Bigger Than Jesus

I was trapped in an argument with a good Catholic friend of mine recently.

I should clarify that when I say "good Catholic friend," I mean that she is both religiously active in her Catholicism and a longtime friend of mine (and, a longtime friend of Catholicism too, I suppose). Most of my friends are Catholic, I've never dated a girl who was not Catholic and any religious debates I find myself tangled in, are often doctrine vs. faith arguments with Catholics. I'm unsure the point of this paragraph, but whatever it is, it is probably what also propels me to list all the fruits and vegetables I eat when I'm discussing food with vegetarians.

I rarely agree with anything this particular Catholic friend of mine has to say, as it is not often rooted in rationality. I've been disagreeing with her for nearly a decade now and I can no longer decide if it's because we're so supremely opposite, or if because I get a kick out of bugging her with my devil's advocacy.* Several months ago, we got into a shouting match over Evangeline Lilly's character on the ABC television program "Lost." The strange thing is that we never argue over war, politics, art or even religion, we argue about which girls are desirable,** which movies suck the least and the general merits of television characters. This is usually enough to frenzy us into shouting matches... mostly just me.

* FACT 1: All Catholics hate devil advocacy.

** FACT 2: We both watch 'The Office' and she hates Karen and can't imagine why any guy would go for her over Pam. And while I love Pam, the idea that going for Karen is a huge mistake, seems overly biased and wrong-headed. She also says Jim isn't all that adorable…

FACT 3: All Catholics hate Jim from 'The Office'

Some nights ago we started talking about "The Da Vinci Code," a film in which I was deeply disappointed (mostly because of Tom Hanks' hairdo). While we agreed that neither the film nor the book are the brilliant masterworks their popularity suggest they should be, we nevertheless managed to find something to bicker incessantly about anyway.

She said that finding a direct bloodline to Jesus Christ would, if it happened in real life, be the most staggering discovery in the history of the world.

And those of you keeping score probably already foresee this as the part where I respectfully (and loudly) disagreed.***

*** Had I known asking her what she thought about "The Da Vinci Code" would lead the following conversation, I would not have asked. I swear to God, I woulda just left it alone. But you can't disagree with Catholics about the importance of Jesus. It's just not smart. They hate that. They all hate that.

FACT 4: All Catholics hate being generalized as one lump mass.

I'm not going to argue that definitive proof that Jesus has heirs wouldn't make the front section of your local newspaper, but it isn't the biggest possible story of the millennium.

She challenged me by asking what would be.

I thought for a moment about the question. Aliens immediately came to mind, but people from far and wide wouldn't line up to find solace in aliens. More than likely, we'd try to kill any alien life forms before we'd seek answers from them.

Who would be comparable to the mythical figure of Jesus Christ? Who else is known by everyone within the confines of large religious sects as a savior, healer and messenger of goodness?

And then it hit me…

Santa Claus.

If Earth found out tomorrow that Jesus Christ had a living bloodline and that Santa Claus as he is known today, exists, we as a mass would be infinitely more effected by Santa Claus. ****

**** FACT 5: Catholics love Santa, but not quite as much as Jesus. There's nothing wrong with this, but it does lead to fewer presents under the tree.

V.S.

Think about it.

Jesus was a carpenter in Israel. No one denies that. Even the crazed marauders trying to convince the rest of us that the Holocaust never happened, admit that some dude named Jeshua existed. The details on how he existed and why he existed are still being hashed out among varying religions, but hey, we can all agree he was walking around for 33 years, right? Just finding his bloodline tells us little more than that he wasn't as pious as the Good Book says he was. Frankly, that goes farther in disproving his holiness than if there was no bloodline to be had. And yeah, there was a Saint Nicholas too (although some say Santa Claus is actually based on a Turkish bishop born in the third century who was never actually canonized), but no one assumed that old Kris Kringle flew around with deer, while going on massive breaking & entering sprees once a year.

So what we're comparing here is a bloodline to the person many consider to be the son of God***** or the existence of a man who lives amongst tiny people and has the ability to shape-shift, stunt the space time continuum and fly.

***** According to the Encarta Encyclopedia, the nickname Kris Kringle evolved from the German words for Christ child, Christkindl.

FACT 6: The Germans play by their own rules.

