Church: explication

The pastor shouted something through the mic. Actually, maybe he wasn't a pastor. That's what we called the man in charge* back when I went to church - but this guy bore little resemblance to father John. Father John wore robes for instance, whereas this guy rocked a Hawaiian shirt. He was, actually, Hawaiian. Did this make it ok? No, I think not.

I'm just going to call him Prayer Guy - that sounds about right.

Prayer guy shouted something through the mic. What was it? It was hard to hear. Jump in the air, right? Jump and share? Not jumping prayer.

No, he said jumping prayer. Crap.


I can only laugh at a ridiculous situation for so long before the reality of my participation in it sinks in. Jumping prayer was my limit.

Lyrics projected onto the wall "God's word is always right, his word is my light, with him I'll never fail!" The band cranked out some shallowed out punk music. The irony of a christian punk song was, if only for a minute, precious.

I used to go to church every week. I liked it. I didn't believe - but that didn't really matter. It was the atmosphere. Church was about calm. Sitting, reading, comforting each-other. Stand up, sit down, eat a cracker, have some coffee cake, go home. Relax. It was something to aspire to.

But jumping prayer? No.

I don't want to go to church and yell at things. I don't want to go to church and plug my ears to the pounding pulse of terrible music. I could go to any crappy club in the city and do that. At least there I wouldn't be hounded to give donations.

Thank you, J House, for the free meal. Thanks for being so nice. Thanks for offering English translations of your theological diarrhea.

And thanks in advance for not holding it against me when I never, ever, come back.

*no, not god - the other one