The Pledge

Remember when you were in school? Each day, you were expected to recite two pledges: one to the flag of the United States of America, another to the Texas flag?  Why does that ritual or expectation of people stop after you graduate from the school system? I feel it is unfair.  I think college students and grownups should be expected every morning to recite the pledges and pause for a moment of silence too.  Honestly, I would love to stand each morning, rest my hand over my heart, and recite the words I know from memory.   Think about it.  These days all of us have problems.  Newspaper articles on any given day support the argument that the devil is in full control.  My thought is that expecting the pledge from grownups and wayward young adults might remind us of our ability to be decent.  The act of honoring the flag could raise our awareness of being honorable in real life.  Just a thought.

Churchiness

Yesterday, I underwent an initiative to visit and sample all the rules and regulations at a countrified church.  I shall not disclose the name (for reasons that you can probably guess).  The plan was to arrive at the designated location before 9:30am.  I got into my smallish, marshmallow-colored vehicular transport and drove for miles down a dirt road.  I finally saw my turn street.  I activated my signal light to communicate my intentions because you know, that I know, that you know, that I love to communicate... plus that’s just how I roll.  The parking lot was packed, so much so that grim faced men wearing neon vests stood all around making rapid, primitive hand gestures.  I am a sensible person so, of course, I ignored the neon men completely!  Duh.  I found a practical, yet assertive parking spot and got out.  I was wearing a navy blue sleeveless dress that went down to my knees.  Upon exiting my car, I was hit by a gale force of wind.  The wind was pounding me and I still had a long way to walk to the entrance of the church.  I realized I must take action.  My hands grabbed the end of my dress holding it down with a force equal to the wind.  I raised up to my full height, to attempt to look as dignified as possible while all this dress drama was happening.  I finally arrived inside the building.  Greeter people were everywhere, but I managed to avoid them by not making eye contact.  I was meeting a friend, but she was running late.  I sat down and waited for her to arrive.  Momentarily, I noticed an agitated curly haired blonde woman coming towards me.  It was my friend.  We entered the packed sanctuary and sat near a fairly large sign that clearly said, “Family Section."  A worried look appeared on my friend’s face as she whispered, “I was told that we are supposed to sit in the section for singles.” I looked at her, on my face I wore my best “fuck it” expression.  I lovingly declared, “If we had arrived on time, we could have sat in the proper section.  Since we are late, we forfeit our right to be picky.” She nodded in agreement.  I could not help, but be slightly annoyed that this church is soooo bossy, such a control freak, that they have to tell people where to sit.  I thought I bet, if Jesus were here, he would not tell me where to sit.  The sanctuary looked like a concert hall except for the wooden cross in the center of the stage which added a certain zest of churchiness.  Six adults were onstage clapping, singing and smiling so brightly that the shine could probably be seen from space.  I liked that the group was around my age and demographic.  The praise group had diversity and looked real, not perfect.  I bet each member won their position from talent and ability, not looks.  Some churches have singers that look like they could be Gap models or look like they just stepped out of a Cosmopolitan magazine.  I am more likely to distrust a church whose appearance or surface is so pristine, so perfect and good looking.  The music sounded great, but I did not sing.  Typically, when I encounter a new experience I behave simply as an observer.  I watch.  I listen.  I look.  So I watched the song lyrics that appeared and disappeared on the 2 large screens up front.  It was dark except for the light onstage.  I scanned the faces in the audience to see if anyone I knew was there.  Nope.  I love music.  I do.  However, when I worship God I prefer more form and content.  I noted how little form and content this service had.  It was song, after song, after song, then sermon, one prayer, then another song.  The pastor was dressed conservatively. He had a chin like Jay Leno and a voice for radio.  The sound of his words filled the room.  My favorite sentence that he said was, “God change me.” I like that a lot.  God change me.  It is not without a hint of sadness that I say worship has evolved into a spectator sport.  I am cognizant of how sedentary our lifestyle is as Americans.  We sit and watch.  I found myself wishing that more was required of us.  In my own life, I am making a concentrated effort to become an action woman versus a sit-and-watch woman.  Anyhoo, enough about me and my grandiose thought bubbles!  Sincerely, the end.