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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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