It is the year 2010. Humanity has somehow survived 10 years since the Y2K Scare, I don’t even know how.
Anyway, here we are. As for how we’re doing…well, ask anyone and see what they say. Maybe they’ll say something like, “It’s all good,” “Eh,” or “Oh my god, let me tell you…”
God. His role in the year 2010 is a bit of a puzzle, almost as complex as Sudoku, but not nearly as popular. To enter the religious realm is to find a variety of moods, tones, and practices diverse and divided. I have entered sanctuaries that felt like morgues and others that felt like gymnasiums—and each with the proper personnel: pale, frozen faces from the wax museum to sweaty armpits amped for spiritual aerobics.
The musical accompaniment is equally as intriguing…
Take this one time I went to an evening worship service geared toward young adults. I arrived early with my boyfriend who was playing piano that night with this group for the first time. The group was mostly comprised of members of a progressive church in town that catered to young people who felt stifled in more traditional worship services. We were to be there early for sound check and arrived promptly, ten minutes late. I was hoping we hadn’t begun stressing anyone out, but all seemed calm, in fact, oddly so. The entire setup was actually just beginning, and it took all of five minutes being there to see this sound check wouldn’t be starting anytime soon…
Seeing people work together is always fun—as a bystander. A hatred for participating in group projects does not hinder me at all in watching them, fully entertained. Here, at this sound check/dress rehearsal/people talking/shouting/musicians soloing for no good reason, and all at once/let me assert myself, I REALLY NEED TO, the viewing was especially savory. I found myself looking around to see who was in charge, but couldn’t tell at all—I was glad to fit in. Each lovely contributor to the evening’s attractions didn’t seem to care about, well, anything really, expect what they happened to be doing privately at the moment.
Eventually I identified the speaker and, as I found out, coordinator for the program. He was dramatically practicing his presentation, a skit depicting a prison-worker, played by himself, giving a testimony. Had he ever been to a prison or watched Cops? He looked more like a hobo from the 1920s, or maybe a mechanic from a Detroit factory in his gray coveralls. No matter, he was definitely feeling the spirit at the moment, and was totally “psyched” about the program, so he said when finally everyone was casually called to the stage area. He talked up the night as he paced back and forth in an agitated manner, hyped on something. It was gonna be a “powerful night,” “really back to basics” and the “nitty gritty.” I guess prison could be described that way.
Meanwhile, the sound guys were actually buzzing around as well, cords dragging behind their erratic comings and goings. They seemed to be making a trip from the back of the room to the front for every cord, one by one, until I had to start reading before I went crazy over this total lack in economy of time used. Oh well. Not everyone schedules their errand routes systematically, with attention to minimum number of turns necessary to reach destinations, possibly growing immensely frustrated at any glitches in “the plan,” like I might. Might.
No, these were not those types at all. I marveled at their scurrying about, like so many mice, somehow still slowly setting up. We were now about 20 minutes from show time, sound check still pending.
To be honest, I can’t quite recall if sound check ever actually happened. I’m sure it did, probably some “one, twos” in the mics, a quick volume check for the drummer, bassist, and pianist, the latter being one of the more attractive I’d seen. Elton being my boyfriend was certainly satisfactory. Most of the reason details of the sound check are fuzzy is because of the distracting meeting that took place right before the program was starting. The speaker was again pumping up the contributors, I suppose some of them were responding favorably, but he was still the most energized by far. Right in the midst of his pep talk dropped what I like to call “the bomb.” This term seems most appropriate to me in conveying something absolutely wild and unexpected.
While the speaker chattered away, gesticulating enthusiastically, he made a comment regarding the sound for the night. One of the sound guys—a little on the large side, haphazardly dressed, a sort of cross between nerd and grunge—turned to him, and asked incredulously,
“Are you serious or are you fuckin’ with me?”
I think I dropped my book, it’s hard to remember through my shock. What? At first I thought I must have heard him wrong, but a quick glance to those closest to him, including Elton, revealed it was real. Lots of wide eyes, glancing down at the ground, around the room and ceiling, perhaps wondering when the lightening bolt was coming. Because it had to be coming—dropping the f-bomb just minutes before a worship service? I immediately began denying any direct affiliation with any of this in my heart.
An awkward pause floated in the air for a few beats, then the speaker responded, “Yes.” And then kept talking. I heard throats being cleared, as everyone pretended nothing had happened. I’ve never been be very good at hiding my emotions, so I continued openly staring at the guilty sound guy, but you know what? The only guilt he was connected to was what I was feeling on his behalf. He had only chuckled to himself in that “tryna be bad ass” kind of way, not out of disrespect or malice, just cluelessness.
In the end, the program was one of the more imaginative ones I’d seen, unfortunately my imagination couldn’t figure it out. I didn’t understand the correlations being made between a fake prison testimony, an artist drawing a picture, a video clip showing scenes of nature and natural disasters, and lots of heartfelt singing interspersed throughout the program. What did it all mean? I’m sure there was some underlying theme I was supposed to be blessed by, but instead all I could think of was how confusing religion had become, even to us, the religious. We were trying to reach out to the youth in our community, but this abstract way of doing it, while very postmodern, lacked a certain essential continuity that I missed. I like to think God penned the Ten Commandments on two stone tablets for what the stone symbolized as well. Solid, like the foundation and corner strength of a building built to last.
At the time though, I couldn’t make any of these conclusions; my mind was fixated on one thing alone, the surprising word fuck.
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