Church Lady

No, not that one.

Sunday I made my second consecutive trip to our local Assembly of God. I know, I know. I always say that if you go, you should go big. Why bother trying to hide among the Episcopals when you could cause a stir among the Pentecostals? It's where I'm from, it's what I know. It's what I think of when I think of church.

When you hit twice in a row, you invite closer scrutiny. It's not unlike the waiter who notices the same couple seated in his section two nights in a row. It's something remarked upon, most likely. Conversations begin. People talk. That sort of thing. In many church circles, I understand, if there is an object aside from worship it is the art of being noticed. Simply arriving and staying with some degree of style is the point of many church outings, I gather. Not so in most Pentecostal circles. The point of attendance in our churches is to show up, show off, and show your Bible.

If you arrive at a Pentecostal church without a Bible in hand, we know you either didn't mean to come to church or you are a heathen in need of churching - and a Bible, most likely. The Bible itself says much about you. In no few buildings, anything other than a King James Bible will earn you the label of "heretic", which is a nice way of saying that you're too lazy or too stupid to muddle through King James English. The obvious inference is also that God Hisself uses the King James Bible so why can't you? The proportions of your Bible also say a lot about who you are. Size matters. Very large means you mean it. Extremely small may mean you already know it so well you don't need the full-sized version. In-between sized makes you suspect as somebody who only dusts it off for Sunday morning.

The real proof is in how many notations you've made within its covers, though. If you are an inveterate note-taker in the margins, you must surely be a Christian. A smart person will notate a new Bible with their old notes before hauling it to church, just so no one gets the wrong idea. It's a lot like breaking in a new baseball glove. Once when I was in church, the Pastor invited everyone to open their Bibles to the Book of (X) Chapter (Y) Verse (#). He graciously noted that if you did not have your own Bible, you could look on with the person to your left or right. After he located the passage himself, he paused and instructed the congregation that "if someone is looking on with you because they have no Bible... ask them where they thought they were going when they left the house."

We also watch for whether you know the choreography. Do you know when and how to raise your hands? Do you dance appropriately, but not lustfully, if you choose to dance? Do you know the Pentecostal Stomp? Do you know the art of the well-placed "Amen"? And do you know that real Christians pronounce that word "A Man"? These are the things we evaluate when newcomers enter our midst. This is also why we get few newcomers in our midst.

This is how we have church.

So Sunday, I began the gauntlet that will stretch until I spill my guts or they are spilled for me by way of ritual disembowelment - in the nicest possible way, of course. I escaped the first week with a cursory nod and pleasant, though brief, exchange with Pastor Judy. That's heresy in 90% of Pentecostal circles - the woman pastor. But there you go. Progress everywhere. In week two I was commandeered in my pew by an as-yet-unnamed assailant who approached with a smile and an outstretched hand - the way they do.

"Welcome! I hope you enjoy church this morning. Our pastor is wonderful!"

"Thank you!" (I've been here twice and she's sincere but so-so and you clearly overuse superlatives.)

"So are you visiting Mayberry or do you live here?"

"Oh, I live here!" (But now you're edging up on nosy because that's really none of your business if you're neither assessing property taxes nor taking my ballot.)

"Where in Mayberry do you live?"
"Near the First Church Of The Holy Haymaker." (This question is intended to elicit a more specific response so they can verify you aren't lying about your residency - an evident sign of perdition - and so that they can drive by to see if you smoke. Really.)

"What do you do?"
This question means something entirely different in gay circles and is one of those times where you have to check your environs before you answer. I almost used my standard, "What don't I do?" with a wink. Her bun would have fallen clean off her head. Instead, I went with,

"Nothing."
"Well," she spat and drew herself up as high as osteoporosis and 60-some years of farm life would allow, "THAT can't be very profitable!!"

"You'd be surprised, " I said.

She just sort of wandered off the way you do when you've seen your cat evaporated by a lightning bolt or when you whack your forehead on the monkey bars in grade school. She'll be back. She's taking the week to both spread the intriguing news and to gather more Socratic ammunition to ferret out the truth that underlies my story.

Now I have two reasons to go back. One is legit - I was truly blessed by being in service on Sunday. I felt like I got what I went after. But the other one is purely maniacal: How long can I hold off Churl-lock Holmes and the Holy Beehives before they nail me as a Sinner Saved By Grace? And how long before we have the discussion about how some sin is a LOT more icky (if not a LOT more sinful) than other sin. Like I said before, that script is already written and just needs a little dusting off to be ready.

Bring on the Church Lady.