A Fish out of Water
I went to church the other day. Voluntarily. One of the soldiers on my team asked me to go with. I thought this was because he liked me, to which I was flattered for being such a likeable leader, but in hind sight, I think he just wanted to entertain himself. Anyway, I thought…what the hell (?)...and accepted the invitation. But before you begin reading yourself to sleep, or decide that this topic isn’t something that would interest you, let me tell you a little bit about my religious background. et. seq.
Arrival 1979. I had finally fought my way out of the depths of detention and into the brighter yet colder, baby welcoming room. All my fans were waiting. This is also known, in laymen’s, as a birth. In addition to the blinding light, breezy chill and irritating photo requests, this was the first time I was linked with god in the same sentence. As it turns out, this would be one of the last times. Interestingly enough, this was also the first time I was linked with the unfamiliar. That would be one of the first. Either way, enter baby Rolligun. All the fans cheered and the first person to speak spoke…
“God Bless...huh…err…what is it?”
(The first part of that comment is the important part, relative to my story anyway, nevermind the rest of it)
Another day in 1979, my parents saw that the drive through for community baptisms was longer than they had hoped. So they kept going. That was it. It wasn’t tried again and I had never been baptized. This wasn’t the only of life’s rituals and introductions that I would be unknowingly excused from. Maybe my parents didn’t know about these things? I am still not sure. I would however, learn about baptisms and how they were a perquisite for holy admission, later on in life.
In 1984, I got in a disagreement with my older sister. I don’t remember exactly why she was wrong, but I do know that most my concerns at that age had to do with possessions and “no.” As you’d expect, I was getting fed up with all domestic bureaucracy and finally realized the convenience of associating god with my troubles, primarily as a way to characterize the importance of the situation. We fought about something or other and had both decided to solicit the judicial branch of the household. Or maybe they impatiently volunteered their guidance, I’m not sure. Anyway, I won this debate, basically by rendering the judges speechless when announcing, at the top of my lungs, that my God Damn Sister wouldn’t something or other. So it went. While we're on the subject, this was when I was first introduced to the concept of delayed punishment.
In 1987, I was scared of God and the idea of Hell. That might have had something to do with finding out, during recess one day, how a baptism would be related to my mortal fate. Which was delightfully and collectively explained to me by my peers. At any rate, I decided I was going to read the bible. I’ll be damned if I was going to let anybody get the best of me on a subject I knew nothing about, but really, I was scared of what they told me. So I found a bible, dusted it off and placed it next to my bed. This is where it stayed for some time. I never opened it and one day it just disappeared, but for the time being it served as excellent platform for juice or small toys.
In 1989, I slept over at a friend’s house. His family went to church. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. They believed in all sorts of spiritual manners. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. But seeing as I was under their observation for the weekend, they decided it would be a good idea to bring me along. Instead of say, returning me to my keepers. They were a nice family although he was kind of a sickly child, but they did eat dinner as a group and even placed napkins on their laps. My family had napkins.
In the 90’s, I mainly just swore a lot, employing the association technique mentioned earlier. Sometimes I would pray to God, but only when I wanted something.
In 2000, I joined the Army. My recruiter asked me what denomination I was. Naturally, I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He explained that it was my religious affiliation. So I explained to him, my theory of God as well as the understanding we shared. He came to the conclusion that I was non-denominational. Huh? Since I didn’t like the idea of that being printed on my dog tags, I adopted a Lutheran preference.
In summery, I was a genetically confusing baby. I’ve never been baptized. I never read a bible or listened to one when being read. I’ve only been to church once, when I’d slept over at a friend’s house in fifth grade. I swear a lot. I pray only when I want something, (which is about every two or three years). And lastly, I have no religious affiliation, except maybe Lutheran. That’s pretty much the history of me and religion. On to 2006…
I went to church the other day. Voluntarily.
