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Don't You Be My Neighbor

8/19/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #15: I Don't Love My Neighbor As Myself

My Favorite neighbor is the house across the street. And, I mean that literally. It's a house. An empty house. And, I love it.

It doesn't play loud music when I'm on the deck trying to enjoy a gentle breeze and my 18th consecutive Costco chicken-hot dog dinner. It doesn't stop me to talk when I've finally dragged myself off of the couch (who am I kidding... the bed...) and away from Brokenwood Mysteries season 4 for a walk I should have taken months ago. (Yes, we're down to Acorn.TV* in my house.) And, it keeps a better lawn than I do. (Well, the owner does. Point is, the grass looks good. Which helps, given that -- on a scale of rock-hard dirt to lush green carpet -- my lawn comes in around horse corral.)

All that to say: I'm a lousy neighbor.

I'm not generous with my time or extra rice flour (I would be, I think, but nobody asks for my rice flour.) My neighbor of 19 years has graduated 3 kids from college. I've never met any of them. In fact, of the 6 neighbors on my street, I've  had only a handful of conversations with 5 of them. The 6th is my golfing buddy, and he deserves all the scorn I give him.

To be clear, it's not entirely my fault. The inverse is true, too. They've only had a handful of conversations with me. (My one neighbor made it clear on move-in day: "We chose this house because we were tired of neighbors asking to borrow things." Message received.) But, I don't see that particular out clause in "Love Thy Neighbor as Thyself." I know this because I've studied this holy command quite closely. And, near as I can tell, if I want to avoid my post-life sentence, I'm left with two options: love my neighbor more, or love myself less.

So, do I take the loophole that God so generously provided? Do I actively work to love myself less? It's a tough call, because I really, really like me. (A topic for another blog post, perhaps?)

​I'll think about it and let you know. Right now, I've got another Brokenwood Mystery to watch.


*Let's talk Acorn.TV for a moment, shall we? It turns out I'm a 65-year-old woman. I'm thoroughly enjoying Brokenwood Mysteries and Vera... the international equivalents to Murder She Wrote. It's not that they're bad programs. They're actually both enyoyable entertainment. Both leads are excellent. But, the pacing is slow, slow, slow. Which is great, because that's what I need right now. But, I was hoping to avoid these style programs for at least another 20 years.

Another slow, but excellent program on Acorn is The Detectorists. Along with Mythic Quest (Apple TV+), The Detectorists is tied for my favorite comedy find of the pandemic. It's only 3 seasons, but it's a blast. The pacing (as mentioned... slow) is perfect. Toby Jones is awesome. And, Mackenzie Crook is stellar all around -- acting, directing and writing. If you missed it, find it. You'll thank me later. And, you might even get a new hobby.
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Staying-At-Home Is Ridiculously Hard

4/13/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #COVID-19: I'm not very good at pandemics.

As you can see, I've been away for a bit. Truth be told, because we always tell the truth and nothing but the truth in this space (that's a lie), I've been busy writing on a separate, very exciting project. Several actually.

But, I don't want this little hell-based, hot project to go cold, so I thought I'd better get back to providing you content. (Yes, you. Specifically, you. Whoever "you" are.)

​But, for today only, I wanted to break format a bit and get some pandemic-related thoughts off my chest.

Mainly, I've learned I'm not very good at pandemics. It's not that MY life has changed very much. I still work in my pajamas. I still shave every 4th day, whether I need it or not. I still rotate between tacos and pizza for dinner every night.

It's just, this pandemic thing is all-consuming. 

Every morning, I wake up with the coronavirus.

That is, every day, I think I have it. Slight cough? Damn. It finally got me. Sneeze? Better polish up the will. (Who gets my toy golf cart?) Feel just a touch warm? Grab the thermometer.

It almost makes one regret starting a blog entitled: 1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell. Who knew it could be so soon!?

And, staying home is sooo hard. It's what I always want to do, but now I HAVE to do it. Ugh. It's so difficult being me. 

True, during WW2 Americans everywhere went to war willing to die saving the country. Millions more sacrificed in EVERY aspect of their life: rationing everything from meat to rubber (eating SPAM for God's sake), taking jobs on the factory lines, living with blackouts every night, and on and on and on.

