Tuesday, January 3, 2006

A New Year’s halfolution–a conceit I will peddle tirelessly while the iron’s hot–is a poor man’s resolution, borne out of convenience and dissolved, similarly, by the situation at hand. Let’s say you walk to work. A resolution demands you do so out of fresh desire to improve your health, increase your heart rate, through the magic of ambulation. A halfolution begins when you miss the bus and ends when you carjack.

My Sunday halfolution, crafted on a back pew in church during a rare quarterly visit, would have me become a model attendee. You know the type: shows up on time or at all, doesn’t confuse sitting with standing, takes notes during sermons, never wonders whether “passing the peace” is a recipe for pandemic. The springboard for my halfolution was a speaker who would combine theory and practicality in riveting fashion, much like the seminary where he taught, on the topic of making worthwhile resolutions.

Did not work as advertised. There was approximately enough practicality to sustain a small packet of sea monkeys, for how long I couldn’t say. Some churchgoers bowed their heads as the first point came to a close, and not precisely in prayer, if you catch my drift. I wasn’t nearly so wretched. Know why? It’s a little something I call daydreaming. The louder sleepers were like, “Hrrrrngk,” but I was all, “Holy Shi– *snnnrk* –meah, it would be awesome to websling.”

Certainly I’m not unhappy with all churches. One buddy offered a piece of wisdom once, when asked why she willingly attended church consistently. “To start the week off right,” she replied. I’m sure someone at Wheaton could flowchart this, but I have a feeling she was onto something.