Repent ye. And give us your money.

From Sep 28, 2008

Oi.

Yes I just said, “Oi.”

This morning was a blast from the past as I attended a church service for the kids’ cherub choir performance.  It was a required attendance, and while I could have just as easily slept in, I thought it appropriate to show up.  Besides, who knows whom I might run into.  I grew up in this synod, and while this church was never my home church, I knew many people in this community.

We arrived, parked in the back parking lot, and smoked a cigarette waiting for the kids’ mom and Kora to arrive.  Blasphemous.  I know.

We all went in together and sat together and once again I was thanking the Universe that we all get along so beautifully.  I’m kid from a broken family– have had many step-parents in my time… and while my childhood was never horribly affected by the addition of new step-parents, I have seen just how bad it can be.  For the three of us– my guy, the kids’ mom, and I– we get along perfectly.  Hell, we could even consider ourselves friends one day.  It’s rather wonderful!  Anyway, I digress…  We all sat together, and waited for the kids’ performance.

Stand up.  Sit down.  Chant.  Sing.  Chant.  Kneel.  Sit down.  Stand up.  Listen to the pastor– who, by the way, once played Teen Angel in our high school performance of ‘Grease’– talk to us for an hour about Giving it Away.  What, you might wonder, should we give away?  Well, whatever we have, of course!  Awesome.  They’re a big business, and of course they’re going to talk about donations.  Meh.  Did I feel obligated? Not a bit.  However, if I was a member and actually attended, then perhaps.  I’m not trying to be critical here– I know damn well that there’s one way they’re going to pay the bills and it’s through the collection plates.  I just don’t know that it’s necessarily something that should be tied to a sermon in which guilt and God’s Will is involved.  Of course, if that’s what works…

I scanned the room for any other members of the congregation that I might know.  Coincidentally, prior to the service, I went to the bathroom to wash my hands.  I was cursing the paper towel dispenser when a woman mischievously says to me, “These darn new-fangled things…”

“You look familiar!” I said.

“I taught you P.E. when you were in high school.”  This was a woman who taught me more about respect than any other grown up I had ever encountered in my teenage years.  It was pretty interesting to see her now, especially considering that just yesterday I was teaching Tyler the value of eliminating the words “I can’t” from his vocabulary.  “I once had a teacher in high school who wouldn’t allow those kinds of words to come out of our mouths,” I told him.  I wondered where she was at these days and if I’d ever run into her again.  I even considered googling her name.  Turns out her son is in Tyler’s class.  Funny how that all works out. *grin*  We said our hellos, I told her how I was just talking about her, and we made minute small talk.  Amazing to see how she’s aged– of course, I’m sure she thought the same of me.  That was ten years ago.  Maybe fourteen.  Somewhere in there.

Moving right along…

I thumbed through the service program to see what I could see.  The thing about traditional church programs is that they’re always boring.  Always.  Even with the pastor telling us about his days of high school football.  It’s just… we sit there.  We listen if we can.  We zone out and reflect on the ways we haven’t been giving to the church as we’re supposed to.  We focus on our guilt for not being like Jesus, and we play with every hangnail we can find.  We read the service programs just to see what’s up.  I eventually resorted on counting the number of opportunities listed in there that we could give money to the organization.  Many opportunities.  Many.  Much to my dismay, when I was reading the names of the greeters, I came across a name I’d rather never set eyes upon again.  It’s sort of a disturbing, twisted sort of fascination– much like not being able to look away from a gruesome accident on the highway.  There, written in black ink, was the name of the man who molested girls in my grade school.  The fifth and sixth grade teacher– who recently got out of prison after serving a sixteen year sentence for child molestation.

I casually leaned over, pointed out his name to the kids’ mom, “Oh, and he’s a pedophile.”

She looked at me and her mouth opened… “Why is he here?”

If I had been quick witted about it, I would retorted, “He’s here to repent for his sins, of course.”

I didn’t say that, though.  Instead I shrugged and told her I had no idea.

Better to keep my mouth shut than to say something inappropriate in church.

Of course, that’s how things work in this synod.   Apparently I was properly engrained after all.