Also true that basically every generation before me had a war to fight, and I've only watched one on CNN. 

Every American generation has made incredible sacrifices to preserve the republic. And now, I've been asked to stay home and watch TV. And it hurts.

To say I've learned how soft I am would be an understatement. I'm a Charmin outerlayer protecting a marshmallow center surrounding a down core.

I don't put on a homemade mask to go to work treating patients with a deadly virus. I don't speed my way through neighborhoods, rushing to answer a 911 call that may well kill me. I don't even stock the shelves, risking exposure so that my neighbor gets his pizza sauce.

No, I write. Like I always do. I play Xbox. I eat nachos and sort my toilet paper stash. I count my canned goods and tend to the lawn. I exercise religiously once a week or two. I yell at the news, like normal. I play Pandemic: The Board Game ironically. I sometimes shower and almost never eat a dozen cookies in one setting.

And, through it all, I applaud my effort. My sacrifice.


I guess I was wrong. I DID stay on format. Because I'm definitely going to hell.


​
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Not to Brag, But I'm Actually Pretty Humble

2/16/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #99 I Am An Egotist

Starting out, I never thought of myself as having an ego. To be honest, I always had kind of the opposite problem. I cared so much about what everyone else thought, I generally let myself get run over. 

That is, until I sat behind a microphone for the first time.

It was in college. I was studying broadcasting. Specifically, radio. An excellent choice with a bright and unending future.

Something about the microphone brought out a power in me. Some might say beast. (No one would say artist.)

I didn't really notice it at first. But, it was there. A confidence. And, it quickly grew.

The beast really came out in my first radio job. I was hired and handed a hosting job. Start time: 5 minutes after the job interview. Ironically, I was to be the evening sports talk show host (and, later, morning DJ) for a small-town Christian radio station. (Ironic, because I was no more a Christian then than I am now. But, I would bring sunshine to 10s of people every morning for the better part of a year, before moving to bigger small things.)

As host of said talk show, I had free reign. And, apparently, I wanted to scorch some earth. I wouldn't go so far to say I was a shock jock. That could never be me. But, compared to the version of myself up to that point in life, I was at least a bad case of static electricity. I had --- ego.

I sounded confident. I felt confident. I was like a driver on the freeway, flush with a certain anonymity, daring people to cut me off, simply for the chance to throw a bird. 

(Again, not that I'd every throw a bird. Not me. But, for someone who still struggles to make a restaurant choice in a party bigger than one, I was amazingly selfish.)

I had opinions. I would challenge any takers. I would scoff at people's ignorance.

Of course, when I turned off the mic... I was a walking apology. Was I too strong? Did I upset my cohost? Basically, I was back to me.

Still, I had discovered a different side of myself. Just a tad bit of a dark side.

I eventually quit that job -- a story for another day that involves me being accused of stealing my own golf clubs (spoiler alert: I didn't.)

I moved on to other radio jobs. Some required more ego than others, but the mic always provided the strength.

To this day I try to tap into a bit of that ego. It's probably not a good idea. I'm probably a better person without it. But, I like the strength. I like knowing, and being able to say: I want Arby's. (Just kidding, nobody says they want Arby's.)

I like my ego, though I know I shouldn't. Sometimes, I wish it were bigger. 

And, yes. I'll have to answer for that.

So, if, someday, we're both "down south," and you see me chomping on a roast beef sandwich in the only restaurant available in hell, just nod. Please, don't hand me a microphone. It will only make things worse.
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"Nice Ox."

2/12/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #24 I Covet

Last week we covered one of the seven deadly sins. I probably should have ranked it higher, as the term "deadly sins" does suggest a bit of karmic importance. But, as I said, gluttony just ain't that big an issue for me.

Still, there's only seven of them, and I should have ranked it higher. That in mind, I've run this week's "sin" up the list. Not because it's a HUGE problem for me, but because God deemed it important enough to carve it into stone. If I remember correctly (Google? I don't need no stinkin' Google), God even thought so much of it, he made a pretty big show about delivering this particular set of instructions: casting Charlton Heston and dropping some cash on production values (that burning bush is a definite Old Testament highlight.)

This week we're talking about one of the 10 Commandments.  

