Tuesday, October 19, 2010

One sure sign that you’ve been approaching church with neither clergy-approved frequency nor mindset is wondering, halfway through the sermon, whether subtitles are available on the projected screens. How I was even able to think about this was a miracle in and of itself, because Sunday found me conscious at a reasonable hour, courtesy of alarm clock, and wholly engaged in my morning routine. With my hair gelled and congregation wear in full effect, I set off to drive to worship, but then I began veering back to bed.

Understand that even though I was rested, dressed, and ready to go, the siren song of sleeping in drew its nets around me, and the very act of pulling into the parking lot 15 minutes late turned into a sheer test of will. But made it I did, and the question of closed captioning took center stage. Obviously I wasn’t expecting on-demand subtitles. This isn’t the first time I’ve listened to the pastor’s Scottish brogue. It’s more an issue of all the television I’ve consumed in lieu of service, and accordingly the strictures of the screen, rather than scripture, have become the norm for me.

I couldn’t even begin to tell you what the message covered. Bits and pieces I remember, though, and the tone, more than anything, stuck with me. There was one stretch where he held forth on what church wasn’t: it’s not a social club, nor entertainment, nor a parade of concerts, nor a political action committee. I also remember how he delved into why there are no polished PowerPoint slides with neatly bulleted verses. You bring your Bible, and you flip through it. His was a conviction from an earlier era. No pandering, no fucking around, just a sensibility that hearkened back to Puritan days in the New World, when drowsy congregants were smacked with sticks because they mistook hour six of the service for siesta time.

He also spoke on being more than a “mere church attender,” with which I disagreed. Now, I know what moving beyond attendance means, where I’m rarin’ to offer time and emotional capital to the parish and public at large. My current juncture is more in line with the sacred script of Old School, which proclaims: “We will give nothing back to the community, as well as provide no public service of any kind. This much I promise you.” So merely attending would be an upgrade for me, honestly, and if I can simply show up consistently, plant rump to pew, I may be better for it.