Thursday, October 23, 2008

Flu shot junkies normally find fixes at sanctioned outlets like the doctor’s office, the local pharmacy, or the area Target, but here in Charlotte there exists an alternative supplier. I’ve been looking to inoculate myself against three or four of the 3,578,963,511 possible strains of influenza, so when I happened upon a full-sized pseudo-camouflaged camper parked in a nearby shopping center in broad daylight, it was as if my prayers had been answered. “FLU VACCINATIONS TODAY,” said the poster tacked on its side. Finally! A medical provider who could possibly accept fresh possum in addition to more traditional forms of currency.

Whenever the weekend nears, I instinctively begin to think about church and dread the attendance thereof. If your spiritual capital has all but evaporated, the Bible Belt would appear to be the ideal venue for renewal, though every Sunday continues to be a carnival of rationalizations to disengage. Even when I do make the trip, a tremendous gulf widens during the service as I wonder what, precisely, I’m missing. Maybe it’s because of the couple tearing up in front of me over a baptism, or perhaps it’s the singers on stage who seem perpetually enraptured, but I’m often left wondering whether actual blood flows through my veins, rather than an inert substance lifted from a college chemistry lab somewhere. Sure, some of the motions could be faked. To me, however, even the motivation to appear as such is admirable.

It’s not a great feeling, obviously. Empty. That’s one good adjective. Pressed. There’s another one. But community and service are the two commodities usually stressed the most, and of course I’d prefer to avoid both. There simply isn’t a desire to hand out programs, or volunteer at the soup kitchen, or pretend Mrs. Chesterton’s potluck meatloaf is delicious. It’s an impasse, perhaps a terrible one. 48 hours until Sunday, same two questions as always. How do I change? Is there a place for me?