Specifically, #10 on God's greatest hits list: Thou shalt not covet your neighbor's wife, or his manservant, or his maidservant, or his ox, or his ass, or anything that is your neighbor's.

As I was reading through this list of spiritual no-no's, I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Don't care about his wife. Happy with mine, thank you very much.

He doesn't have a manservant, nor a maidservant.

We're clear on the ox thing. Though, if he did have an ox, I might have a problem.

His ass is his. I've got my own.

It's not until we get to the final unfairly broad phrase that problems arise: "or anything that is your neighbor's." Damn. I can't want the quad runner? Or, the kayak? Not the lake house, the 950-cc motorcycle OR the jet ski? That's rough.

It's not like I'm desperate for any of them. I, too, could have a kayak I never use. A 950-cc motorcycle is just a bad idea for me. I'm not sure his jet ski even starts, and the quad runner doesn't even have brakes. (Sure, that makes it MORE exiting. For a short spell anyway. Still, it's not a sin-inducing item.)

Funny thing is... we're golfing buddies. And, what does he tell me all the time? "Man, you got it going on. Living the good life over there."

He's right.

I'm happy with what I have. And, I'm happy I've got a neighbor who will gladly lend me anything he has. It's the perfect scenario.

But, what if he gets a pool table? And, what if he puts that pool table in his living room? 

Those two things happen, I'm cooked. Put me on the rotisserie and call our fiery friend. 'Cause I'm definitely gonna covet.


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The Building Blocks of a Perfect Binge

2/4/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #323 I'm A Glutton

Gluttony. One of the seven deadly sins. Not to be confused with gluteny, which, in California, might get you banned, but won't send you to hell. And, in Kansas, actually gets you celebrated.

Gluttony. Not a problem I'm generally associated with -- hence the lower placement on my list of 1,000. I have my moments, of course. Most of them donut related, and a few of them already documented in this space. 

But, this weekend I had a definite gluttonous moment. (Seriously? Spell check didn't bang me for gluttonous? Awesome.) Super Bowl weekend. My team in the game. Go big or go home. I went big.

I generally attempt to eat well. Generally. And, sometimes, I even succeed. Sometimes. But, there are foods I try very hard to avoid. Foods so toxically bad for me, even I can't ignore. One of these super bad foods happens to be my favorite food item of all time. It comes conveniently shaped for maximum flexibility. Its brick form can be melted into a golden, cheesy goodness or, given the passage of enough time (say, one week) can instead be used to build small buildings, like a doghouse, or a shed. 

I'm talking about Velveeta, of course -- the cheese food that pairs so perfectly with the equally-artificial Dorito. (Nacho cheese, if done correctly.)

Velveeta. The cheese food that's so toxic, it doesn't come with an expiration date, it comes with a half-life printed right there on its protective metal shell.

It's delicious, of course. The fact that it can also serve as an alternative fuel source for the Mar's mission is purely bonus.

I'm not saying that Velveeta is bad for you, but, once I finished my gluttonous evening, and time came for me to toss out the mere spoonfuls of leftover rubbery goodness... I refused to put it down the garbage disposal. Into my system, okay. Into my home's plumbing system? That's where I drew the line.

Yes, I ate damn near an entire block of Velveeta in 3 hours. Paired with a full, party-size bag of nacho cheese Doritos. (Plus some popcorn -- two flavors, regular nacho chips, two bowls of chili and a couple bottles of Gatorade to maintain my strength and prevent cramping.) It was undoubtedly gluttony. I still have a healthy orange glow. 

But, it was the Super Bowl. MY Super Bowl. And, I prevailed.

Will a single block of Velveeta send me to hell? I don't know. But, if it does, I'll be thankful for one thing: it should be hot enough down there that I won't have to make every-10-minute runs to the microwave to keep my food source at the perfect level of "molten."
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Temporary Pause

1/28/2020

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Apologies to fans of the blog. I have a close family member in the ICU which has required enormous amounts of effort and emotion. Happily, things seem to be resolving positively, (though slowly.)

I'll be returning to my normal level of sin shortly! Maybe even within the week. So, please check back!
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Chestnuts Roasting On An Open Fire

1/6/2020

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #3: I Don't Believe In Hell.