Are we still arguing about this? No question. The existence of Santa Claus would prove that time can be altered and physics would no longer be a required high school course. It would be a novelty for the overachievers, like those kids who take Latin as their language instead of Spanish.
Honestly, would it be more important to know whether Jeshua of Nazareth had sex or that Sinterklaas knows the secret to everlasting life?

I'll put it to you this way, we all know someone who has had sex. How many of you know someone who is never going to die?

For the record, I totally won the argument. By the time we parted ways, she was crying her eyes, bawling like a small baby. It was embarrassing. I think she's a Hari Christna now.

Heaven's First Hour

If I die, I really hope there's a window of time that Saint Paul or the apostles or one of God's innumerous henchmen allows me to take stock on the life I just left behind. I've heard from several people who visited there that once you die and go to Heaven, all the friends and feelings; lovers, joys, sorrows, our favorite songs and movies will no longer carry any meaning for us.
They say that up in Heaven we are both embraced and expanded.

Okay. That's cool. But I'd like to believe that the newly dead get a modicum of time to reflect before it's all washed away. I'd like to believe that right as the biggest mystery of both Heaven and Earth is at the precipice of becoming revealed, we get to ask for clarification on a few of our own personal mysteries.

I imagine my opening Q&A with God might go something like this:

"Who killed JFK?" says Adam innocently.
Without blinking - because God doesn't blink - He replies, "Oswald."
Adam's eyes confusedly search the clouds for answers. None come. He is torn between disbelief in God's divine word and the realization that, in his current state of being, disbelief in God's word seems fairly ludicrous.
God says, "Oh, don't look so surprised. Stranger things have happened."
Adam pauses a moment, pondering whether he really wants to inquire about what God means by this.
"What do you mean by that, God?"
"First of all," says God. "You're in Heaven now. Feel free to call me Josh..."
Adam makes a mental note of this.
"Second of all, if we're talking about strange things, why don't you explain why you never spoke to Clara O'Dell at any point in high school. You loved her, that's why I made her best friends with the girl at the locker right next to yours," God said teasingly. God had a way about him that allowed him to get away with mocking most of the eternal souls that he encountered.
"Oh man! Clara liked me?! How'd I miss that?"
Adam stops a moment to think, then looks up at the blinding light that he's deduced to be God and continues, "Why didn't You give me a sign or something?"
God laughs. His laugh was deafening.
"Don't blame me, kiddo," reasoned God. "I put Clara in your proximity, but you always seemed more interested in hanging pictures of Meg Ryan in your locker. You can lead a horse to water, y'know?"
Being all-knowing often made one quite reasonable
"You coulda done better by me, Josh," Adam frustratingly says.
"Don't push it. You're here aren't you?"
Adam says nothing, considereing instead about changing the subject by asking God about the O.J. Simpson case.
God continues, "Clara will be here in about 14 years. You can have another shot at her then if you'd like."
"Fourteen years?!"
"Don't worry, the time goes much faster than you'd think."
Adam nods his head slightly, not sure what to think about anything. Having a convesation with God is kinda heavy and mind-blowing and it was taking it's toll on Adam.
God continues, "But Adam, when she gets here, you're on your own."

I'd also like to believe that God has a sense of humor and gossips like one of the kids from "Laguna Beach."

When life on earth is over, I really don't want it to end cold. I'm not sure anyone really wants that. The argument could be made that human nature's desire to belong to a bigger picture is the foundation upon which religion itself was built. I want fanfare and rememberance if I die. I'm not talking about a funeral. Funerals are for the people left behind. I'm talking about that first hour one arrives in Heaven. I'd like to believe that each of us gets one hour to reflect on the life we finshed living. I'd like to rewatch the major portions of my life on a bank of monitors equipped with the ability to queue video from my life on Earth (imagine a control room from the average television news station - only with angels singing somewhere nearby).

My favorite part of the Academy Awards are the montages. Whether it's a Western movie montage or a montage of classic New York scenes or famous romatic kisses, watching recognizable things in rapid succession is my bread 'n' butter. And because it's my bread 'n' butter and because I feel Heaven is Heaven because it supplies everyone in it with their own idea of a perfect existence. This is why I believe that if I want a montage or two of my life - I'm damned sure gonna get it.*

My first montage would almost certainly be composed of the funniest things to ever happen to me. Think about how awesome it would be to see images of the top 20 funniest things to ever happen to you. You probably can't readily remember the 20 funniest occurences in your life. Honestly, can you even remember five of them? But there'd you'd sit, in a comfortable Laz-e-boy (or the Heavenly equivalent) watching clip after clip, laughing your ass off realizing that yes, in fact, that was one of the funniest things to ever happen to you.