My first concern was “how crowded is this place going to be.” I have a committed aversion to organizations who don’t acknowledge the fire code. Fire safety is indeed fine, quickly, quickly, try not to trample the weak on your way out, but my main concern as far as fire safety goes, is with relative space. My space. Not exit alley’s. I’m not weak. I may even help someone if they were polite about it. Not even general overcrowding, simply just…my space. Anyway, I knew that I would need plenty of it. “Breathing” or “wiggle” room as the popular idioms go.
I’m not sure if it was an adherence to regulation or lack of spiritual interest, but in any event, space was available. As well as plenty of traveling lanes in the case of catastrophe. Somewhere on my list, that was a concern. I was sure to check it off. So as I was saying, plenty of space was available, but for some un-godly reason a man was employed with the sole purpose of restricting the available space. He acted like it was a public service, an appointed crusade to assist people in finding a seat and otherwise limit the amount of space available. I’m able to manage finding a location just fine with out any assistance. So I thanked him for his offer and elected to try doing it by myself first. For some reason he didn’t like that. We continued to assert our positions, but I backed off earlier than I otherwise would have. Not that I didn’t think I wouldn’t have won easily, but I wanted to approach this event with more understanding and openness, as opposed to my normal speed of impatient belligerence. The soldier I was with didn’t seem to have a problem with any of it. In fact, he welcomed the logistical support. He even expected someone to tell him where to sit. In the end, I was positioned next to a lady. She kept her hands folded most of the time. So I did the same.
Do the same as everybody else. That was my credo. What I forgot to mention, before I went in to my fixation on attendance and capacity restrictions, was that this was the singing and dancing kind of assembly. I thought that was cool, kind of liking seeing a live show (always a good time). Or at least that was the comparison I made. Everybody started out on their feet. Some people had two hands waving in the air, some swayed back and forth, and still others sang along. Some even did all three. Overachievers. Unfortunately, I’m not capable of any those things. I can’t sing, I can’t dance (agreeably) and otherwise have no rhythm. None. Those are skill I don’t have. I’ve accepted that and never attached very much concern to the fact. I will dance at a bar, sometimes you have too, but in order to get through that event with out offending anyone, I usually need a patient and supportive partner to help guide me. If she can do that, then I can catch on to the simple steps or moves. Basically, I used the same kind of courage I’d use for dancing at a bar and applied it to the church activities. Do the same as everybody else.
The challenging part was keeping pace with everything. Just as soon as I could get my hands to clap and hips to sway, at the same time and in the same direction, (who was operating my limbs?) the church leader would change the activity.
Music stops. People stop. I need a minute.
“Please take your seats for the reading of the…..”
Finally, I sit down. I continue to observe what everyone else is doing so I don’t miss anything. They all seemed to have found books hidden beneath their seats. I’m amazed by the collaboration. So I do the same. Low and behold, somebody had hidden a book just for me! How thoughtful, I wasn’t even a regular. The next challenge was to find the place in the weird and wonderful book that everyone was concentrating on. I tried looking out of the corner of my eye at the page number we were on. Everything was quiet, except for the church leader, and I was still trying to act like I knew what was going on. My head tilts, my body leans and my eyes strain themselves to furthest degree possible in order to see the page number of the lady next to me. This reminds me of cheating in high school. The lady, whose hands are still folded, whispers in my ear…
“Psalm 77, page 513”
I don’t know how she knew, but god bless her anyway.
I found the page, in what I thought was rapid time, but naturally the church leader was ready to move on.
“Everyone please take your feet”
I missed the next words he said, inspiring I’m sure, and had something to do with moving around and hugging your neighbor. So the people sneaked the books back under their seats, stood up and started moving around. Feverishly moving around. It was like someone heated up a beaker full of molecules, the way they all kept bouncing into each other and in no particular order. Now I’m not what you’d call a “hugger” so I approached cautiously. I wanted to fit in. But then someone would come lurching into me with their arms wide open and this crazy fanatical grin. I tried to run but everywhere I turned, there was another one. I’d back away and swiftly turn in the other direction, but there was too many of them. Open arms and fanatical grins. I was scared, but I gave in, I did the same as everyone else. I opened my arms, pasted an overly-enthusiastic smile on my face, and formulated my way through the particles.