If I'm to believe those closest to me, things are going to get real uncomfortable for me once I part ways with this ball of dirt we call home. And, truthfully, the idea of permanently turning up the thermostat to temperatures I've only experienced at my grandmother's house doesn't feel like my idea of resting in peace. (If I do go to hell, someone please make sure to drop in a joke about "roasting Paul, may he rest in peas" for me? Going out on the worst joke ever kind of appeals to me.)

Frankly, the whole thing just kind of sounds too "Greek mythology" to me. Lakes of fire? Make it rivers, and we're talking 1969 Cleveland here. Uncomfortable, yes. Eternal damnation? Not quite.

​I've had people try to describe the horror to me, as if a bit of burning flesh imagery makes it more believable. Unfortunately, it's the horrible imagery that represents the biggest problem for me. It creates a disconnect. And, not one that can be easily reset, like the mag-safe connector on my laptop. 

The same people that tell me that we're all God's children, also tell me that I'm set for an internal life hotter than a ghost pepper roasted on a campfire built inside a crematorium. It just doesn't compute for me.

God loves me so much, he knows the decreasing numbers of hairs on my head. (Baldness, there's an argument against a loving God.) Yet, when the time comes, and I'm facing the biggest, warmest moment of my life... he releases me to my free will-induced fate. Seriously? Because I didn't love Him back?

​I don't have children. But, if I did, I'm certain that at least one of them will tell me how much they hate me. I'm very unlikeable sometimes. More so if I were a parent. You can guarantee I'm taking the iPhone away at least once in their teenage years.

Say it happens: "I hate you!" Then, for the sake of our little exercise, let's say things get REALLY ugly. Like, Ted Cruz ugly, and my child runs away. And, for the sake of our exercise, let's say this great-looking, super-smart but obviously misguided child of mine renounces me forever.

Am I to think that if I came upon them in grave peril 6 weeks later, that I wouldn't do EVERYTHING in my power to help them? And, not to get too graphic, but remember what we're comparing things to (burning flesh in hell), if someone were pouring gasoline on my child and preparing to light them on fire... would I just let them? You know, because... consequences? See what I mean? You simply can't get from a loving, ALL-POWERFUL God to burning in hell. The two things don't connect. And, if they don't connect... that means either there's no God. Or, there's no hell. (Or, you know... neither God nor hell.)

So, MAYBE someday, somebody can convince me there's a God. But, you'll never convince me there's a hell.

​That said... I'm not so egotistical to think that I can't be wrong. And, if I am... may I rest in peas.

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Insert God Insult Here

12/29/2019

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #7: I Don't Show Reverence.

I'm always struck by the language surrounding people who believe in God. They talk of a personal relationship that runs deeper than any relationship on earth. It's a language swathed (that's a good religious word, yes?) in deference. And, from my point of view: fear. 

I'll never forget when my young nephew asked me for the first time if I believed in God. He was raised in a church and, until this point, I'd always shaped my answers in such a way as to fit the worldview his parents were setting up for him. It felt respectful to do so. But, he was getting older, and I'd yet to tell him a lie. I really didn't want to start now. (Best to save your first lie for something big, like "Are you available to help me move this weekend?")

When I answered honestly with a simple "No.", I think I rocked his world a little bit. The fear on his face was immediate.  He literally looked to the sky, no doubt checking for the lightning bolt that was sure to instantly smite me. (Now THERE'S a religious word: smite. That word alone is worth two bonus points for God. Nicely done, Big Guy.)

"Aren't you afraid?" It was the same question the Baptist preacher asked me when he knocked on my door, welcoming me to town a few years earlier. I gave my nephew the same answer I gave God's door-to-door salesman: "How can I be afraid of something I don't believe in?" The preacher was perplexed by my lack of fear regarding the devil. My nephew was concerned about my lack of fear regarding God. 

But, it's not just disbelief that drive's my direct approach to dis-respecting the man upstairs. It's the whole idea of the relationship. See, if I DID believe in God, I think my friends and family would be horrified if they heard me speak to Him.  Because, to me, a real relationship... one you care so deeply about... has fireworks. It's messy. It's angry. It's loving. It's fun and maddening. It's hard and soft. It's off and on. 

What's a relationship worth if the only conversation is deferential and easy? What kind of relationship is based primarily on fear? None worth having, I can tell you that. 