Then I'd have "Heaven"** spool me up a series of clips (digital or film, depending on the year each clip is from) showcasing the biggest secrets my friends and family kept from me. In an hour, none of it's going to matter anyway, I might as well find out what my friends actually said behind my back, whether that girlfriend I suspected of cheating actually did and all the lies my children ended up getting over on me.

Children lie to their parents - it happens. I'm just aiming to catch them at least two-thirds of the time.

I once thought I understood people and I included myself as one of the people I thought I understood. As I get older, I'm willing to conceed that I don't understand myself, let alone anyone else. All of this further illustrates my desire - when my bucket gets kicked - to have some ethereal force render everything more sensical to me.

I'd like to believe that eventually, something is going to explain why Clara O'Dell and I never fell in love. Explanations as to why I was born with a big forehead and protruding ears will become evident. I'll know what truly happened to my childhood security blanket that I fell asleep with each night (I suspect Mom threw it away). And I might even solve the greatest of all Shafer family mysteries: whether or not my sister hugged Princess Diana on June 6, 1992. ***
I want answers dammit and if I die and I don't get them - I'm gonna be pretty friggin' unpleased.

Before my mind gets wiped clean like the humans who witness alien encounters in "Men In Black", I want reflection to be sure, but I'd also appreciate a ranking. I'd like to think that upon request, I can get a printout of the "goodness ratings" for every resident of Heaven.
Do I outrank my ex-girlfriends?
How about Mother Theresa and Martin Luther?
Did any of my bosses even make it into Heaven?
And while I'm sure I'll find Elvis Presley in Heaven, I wonder what version of him I'll find.
I'd hate to think that I'm gonna get up there and see the King's gutfat hanging past his sequins jumpsuit. That ain't no kind of heaven, jack.

So maybe I'm being childish. Maybe I'm taking Heaven too lightly. But it's better to openly greet Heaven than to fear it, right? The ascent is gonna be the party to end all parties (and technically, I guess it is the end of all parties).
Let's be honest, who wouldn't like to rewatch Bobby Smith lining your bedroom with rose petals in leu of asking you to Homecoming? Lord knows that was the highlight of my senior year.
Wouldn't you like to see your game winning homerun? Your first kiss? The moment you said "I do"? Wouldn't you like to see the first time your infant son smiles at you one last time before it's gone forever? Wouldn't you want one last private hurrah of your life before none of it means anything?
I'd like to think our lives matter and that we find their meanings in our deaths. Wouldn't you like to know your rank? What you meant to the world, even if it's represented by something as simple as a single number.
Maybe we're all created equal, but we aren't destroyed that way. Have you ever seen those acrobats from the Cirque Du Soleil? Those guys are amazing. Do you mean to tell me that those spinning-twirling flame-throwing acrobats from The Cirque Du Soleil are equal to me; a guy barely able to rub his stomach and pat his head?
No. We're not equal in God's eyes or my own. I want to know where I stood when I was alive.
I want to understand God's plan for me and give explanation for something as seemingly illogical as a human life - my human life.

I just want it all to mean something. And also, imagine how kickass the montage music could be.

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* What do you think the word "damned" means in Heaven? I feel like once you make it there, damnation no longer means anything. It's like saying the word "sqwarfed". The letters are there, they sound like something, but in actuality... the word means nothing.

** I don't really know how they allocate jobs in Heaven and therefore I don't want to assume St. Peter spools up the video. I'd hate to offend Peter, Zeus, Hermes or whoever it may be that actually is employed in the Montage Department in the Sky by claiming someone else as being responsible for the task.
The mythological Greeks are Heaven's employees, right?

Anyway, until I get there, I'll just label the Head of Heavenly Montage as "Heaven".

