Churchiness. I tried.

Some of you will be shocked by this but I went to church last Sunday. When you live in Florida, it happens. Like if you live in Vegas long enough, you’ll eventually gamble. There are just so many churches here. And so much Bible thumping in these parts. And, inevitably, you meet people, God forbid, who you actually like….who, well….thump. So since I can’t beat ‘em, might as well join ‘em. So I put on a dress, some earrings, and some slightly sassy strappy sandals although I refused to take off my Buddha thumb ring (which I always wear) and joined my friend for this, as it turned out, rather ceremonious event. Followed by too-strong peach bellinis and perfectly made Spanish omelettes at White Wolf Café, a rather laid-back establishment in contrast. That was the best part of the day. But, later on, I wondered, was it the relief from the intensity that made it so lovely? I felt relieved to be...me again. And to discuss it all without fear of godly retribution.

As we arrived at the daunting parking lot in the mid-morning heat, Jessica, my darling, your mind is ever-open, and even as it closes without warning, you will, please promise, my love, pry it back open for further exploration. Indeed, nodding vehemently. Will do. Of course. So when we arrived at our, heavenly father please, truly colossal (holy shit dear Lord) destination, I could scarcely hold back the running commentary in my head. Wow, even during an economy like this one, God sure is a fat king isn’t he? But it’s not really God, it’s his followers. They’re quite pleasantly plump are they not? Certainly the Great Creator must have an equally impressive sea-faring vessel on which to take the masses out (en masse) for proper wining, dining, and sunset cruising? Oh no, not likely. Let’s keep the money inside the building, folks. Where we can see it. Tight. And well lit.

The thing that struck me most, though, was the band. That’s correct: the band. The band.

I grew up attending, rather sporadically, a tiny church in a tiny Colonial building in a tiny town in New Hampshire. It was ripe with old dudes and uptight broads in heavy, draping cloaks and dusty, well-worn robes, rich with a tired old Sunday school cirriculum taught by a slew of volunteer teachers that introduced us to the wrong-doings of King Solomon and made us never forget that unmistakable musty, churchy smell. I hated church in every way. But it was quaint, if nothing else. Something that my parents attempted, if meekly, to impart upon us kids, that they, ultimately, did not believe in and took us as far from as possible. It was, after all, too unbelievable. Even for them, the former hippies who thought maybe there was something greater after all. And so now, here today in the summer of our Lord 2010, in a massive construct of worship, I find myself mildly nauseated and heavily amused, simultaneously. But I adore, all the same, the friend who brought me here.

How odd, I think, to love a friend, yet to snub a religion.

I assess the band. Expertly played no doubt, with all the lyrics to their sad Biblical songs displayed grandly in beautifully legible, computer-generated fonts blasted onto the walls from every angle, a dizzying light show of just-off-Broadway proportions in muted peach, electric blue, sultry green, taunt the devil red.

Overwhelmed by the grandiosity of wealth, generated so effortlessly by fear, I marvel. And despise. (Yes, I judge the fear as much as I understand it). We are born alone. We die alone. The End. The middle parts with all the pain and suffering, oh sure, we can mask it all with an opiate we agree to call God, but, really, people, really, the only thing that gets us though is LOVE and an agreement to be honorable and true to ourselves. And to get the fuck out of bed each and every day even when we feel like dying or disappearing. The God thing is such an opiate for the masses. Oh dear Nietzsche. Oh dear Nietzsche. Are you laughing down on me?

Thing is, after all this grandiosity, and witnessing of average folks with their arms waving high (are they serious? Are they really that convinced?) I like the pastor and his message. It has simplicity and he delivers it with humor and ease. He mentions philosophers, intellectuals, his own experiences. I start to feel scared. I hate this shit. If I wasn’t stronger, I could become one of them. But I won’t. I’m too broad in my scope of thinking to ever narrow it down to this.

I’m still glad I went. Because what this guy says sticks with me for a day or two. I could find that at a lecture or a conversation with a smart, open friend. Just not as often. I can see why people attend church every week. Because most people are vapid and unconcerned. As for myself, all I can focus on this week is football season. Damn the Bengals! Yet there’s so much more to me than that. I just can’t compartmentalize it into some epic, stadium seating building of people with a lightshow, a band, and a good talker. Hell no.

But still. The mind stays open. The heart stays flung aside for all to see. I refuse to close off. Become bitter. Not feel. Not be pure in my actions and broad-thinking in my assessments of what happened. There are so many sides to every story.

You may be surprised I went to church last Sunday. But it’s better than saying no and not knowing. It’s not for me. But it’s interesting as an add-on to everything else. How can I judge something I’ve never experienced? And, after all is said and done, who am I to judge anything for anyone else but myself?