The sea level rises in the middle of the sermon about sea level rise. The preacher gets a wave on his backside. I had a copy of the United Nations Climate Change Report on my soaked pulpit - one that was issued a couple weeks ago by thousands of natural scientists, THE GREAT WARNING OF THE GREAT WARMING - but remember the report was drowned out by Miley Cyrus and the Washington DC ship of fools. The trouble is the scientists can't speak English or any other language people use, as in talking and listening and MAKING SENSE. The scientists are the planet criers but their report is UNREADABLE. On the other hand, there is a larger silencing, the consumerizing of our heads, our eye ears nose and throat can't grok the going-south of the biosphere, the human-caused catastrophe vanishes behind a wall of dazzling products, featuring special-effect apocalypses, big video games that give us the chills. We log on to the scary ride, and our real-world world-ending crime disappears. We have a moat of corporatized violence around our senses. So, The Church of Stop Shopping - in our terror - we decided to embrace the surf. We followed the Pillar of Fire across the sands of Coney Island and let the Atlantic get in the way of our Promised Land. God said he would save us from the wilderness but the wilderness chased that simple bully away. (The ocean was destructive here Coney, a year ago. Sandy's surge rose up till she was waist deep on the second floor, and it chased our friends the freaks out of the sideshow on Surf Avenue.) Oh what a great Saturday afternoon. We preached as the acidifying heating-up sea kept rising. We had to stop our shoot and move our stuff higher up on the beach. Playing with the edge of the briny apocalypse, shouting, shouting for that phrase that will ring out to our drowning city. EARTHALUJAH!