*** My mother and my sister visited Chicago's Northwestern Memorial Hospital the day after my 12th birthday to catch a glimpse of the famous icon in her first trip to Chicago.
And while they both agree they saw the Princess, my sister swears she was allowed to scurry up to the front of the barricade alongside many other children where the Princess hugged her.
My mom says this never happened and questions the circumstances in which she would ever let her 7-year-old daughter scamper out of sight in a crowd of thousands.
To this day, my mother and sister are positive their story is the correct account. I'm dying to find out and frankly, it looks like death is going to be the quickest way to find out.


Monday. March 25, 2002

Churchin'

"What do people do in this place?"
- Adam, age 8, standing inside a church exposing his guilt-ridden mother's failure at raising a non-heathen.

My mother always said her two biggest regrets in raising me were that she didn't take me to the eye doctor as often as she should have and that we rarely went to church as a family.

I don't have 20/20 vision, but I also don't need glasses. I'm constantly reading and my handwriting is smaller than this font. I'm not sure how often a mother is expected to take her son to the eye doctor, but by most accounts, she did just fine.

The church thing... well, that's another story.

I had blocked tear ducts as a kid that required

two separate surgeries. My mom (lower right) brought me

to see these two nuns who prayed I wouldn't die
I didn't die and my mom repaid the nuns by

never going to church again.

I don't understand church.

And when I say "church," I'd like to include temples, mosques, and all other houses of worship. For the sake of this blog however, I'm going to type "church" because it's easier than qualifying every possible religious facility.

I'd better cool my jets here for a second and clarify that this is not going to be an anti-religion blog. This isn't 1940 and I'm not from Russia. I'm not calling spirituality, one's personal beliefs, or religion itself silly. I don't think those things are silly and even if I did, I'd be in the severe minority and it would be stupid for me to say so.

But the actual ritual of attending church seems silly.

And it isn't as if I've got no church background. Quite honestly, I might have a more well-rounded church background than the average person - I lived in a Catholic nunnery for 11 months for God's sake...!

Well, okay it wasn't for His sake necessarily, but I'm sure He didn't mind.

When I was 8-years-old, my best friend was a boy named Charles. When I'd sleep over at his house on Saturdays, his family would take me to their Baptist church services the following morning. They never really asked if I had any interest in going to their church and I never considered my own opinion on the matter. Frankly, I didn't care. At that point, I didn't really know what church was.

When I got inside the massive house of worship, it was a hullabaloo of excitement. I must have seen church services on old episodes of "Dallas" or "Who's the Boss?" or something because whatever my expectation of church at that point might have been, they were far exceeded that first day of Charles' Baptist church.*

I can't imagine church getting any better than this. Whooping, hollering, jumping, sweating (so much sweating). Isn't this the way church should be organized? Protestants and Catholics and Jews all over the world constantly fall asleep on Sunday mornings, but not the Baptists. The Baptists might pass out (which I believe is called "gettin' gripped" or perhaps "catchin' the Holy Ghost"), but that's different from falling asleep.

When I go to a rock concert, I tend to jump and clap and yell to high Heaven. When I was at Baptist Church, I tended to jump and clap and yell to high Heaven. I've always considered rock'n'roll more of a religion than anything else. Clearly, the Baptists are on the same page.

Many years later I found myself teaching in a Catholic school. I'm not Catholic. I don't have anything against Catholics. Some of my best friends are Catholic. So are some of my worst enemies. Every Monday, the students would begin their day in the school's modest chapel for an hour service. I never felt comfortable solemnly praying in a house of worship of which I was not a member.

I never know what to do when everyone gets up to eat the wafer and drink the wine. It's like a lazy witch-hunt. Those who go for a snack are fine, those standing in the aisle like schmucks with empty tummys are to be burned at the stake after our Godfaring is done.

But I can't just go up there and take the sacrament, can I? That's like, really bad, right? I picture my tongue burning for eternity. Like eating hot salsa every minute until I'm 90-years-old.

Anyway, one September Monday, I opted to sit in the back of the school's church, as I wasn't responsible for any students on this occasion and never felt comfortable demanding that my 6th and 7th graders pay attention to Scripture that I couldn't decipher myself.

Sister Margarita politely allowed me to sit in the rear but feared I'd be setting a bad example for the children. The children were unaware that I was even inside the church and I chalked Sister's words up to knee-jerk Catholic guilt.
The following was written in my journal on 29 September 2003. 9:15 a.m. from the back of St. Katharine's Church:

I'm planning on mapping out the next 40 minutes of church services. Here goes Catholic Mass:

Stand up. Sit down. Little guilt. Cross yourself. Stand up. Sing a song. Sit down. Praise this. Little guilt. Stand up. Sing two more songs. Sit down. Line up. Drink this. Cross yourself. Eat this. Cross yourself. Bow. Sit down. Stand up. Sing some more. Listen while standing. Shake hands. Sit down. Last bit of guilt.