So, when someone tells me about the great relationship they have with God, I wonder to myself: Have you ever cussed him out? When was the last time you got so mad at him, you slept on the couch? (What's the metaphorical equivalent to a couch here?) How many times have you said something to Him that you instantly regretted?

The big one for me would be: When was the last time I demanded something better? Because, look around. There's quite a bit to improve on down here. You telling me that I've got to accept some of this b.s. as what -- the cost for free will? No. He can do better. He should do better. If He's real, I demand it. And, He's free to tell me to go to hell.

Which brings me to my next entry... (coming soon.)

TEASER: My next entry is the highest one, yet. We're talking #3 on the top 1,000. 

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That Poor, Poor Horse

12/26/2019

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #4: I Don't Go To Church. (Part 2.5. Because, this topic DEFINITELY needed 2.5 parts. Or, not.)

It has to be the worst saying in the history of mankind: "Don't beat a dead horse." Was there a time when beating dead horses was common - only slightly frowned upon? And, it feels a bit weird to suggest that beating a live horse might somehow be acceptable. 

Disgusting imagery aside, that's what I'll be doing today, though. Why? Because I still haven't explained why Christmas church is worse than all other church services. And, given that Christmas is now past... it's now or never. (I'm not saying Americans spend more time looking forward than enjoying the present - but, Fourth of July decorations are now going up.)

So, let's (finally) talk Christmas church. 

I've had many horrible Christmas church experiences. Back-breaking, soul-taking, frost-bite-inducing bad experiences.

The church is always stuffed to the hilt with people just like me: only there out of family obligation. One year, there were so many guilted mom-lovers that my wife and I had to sit in the aisle. Let me tell you, it's hard to feel spiritual when the ushers are constantly stepping over you. "Oh, Come All Ye..." "Excuse me. Pardon me." "Joyful and..." "Yeah, if you could just scoot... yes, that way. Thank you."

And, like most Americans, and every Republican, I assume that everyone is exactly like me. Which means, I'm assuming everyone there is acting. "So happy to see you." No. I'm not happy to see you. At least, not here. If I were at at home, Christmas snacks in hand, enjoying a hot chocolate... THEN I'd be happy to see you. Right now, I just want an Advil from sitting on steps for 2 hours.

Did I mention Christmas services are always too long? Come on. Sing a few songs. Tell me the Christmas story and send me home for cookies.

Which brings me to the next point: It's Christmas. Take a break from telling me I'm going to hell. (Here's a bit of free marketing advice from me to Christians everywhere - or, at least in Kansas: You've got a great story. Jesus loves you. He died for you. Heaven is awesome. Maybe don't focus so much on hell. When Pillsbury sells you crescent rolls, they don't talk about what happens when you  burn them.) Seriously. I've been to Christmas services where the entire sermon was spent telling me how lost and awful I was. (Do I have to point fingers here, Baptists?) Definitely want to go back for more of that.

One year, the preacher was on some sort of weird power trip. He literally said the phrase "EVERY knee shall bend and EVERY head shall bow" at least 15 times in ONE prayer. He did it while constantly looking at my wife and I. (I probably don't have to mention that neither our knees were bent or our heads bowed.) Each time he said it, he grew more forceful. I couldn't help but wonder, if HIS head was bowed, he wouldn't have noticed mine wasn't. (I take great pleasure in pointing out that he was shuffled from the church not long after, for stealing thousands of dollars from the good people who trusted him.)

And, then there was the time one pastor used the Christmas sermon to brag about his firearm skills. "If I had my .38, and Satan were standing right in front of me... I'd blast his head off. Wouldn't even hesitate. That's what I'd do." Nothing captures the spirit of Baby Jesus like the smell of gunpowder. Tarantino should direct this Christmas story.

And finally, because this is part 2.5 of a 1-part series, I'll keep this short... Christmas church is cold. Always. Turn up the heat. I know you're expecting, and getting, more people into this building than every before, and they're gonna get hot when you tell them how lost they are, but if it gets you turn on the furnace, I'll even bow my head.



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Waking Up Is Hard To Do

12/17/2019

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1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell is a blog series that explores my life as a non-believer in a believer's world. I'll share stories of everyday interactions with eternal consequences. Whether it's making my mom cry, shocking an unsuspecting nun or staring down a power-hungry pastor, I'll share all my flawed moments for your judgment. You can laugh with me, set me straight or put me on your prayer list. Just, please, don't tell God where to find me.

