As I stood in the pew, surrounded by my family and a few hundred of the faithful, what we were doing struck me as preposterous. Not the actual worship; be it ever so flawed, I still believe old Rome's branch of Christianity is the closest one can get
to His teaching. What's silly are the ostentatious rituals.1
With arms outstretched and fingers splayed, the congregation was praying over candidates and elects, a group of adults wishing membership in the flock. In this posture, stretching our limbs toward these prostrated zealots, an image came to me. We re
sembled the Emperor in Return of the Jedi. You remember: Luke just severed Darth's hand, turned to Senator Palpatine (the Emperor's alter-ego) and renounced the dark side of the Force. Palpatine proceded to wrack Skywalker's body with blue lightning wi
th his arms outstretched and fingers splayed, just as we were. Maybe we were supposed to be shooting bolts of our own at the candidates: holy death rays or St. Elmo's Fire, or sacred spikes of sacramental seminal fluid.2
Being a lapsed Catholic and going home for break guarantees a theologically-stimulating, logic-defying experience: the obligatory return to mass (I went to mass, but I didn't sing, really I didn't). The Church is embroiled in the 40-day season of Le
nt. This is a time to prepare and purify in anticipation of Easter, that day that made the heathens sit up and take notice of our Messiah's message, as interpreted by His then pitiful kernel of followers (It was about this time that this little rebelliou
s messianic cult started to really gain some popularity). It seems the church elders feel a grueling sermon, laborious atonal hymns, and alternation of routine sitting/kneeling/standing cycles are the best prescription for Lenten soul-cleansing.
Tradition dictates a believer forego a favorite vice during the Lenten season, as the fetters of this world bar our admittance to the next.3 This is where guilt, the well-trained attack dog of the clergy, rears its nagging, creetchy head. Your pench
ant for the bottle, use of colorful monosyllabic words (like #~$% and @*:!), and any carnal pleasures without the intent to procreate are your one-way ticket to Hell.4 You'd best repent; everything you like is wrong.
I wish TheyTM of the Church would've kept the ornate sanctuaries, Latin language masses, and communion rails around long enough for this generation of the faithful (or at least church-going) to appreciate. These ornaments5 were truly the implements t
hat put the fear of God into medieval commoners, Inquisitioned "witches," and those attending Catholic School in the '50's. A priest is a whole lot scarier when your view of the altar is obscured and he's muttering in an incomprehensible dead language.
Alas, all that was swept away on a wave called Vatican II. With all the
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1 Similar to country line dancing, but more like motor-skill development exercises.
2 Did you ever wonder about the common etymology of the words seminary and seminal?
3 Let's see, how should I purify myself this month, hmmm...maybe I'll give up donuts. Naw,I know, I'll give up those little crackers of god-flesh instead.
4 Maybe someday we can convince the CEO of Hell's Kitchen to send us some two-way tickets to Hell, like the one Dante had. It'd be a neat place to visit, go camping, maybe make the circuit of tourist traps and souvenir shops, take a few snapshots, and the
n spend some time on Hell's topless beach...paradise, eh?
5 Speaking of ornaments, do you remember those shower clocks rap guys used to wear around their necks back in the day? We're trying to figure out what the point of that peculiar fashion was. It's the next stage in the evolution of the pocket watch.
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