"You're a sinner, you're going to hell, there's absolutely nothing you can do about it...BUT you'd better be good in the meantime!"
Ahh, the sweet memories of Catholic school in the late 1970s. I attended Little Flower Parish in Springfield Illinois, apparently during the height of pedophile-priests (though sadly, I missed all the fun). I actually wrote about Little Flower in one of my early blogs, and described both the school's racism and it's ancient organ-playing nun (who made even the most heavenly of hymns seem like a Dark Shadows scene change). My experience in grade school made me leave the church for almost 15 years. And when I returned (briefly), I attended a Calvary Chapel in Phoenix, AZ...and only because my partner & I could think of nothing better to do on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the Calvary service' kick-ass music, though I was a little disappointed in the last song they played - a New Attitude - which was also the theme to Dr. Laura's radio show. Still, it beat Catholic guilt.
Ahh, the sweet memories of Catholic school in the late 1970s. I attended Little Flower Parish in Springfield Illinois, apparently during the height of pedophile-priests (though sadly, I missed all the fun). I actually wrote about Little Flower in one of my early blogs, and described both the school's racism and it's ancient organ-playing nun (who made even the most heavenly of hymns seem like a Dark Shadows scene change). My experience in grade school made me leave the church for almost 15 years. And when I returned (briefly), I attended a Calvary Chapel in Phoenix, AZ...and only because my partner & I could think of nothing better to do on a Sunday evening. I enjoyed the Calvary service' kick-ass music, though I was a little disappointed in the last song they played - a New Attitude - which was also the theme to Dr. Laura's radio show. Still, it beat Catholic guilt.
I mention all this because a coworker invited me to attend church with her last weekend. At first I thought she had an ulterior motive - A religious intervention? A cult? Monica from Touched By an Angel? - but I decided to go because when it came right down to it, I really had no reason not to. Besides, I was curious. And I hadn't worn a shirt & tie since IML. And more than anything, I thought it would make a good blog.
So, I called her at home and confirmed. When I saw her at work the next day, she admitted the entire congregation has only - ahem - thirteen people, and that I was welcome to stay for a potluck afterwards. Hopefully, they'll serve something other than applesauce, pudding, and vodka, I thought. I considered wearing a purple tunic & white tennies.
So, I called her at home and confirmed. When I saw her at work the next day, she admitted the entire congregation has only - ahem - thirteen people, and that I was welcome to stay for a potluck afterwards. Hopefully, they'll serve something other than applesauce, pudding, and vodka, I thought. I considered wearing a purple tunic & white tennies.
The big guy upstairs blessed us with warm weather and brilliant sunshine when the time finally came, and I was showered, shaved, and starched while waiting at the curb for my coworker's Buick. It was an awesome day in general, the perfect Sunday for decade's-overdue return to church. It was as though God himself had parted the clouds, dyed the sky popsicle blue, and had given the sun an extra squirt of Kingsford to make it that much brighter. We zipped through light weekend traffic before arriving in Wheaton, a western Chicago suburb. Five minutes later, we were there.
The church was a tiny 1950s thing, with pink plaster walls, old blonde wood, and a 150 occupancy tops. Almost everything within the worship hall was from another time, and the lights, pews, candles, and sound system were straight from an episode of Mad Men. It smelled musty. It was as quiet as a crypt. And with the exception of two children and a couple in their late 30s, the tiny congregation seemed to be as elderly as the surroundings. As I looked at the old folk around me, I tried to imagine just why my coworker had asked me to join her. As a single, mild-mannered gay guy, I was as out of place here as I'd be in an inner-city black church. "Why am I here?" I thought. "What could possibly be the reason that she asked me to" -
But before I could finish my thought, I saw the transsexual take to the podium with her Bible.
The church was a tiny 1950s thing, with pink plaster walls, old blonde wood, and a 150 occupancy tops. Almost everything within the worship hall was from another time, and the lights, pews, candles, and sound system were straight from an episode of Mad Men. It smelled musty. It was as quiet as a crypt. And with the exception of two children and a couple in their late 30s, the tiny congregation seemed to be as elderly as the surroundings. As I looked at the old folk around me, I tried to imagine just why my coworker had asked me to join her. As a single, mild-mannered gay guy, I was as out of place here as I'd be in an inner-city black church. "Why am I here?" I thought. "What could possibly be the reason that she asked me to" -
But before I could finish my thought, I saw the transsexual take to the podium with her Bible.
The world is full of well-meaning people, and as I stared at the tranny's tattooed legs & heels, I realized that my coworker was one of them. She had described the tranny as a "very interesting speaker," and I'll admit, she was right; the guest speaker in the kicky dress had a lot to say. Her message wasn't unexpected: Don't judge a person because they're different. God loves everyone - black, white, boy or girl*. But despite the speaker's message, I couldn't help but feel that I'd been selected to hear it because I was different, myself - the religious equivalent of assuming Mexicans eat nothing but tacos. Of course, I realized that I was as ignorant of this congregation's culture as they were of my own...but still, it was hard not to admire how the woman with Dr. Girlfriend's voice was giving us all an education.
Like an AA meeting, this story ended within the church's basement. After the service, we all enjoyed a nice potluck downstairs - and those who hadn't done so already came up and introduced themselves to me. It was a surreal end to a surreal experience (though a far cry from when I fled a Joyce Meyer appearance in terror after she rallied 3000 people to all talk in tongues), and I can honestly say that unlike Catholic church, I returned to my the with no guilt whatsoever. Will I go again? Probably. Especially if the next guest speaker is a drag queen or a leather daddy.
It's nice to see that the world has changed for the better.
It's nice to see that the world has changed for the better.