Reason #4: I Don't Go To Church.

So, I left you on a bit of a sour note in my last post. (Frankly, the entire post was a bit sour. Bad day, I guess.) But, I didn't think it was fair (to me) to leave everyone hanging on the thought: "Christmas church is the worst." Not because I don't think it is, but, because you might think me more evil than I truly am. (Yes, for some reason, I care.)

Truth is... I've always hated church. And, by "church," I mostly mean Sunday mornings.

I wasn't always evil. There was a time in my life where I wanted to be a pastor. I was probably 7. And, the primary draw was 6 days off per week, followed by 1 day where I get to tell everyone what to do. (This was immediately following the period in my life where I experienced extreme jealousy towards our neighbor's dog. He got to sleep whenever he wanted. I was not what one would call "highly motivated.") And, now that I say it out loud, I guess I AM that evil.

​There were many things besides interrupted Sunday morning sleep that made me dislike church. 

****Deep breath.*****
****Pause for pre-apology. I'm sorry to everyone I love. You raised me right. The rest is my fault. You are all good Lutherans, and I respect each and every one of you. I'll miss our conversations, now that you probably won't ever speak to me again.*****

I was raised in a Lutheran church. Missouri Synod to be exact. It was about as churchy an environment as you can get. Like, one teensy step below Roman Catholic churchiness.

The sermons were looooooooooooooong. And, boring. Ben Stein had more inflection in one scene of Ferris Bueller than our pastor had in a month's worth of sermons.

The hymns. Oh, God, the hymns. Where the sermons had NO inflection, the hymns had ONLY inflection. It was if the notes were chosen at random. Drop two octaves, jump one, dip a half, jump two. On to the next bar. Germans have many skills. Hymn writing is not one of them. If Germany built cars in the same manner they built hymns, BMWs would look like Legos, and we'd all be begging for tires. And the lyrics... never have lyrics matched a language so well... even in an entirely different one! The English language hymns SOUNDED German. How do they do that? And, the German language is not one that history has recorded as "beautiful." It's just not. I love the sound of it, but, it ain't pretty. Neither are their hymns.

(Side story: My family has a prayer that we say at every meal together. I was 10 years old before I figured out it wasn't 4 German words, but rather 4 lines of English. "ComeLordJesus. BeOurGuest. LetTheseGifts. ToUsBeBlessed." It was always said in such a dry, mumbly fashion that it took me a decade to decipher it. It's a true story, and it doesn't make me look too bright. But, it needed to be told. Which brings me to...)

Lutherans love their interactive readings. The pastor says something, like: "Jesus said, bring me the bread." Then, the entire congregation reads like 3 paragraphs in response. In unison. "And so they brought him the bread, and he broke it into pieces, giving each an equal size. And they ate the bread. Without butter." The part that always bothered me, was that by the end, everyone was so in lock step and monotone, it sounded like we were all zombie robots. "And the bread was good, and the butter bad. And the people who ate the bread were both good and bad." Of course, it was never about bread and butter, but by the end, it might as well have been, as all meaning was completely lost in the creepy delivery. I hated it, and still do.

​Finally, there were all the guilty feelings. Not that I was sinning. No, it was that the pastor thought so highly of me. In almost every sermon, he would quote me. "And, Paul tells us..." (Did I mention that I'm not too bright?) "Uh... no I didn't. I didn't tell you anything." I never knew if I was supposed to fess up about it. Do I tell my mom that the pastor thinks I've talked to Jesus? Do I confront him? It was too much for an honest young man like me to take.

There's more, of course. Like, the bitter disappointment that was communion wafers. But, I've written too much and lost too many already. 

Of course, I should have tied this more directly to "Christmas church." But, maybe I'll make that the next post. After all, I've really nothing left to lose. (On the bright side, I'll never have to turn down another church invitation again.)




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    1,000 Reasons I'm Going To Hell 
    A blog by Paul Knauer

    Screenwriter, humorist and generally all-around good guy Paul Knauer's spiritual fate has been determined. He knows it because the world keeps reminding him.

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