Once we were done publicly molesting each other, or hugging, everyone sat back down and retrieved their hidden books.
“Let’s begin reading psalm 51…”
{turn page, lean, and look,…turn page, lean and look,…turn, lean and look}
Lady with folded hands: “page 350”
Sacred Rolligun: “God bless you”
The church leader began reading from the page and expressing the culmination of his breath on the last word in every sentence. Then the church people would all read the next part, which had been conveniently distinguished by font.
It was all very simple. The last word in every sentence was the most important, and when the font changes, that’s when it’s your turn to read. The only distracting part, which is apparently acceptable, is to blurt out at the slightest sign of a vocal twitch, any words of encouragement that come to mind. Doesn’t even have to make grammatical sense. Just whenever the urge strikes, go ahead and yell out a “yes, yes” or maybe a “be tru, oh lo be tru.”
Stand up if you have too.
Like I said, in hind sight I think I was invited solely for entertainment, not for being the likeable leader as I had hoped. Being a witness to all kinds of behavioral oddities and unexplainable yammering, I wasn’t entirely comfortable being there. Which is surprising, because I can fit in to any situation with anyone? The criminals or the scholars. If I wasn’t so distracted by my assigned location, I probably could have absorbed more of what he was saying. In any event, the church leader did speak of a concept foreign to me. Forgiveness. He spoke of it. I avoided it. My expectations are both high and particular. My memory far-reaching. I’m stubborn and I hold grudges. A creature of pride. There are some things that as much as I have tried, I haven’t been able to forgive. I’ve tried fooling myself into believing I have. That doesn’t work. I’m not sure what does work, but I think the church leader was on to something. So consider it a notion revisited. Either way, if I hadn’t lost my watch, I would have kept looking at it. I didn’t want to be there. In an unrelated event, I think one of my wrists is bigger than the other, but that isn’t important anymore. What is important is that sometimes fish can survive out of water. However, they still can’t hug. God bless ‘em.
In 2006 I went to church with one of my soldiers…
~Rolligun
Arrival 1979. I had finally fought my way out of the depths of detention and into the brighter yet colder, baby welcoming room. All my fans were waiting. This is also known, in laymen’s, as a birth. In addition to the blinding light, breezy chill and irritating photo requests, this was the first time I was linked with god in the same sentence. As it turns out, this would be one of the last times. Interestingly enough, this was also the first time I was linked with the unfamiliar. That would be one of the first. Either way, enter baby Rolligun. All the fans cheered and the first person to speak spoke…
“God Bless...huh…err…what is it?”
(The first part of that comment is the important part, relative to my story anyway, nevermind the rest of it)
Another day in 1979, my parents saw that the drive through for community baptisms was longer than they had hoped. So they kept going. That was it. It wasn’t tried again and I had never been baptized. This wasn’t the only of life’s rituals and introductions that I would be unknowingly excused from. Maybe my parents didn’t know about these things? I am still not sure. I would however, learn about baptisms and how they were a perquisite for holy admission, later on in life.
In 1984, I got in a disagreement with my older sister. I don’t remember exactly why she was wrong, but I do know that most my concerns at that age had to do with possessions and “no.” As you’d expect, I was getting fed up with all domestic bureaucracy and finally realized the convenience of associating god with my troubles, primarily as a way to characterize the importance of the situation. We fought about something or other and had both decided to solicit the judicial branch of the household. Or maybe they impatiently volunteered their guidance, I’m not sure. Anyway, I won this debate, basically by rendering the judges speechless when announcing, at the top of my lungs, that my God Damn Sister wouldn’t something or other. So it went. While we're on the subject, this was when I was first introduced to the concept of delayed punishment.
