Sunday, July 13, 2003

Nope, no dice. I tried putting on dem shoes, but they were wicked stinky.

I don’t recall ever sitting in a Sunday service, gentle reader, and feeling the overwhelming desire to run up to the pulpit and smack the preacher with the Cane of Good Behavior. Ever.

Actually, that’s a bit of a lie because the exact same feeling swept over me two Sundays ago when I heard the same speaker “speak.” It seems rather stupid to lick a rusty stovetop twice, to be sure, especially when the interim Sunday featured a fine church, but I had to attend for reasons I won’t elaborate.

I assure you, dear reader, that my grievances apply neither to the choir, nor to the infrastructure, nor to the testimonies offered during the service. Those entities were both welcome and excellent.

So are you ready to hear me piss and moan? Fantastique!

Sit down with me, then, on a solid wooden pew and glance over the cover of the program. Written prominently under the church’s name and address is the pastor’s name like so:

I. Ama Prick, Ph.D., Pastor

No, that’s not his real name, but it doesn’t really matter, does it? The way that it’s written begs some scrutiny, what with the antiquated, snooty initialing of the first name circa 1900 New England. Excuse me? This is a–what’s that you say–CHURCH? Oh, like a church where maybe knowing the pastor’s first name should be a given? You’re shitting me, right? The pastor apparently likes being called by his middle name, Ama. Why not just put Ama Prick, then? Huh?

And then there’s the rather tasteless announcement written in bold.

DON’T TAKE YOUR TITHE ON VACATION!

The announcement proceeds to explain that this is “in case you have no money left when you get back!” Thanks for the insight. Offering is important, naturally, but is such a crass announcement necessary? Or howzabout the announcement that essentially says, “Sunday school is held at 9 AM. Please respond by way of tithe, offering, or donation.” What?

But wait! Dr. Prick’s sermon hasn’t even begun yet! Let me tell you, gentle reader, that you didn’t miss much. To wit: I asked my sister after the service, “What was the main point of the sermon?” She didn’t know. I asked my mum the same question, but she didn’t know either. Fortunately, I had taken notes during the sermon, and suffice to say that this veritable mishmash–on God’s ownership of the world, authority and power, community, and chaos and order–spilled all over the place.

All of this was delivered with a self-assured swagger (think 35 pieces of flare at Chotchkie’s in Office Space), a couple of strategic chuckles, and an arsenal of words that would make any SAT section blush mightily. “Travails,” “liturgical,” “antiphonal,” “recalcitrant,” “festooned,” “explicate,” and the kicker of the day, “[my] hyper-attenuated theology”–all of these made a grand entrance in half a too-long hour. Now, I love fancy words as much as the next person, but there is a time and a place for them.

Or perhaps it was the silly voice he used to deliver ancient Hebraic phrases, the fragrant blend of solemnity and absurdity (a la Martin Sheen, Gettysburg) that he donned when profundity reached fever pitch highs, or that oh-so-effortless pastiche of pithy quotes from Nietzsche, Gandhi, and Freud.

“That’s why we stumbled in this morning…to seek a blessing,” so went one of his hasty generalizations. Wrong, you schmuck, wrong, wrong, wrong. You perhaps came to hear yourself talk, but I came for discipline’s sake.