When Edgar was younger, younger in the sense that he was younger than he is now but still an adult that was on his own and taking care of himself, he made a promise to his mom. That promise was that he would attend church with her on Easter, Mother's Day, and Christmas Eve, as long as she promised to stop giving him a damn hard time about how he never goes to church. He kept up his end of the bargain. Naturally, she did not. That's what mothers do, right?
His mom is a very devout Catholic. I'm not Catholic at all. It's been an adjustment. I'm accustomed to my mom, as I go out the door, yelling "Drive carefully!" from the other room. His mom blesses me. If there's a problem, my mom says "Let's see what we can do." His mom says "You need to pray more." That's just how it is. When we bought a new car last year, she threw Holy Water on it. When we lived with Edgar's parents while we were both out of work, Jesus watched us whenever we [quietly] got it on, because his benevolent likeness was hanging on the bedroom wall. Did I mention his mom gave us a crucifix to hang in our apartment by our front door?
Let me be clear: I love my mother-in-law. I'm not saying anything here to disparage her, this is just the exposition to my coming story.
And don't get me wrong, I'm not knocking Catholicism. I was raised in a denomination of the Protestant Church. Neither Edgar nor I practice the religions that we were raised in. Nothing against religion, but neither of us really understand the fervor and the devoutness that being a "good" follower of a religion entails. We attend church services three times a year to appease his mother. Neither of us really falls in line with this idea of a vengeful or judgmental god as its presented in the Catholic church. And since I'm not Catholic, my duty by attending the services is to basically keep Edgar and his brother separated because they revert to 12-year-old boys in church. And while it's really quite entertaining, SOMEBODY HAS TO BE THE GROWN UP.
So, this Christmas Eve, we put on our Sunday Finest (which in my case is comprised of "The Clothes I Wore When My Job Required Me To Dress In Business Casual But That I Never Wear Anymore Because My Current Job Doesn't Care If I Wear Sweatpants, Thank You Universe" clothes) and made the trek to West Covina to attend Mass with Edgar's parents.
About halfway through the service, a thought occurred to me. That thought was that most of the people that had parts in the service really didn't deserve to be there. The sheer pomposity of everyone but the priest was maddening.
My impressions of church, the things I learned growing up, were that church is a place you go to put all of your bullshit aside and talk to God and learn how to be a better person. That's what it's supposed to be, right? The part of religion that I've always agreed with was the part about how you use it to help shape you into a better person. A person that cares for the needs of others, a person that can lend a helping hand, a person that can put aside all of their own petty crap and be at peace with the world as they try to make it better, not by shoving their beliefs down the throats of others but by turning the other cheek and extending kindness. You know, those few fundamental things that people of all faiths agree upon. That stuff.
Instead, I found people whose heads swelled to seven times the normal size with the prospect of a microphone being shoved in front of their gaping yaws. Example: the two ladies that did scripture readings. ATTENTION SHOW-OFF LADIES (yes, you ladies, the ones with their joyfully embroidered Christmas sweaters, tacky gold jewelery in your ears and around your necks and around your wrists and TOO MUCH TACKY PUFFY GOLD EVERYWHERE, along with your carefully teased short hair): there is a difference between speaking with clear diction and adding gratuitous pauses between phrases to extend your time at the pulpit so that you can sound like the greatest storyteller of all time.
Attention boy who does that thing that I don't know what it's called because I'm not Catholic but that thing where you sing a phrase, and then the congregation sings it back to you, and then you sing something else, then sing that one phrase again, and who also gets to sing into the microphone to lead the congregation during hymns (yes, you, that guy): there's a thing in music called a beat. Live it. Learn it. Love it. Stop trying to be all grandiose and think that it makes you more special than the rest of the people there because you get to lord it over all of us underlings and sing it in a way that clearly sends the message that you want everyone to slow down and follow you, including the organist. I THINK THE ORGANIST KNOWS BETTER THAN YOU.
Attention fat guy with the reindeer ears (yes, you!): Stop popping around the whole sanctuary before the service being a little social butterfly that's all "Look! Look at my reindeer ears! I'm so popular and great and everyone loves me because I wear reindeer ears! This totally gives me validation for the fact that no one would play with me when I was a kid because of that incident with the teeter-totter!" CHURCH IS ABOUT JESUS, NOT SANTA.
Attention all of you people that don't show up until random intervals after the service is halfway over: You missed it. Deal with it. Wait until the next service starts in 45 minutes. Showing up for communion right at the end kind of negates the fact that you missed all of the other stuff.
The only tolerable person that was there was the priest himself. He looked like some crazy mad scientist, but that man knew how to take care of business. No ridiculous posturing from the pulpit. No ridiculously over-exaggerated prayers that lasted for what felt like hours. Just a quick, concise, cheerful sermon that wasn't even five minutes long, because he knew PEOPLE HAD SHIT TO DO AND PRESENTS TO OPEN.
Mad scientist priest, I applaud you.