In 1987, I was scared of God and the idea of Hell. That might have had something to do with finding out, during recess one day, how a baptism would be related to my mortal fate. Which was delightfully and collectively explained to me by my peers. At any rate, I decided I was going to read the bible. I’ll be damned if I was going to let anybody get the best of me on a subject I knew nothing about, but really, I was scared of what they told me. So I found a bible, dusted it off and placed it next to my bed. This is where it stayed for some time. I never opened it and one day it just disappeared, but for the time being it served as excellent platform for juice or small toys.
In 1989, I slept over at a friend’s house. His family went to church. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. They believed in all sorts of spiritual manners. Mine didn’t. I didn’t. But seeing as I was under their observation for the weekend, they decided it would be a good idea to bring me along. Instead of say, returning me to my keepers. They were a nice family although he was kind of a sickly child, but they did eat dinner as a group and even placed napkins on their laps. My family had napkins.
In the 90’s, I mainly just swore a lot, employing the association technique mentioned earlier. Sometimes I would pray to God, but only when I wanted something.
In 2000, I joined the Army. My recruiter asked me what denomination I was. Naturally, I asked him what the hell he was talking about. He explained that it was my religious affiliation. So I explained to him, my theory of God as well as the understanding we shared. He came to the conclusion that I was non-denominational. Huh? Since I didn’t like the idea of that being printed on my dog tags, I adopted a Lutheran preference.
In summery, I was a genetically confusing baby. I’ve never been baptized. I never read a bible or listened to one when being read. I’ve only been to church once, when I’d slept over at a friend’s house in fifth grade. I swear a lot. I pray only when I want something, (which is about every two or three years). And lastly, I have no religious affiliation, except maybe Lutheran. That’s pretty much the history of me and religion. On to 2006…
I went to church the other day. Voluntarily.
My first concern was “how crowded is this place going to be.” I have a committed aversion to organizations who don’t acknowledge the fire code. Fire safety is indeed fine, quickly, quickly, try not to trample the weak on your way out, but my main concern as far as fire safety goes, is with relative space. My space. Not exit alley’s. I’m not weak. I may even help someone if they were polite about it. Not even general overcrowding, simply just…my space. Anyway, I knew that I would need plenty of it. “Breathing” or “wiggle” room as the popular idioms go.
I’m not sure if it was an adherence to regulation or lack of spiritual interest, but in any event, space was available. As well as plenty of traveling lanes in the case of catastrophe. Somewhere on my list, that was a concern. I was sure to check it off. So as I was saying, plenty of space was available, but for some un-godly reason a man was employed with the sole purpose of restricting the available space. He acted like it was a public service, an appointed crusade to assist people in finding a seat and otherwise limit the amount of space available. I’m able to manage finding a location just fine with out any assistance. So I thanked him for his offer and elected to try doing it by myself first. For some reason he didn’t like that. We continued to assert our positions, but I backed off earlier than I otherwise would have. Not that I didn’t think I wouldn’t have won easily, but I wanted to approach this event with more understanding and openness, as opposed to my normal speed of impatient belligerence. The soldier I was with didn’t seem to have a problem with any of it. In fact, he welcomed the logistical support. He even expected someone to tell him where to sit. In the end, I was positioned next to a lady. She kept her hands folded most of the time. So I did the same.
Do the same as everybody else. That was my credo. What I forgot to mention, before I went in to my fixation on attendance and capacity restrictions, was that this was the singing and dancing kind of assembly. I thought that was cool, kind of liking seeing a live show (always a good time). Or at least that was the comparison I made. Everybody started out on their feet. Some people had two hands waving in the air, some swayed back and forth, and still others sang along. Some even did all three. Overachievers. Unfortunately, I’m not capable of any those things. I can’t sing, I can’t dance (agreeably) and otherwise have no rhythm. None. Those are skill I don’t have. I’ve accepted that and never attached very much concern to the fact. I will dance at a bar, sometimes you have too, but in order to get through that event with out offending anyone, I usually need a patient and supportive partner to help guide me. If she can do that, then I can catch on to the simple steps or moves. Basically, I used the same kind of courage I’d use for dancing at a bar and applied it to the church activities. Do the same as everybody else.