Stand up.

Leave.

Church gives people a structured period of time to step back from the normal distractions of everyday living and focus on their beliefs. For some it's a necessary part of the week. I cannot be considered a part of the population that feels this way. Because when I sit in a church I find myself distracted by the artistic propaganda on the walls, the range of outfits the patrons of my church (and other churches) are wearing,** and the crying babies.

Also, when babies cry and struggle and fuss for an hour straight, I think the rest of us should listen. Think about all those movies and books where the child always tries to warn everyone of danger, but because they are children, the townsfolk just shrug it off and ignore them. Then pure evil comes and eradicates the town and all that is left are the innocent and wise babies.

Babies always cry in church. Why would God allow babies to constantly cry in church and disrupt such holy proceedings? God is totally trying to send us messages via baby tears. We're less than a week from Christmas, a day centered around the baby of all babies - and yet we're ignoring our own.

I bet when baby Jesus cried, someone listened.

There is supposed to be peace, harmony and safety inside the walls of a church but, I feel quite the opposite of safety, as if what I'm doing isn't wrong so much as it isn't right. Most of the time, while in someone else's church, I feel nervous, as if I may be smited at any moment. I just don't know the rules. I was in a Catholic church recently and sat down in a pew without crossing myself or kneeling. When I realized I didn't do it, I kinda half-stood up and slid back into the aisle. I hesitantly bent over like an elderly gentleman who just dropped a quarter, started bending to pick it up, then decided it wasn't worth it.

I forgot which shoulder to touch after I motioned to my forehead while crossing myself, then dejectedly sat down and prayed (really!) that no one saw my dumb ass attempt to fit in. I sat there for the next five minutes imagining God turning to his "Adam's Heaven or Hell Ledger" to tally mark one more in the Hell column.

I also don't know any of the words to any of the songs. I wasn't as worried about this as the kneeling and crossing thing, but it was still disconcerting to hear 15 songs and not know the words to any of them. The last time that happened I was at a Tori Amos concert. And believe me, I was equally uncomfortable and just as sure I was taking several steps closer to Hell by being there too.

And in church, sometimes they have their patrons sing while sitting down. You're not supposed to sing while sitting! It squishes the diaphragm and causes everyone to sing from the throat - which is the absolute worst thing to do to your voice. Hasn't anyone thought about this? Think of all the squished diaphragms, people. Don't sit and sing. This ain't a folk concert.

Let thine voice reach unto the heavens.

Then there's the old saying that describes events as being harder than not laughing in church. Like, "Passing that test was harder to do than not laughing in church." Sayings don't become sayings unless a lot of people sympathize with them. So if a lot of people find it difficult not to laugh in church - what is really being accomplished there that is so important I can't stay home? I don't laugh at home all the time.

And also, I read somewhere that almost 20 percent of married people met at or through their church. That's amazing. That doesn't even take into account the amount of failed relationships or time people spent sneaking peeks at other hot young churchgoers.

Essentially, church is nothing more than a den of lust.

So okay, we've established that my mom and I are going to hell. But I want it stated for the record that I'm not knocking spirituality or religion or anyone's belief in Allah, Kristna, Vitnu, Gozer the Gozerian, Jehovah, God or all those wacky idols freaking out the masses.

I say, pray on my friends.

But church is a total drag to go to and potentially bad for one's health. The kneeling cushions are not nearly as padded as God would have wanted. I'm 6'3" and it's harder than Hell to get up and down off of those things.

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* I say "first day of Charles' Baptist church" because I went several times until my parents found out that I was being taken to someone else's church without their permission. I'm not sure if my folks were upset that I was going to church processions seperate from our own, or if they were guilty that I was getting my religious infusion from someone other then them. Either way, once my parents found out about Baptist Church, I stopped going to it.

** I once saw a man in a purple suit sitting next to a woman wearing a halter top and cutoff shorts and I do believe I would have given everything from my left elbow downward to read what was going on in both of their minds sitting there at that moment.