when he asked if I would speak, I said yes. The theme of the camp was “How to Play,” which by some extraordinary coincidence that I can only attribute to a divine purpose ties in perfectly with my book, How to Play the Harmonica: and Other Life Lessons. Ben said I could do whatever I wanted “to help us play—sing together, talk together, act together, ride elephants together.” So I arranged to have some elephants delivered to the camp.

I also talked about staying playful in a very serious world, and we sang some, and I had the members write and perform their own blues. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but you’d be surprised—those Presbyterians have soul. However, the crowning moment of the weekend came when we were singing around the campfire, and my wife Kathi passed out the kazoos.

Kathi is obsessed with kazoos. We always have a box of kazoos in our basement. When we go to elegant dinner parties Kathi waits until some big moment—like Maya Angelou saying a prayer—and then hands out kazoos. Our earthquake-preparedness kit is a bag of kazoos. So of course she brought kazoos to the church camp. When I told Ben that Kathi was coming with her bright orange kazoos (which looks a little odd as I type it) Ben’s response was, “were the tongues of fire on Pentecost really just red, orange and yellow kazoos?” (Like I said, Homeland Security—you should look into this guy.)

Anyhow, when Kathi passed out the kazoos at the campfire sing-along, it really was an extraordinary, how to play moment—all those kids humming and buzzing on their kazoos, Ben strumming his guitar, old songs being sung in the evening light of the Santa Cruz Mountains. I was grateful to be an honorary member of that community for a little while, unconcerned with figuring out the God thing, but definitely getting the love thing.