The challenging part was keeping pace with everything. Just as soon as I could get my hands to clap and hips to sway, at the same time and in the same direction, (who was operating my limbs?) the church leader would change the activity.
Music stops. People stop. I need a minute.
“Please take your seats for the reading of the…..”
Finally, I sit down. I continue to observe what everyone else is doing so I don’t miss anything. They all seemed to have found books hidden beneath their seats. I’m amazed by the collaboration. So I do the same. Low and behold, somebody had hidden a book just for me! How thoughtful, I wasn’t even a regular. The next challenge was to find the place in the weird and wonderful book that everyone was concentrating on. I tried looking out of the corner of my eye at the page number we were on. Everything was quiet, except for the church leader, and I was still trying to act like I knew what was going on. My head tilts, my body leans and my eyes strain themselves to furthest degree possible in order to see the page number of the lady next to me. This reminds me of cheating in high school. The lady, whose hands are still folded, whispers in my ear…
“Psalm 77, page 513”
I don’t know how she knew, but god bless her anyway.
I found the page, in what I thought was rapid time, but naturally the church leader was ready to move on.
“Everyone please take your feet”
I missed the next words he said, inspiring I’m sure, and had something to do with moving around and hugging your neighbor. So the people sneaked the books back under their seats, stood up and started moving around. Feverishly moving around. It was like someone heated up a beaker full of molecules, the way they all kept bouncing into each other and in no particular order. Now I’m not what you’d call a “hugger” so I approached cautiously. I wanted to fit in. But then someone would come lurching into me with their arms wide open and this crazy fanatical grin. I tried to run but everywhere I turned, there was another one. I’d back away and swiftly turn in the other direction, but there was too many of them. Open arms and fanatical grins. I was scared, but I gave in, I did the same as everyone else. I opened my arms, pasted an overly-enthusiastic smile on my face, and formulated my way through the particles.
Once we were done publicly molesting each other, or hugging, everyone sat back down and retrieved their hidden books.
“Let’s begin reading psalm 51…”
{turn page, lean, and look,…turn page, lean and look,…turn, lean and look}
Lady with folded hands: “page 350”
Sacred Rolligun: “God bless you”
The church leader began reading from the page and expressing the culmination of his breath on the last word in every sentence. Then the church people would all read the next part, which had been conveniently distinguished by font.
It was all very simple. The last word in every sentence was the most important, and when the font changes, that’s when it’s your turn to read. The only distracting part, which is apparently acceptable, is to blurt out at the slightest sign of a vocal twitch, any words of encouragement that come to mind. Doesn’t even have to make grammatical sense. Just whenever the urge strikes, go ahead and yell out a “yes, yes” or maybe a “be tru, oh lo be tru.”
Stand up if you have too.
Like I said, in hind sight I think I was invited solely for entertainment, not for being the likeable leader as I had hoped. Being a witness to all kinds of behavioral oddities and unexplainable yammering, I wasn’t entirely comfortable being there. Which is surprising, because I can fit in to any situation with anyone? The criminals or the scholars. If I wasn’t so distracted by my assigned location, I probably could have absorbed more of what he was saying. In any event, the church leader did speak of a concept foreign to me. Forgiveness. He spoke of it. I avoided it. My expectations are both high and particular. My memory far-reaching. I’m stubborn and I hold grudges. A creature of pride. There are some things that as much as I have tried, I haven’t been able to forgive. I’ve tried fooling myself into believing I have. That doesn’t work. I’m not sure what does work, but I think the church leader was on to something. So consider it a notion revisited. Either way, if I hadn’t lost my watch, I would have kept looking at it. I didn’t want to be there. In an unrelated event, I think one of my wrists is bigger than the other, but that isn’t important anymore. What is important is that sometimes fish can survive out of water. However, they still can’t hug. God bless ‘em.
In 2006 I went to church with one of my soldiers…
~Rolligun
posted by Rolligun at 12:36 AM
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