Nevertheless

July 26, 2015
Nevertheless 

I went to church this morning – no surprise. To paraphrase a current TV commercial: “If you’re my mother’s son, it’s what you do.” Roz went with me. Sometimes she does, sometimes not. We went two towns down the Valley to hear a fellow from the town I grew up in. He grew up a Baptist but had become an Episcopalian; nevertheless, he was supposed to be an excellent preacher.

   Roz tends to doubt “suppos-ed/s.” What that means, she said, is that “There will be lots of rhetoric or lots of dumbing down or both.” She’s at her most cynical on Sunday mornings. But, she went. “I’m curious nonetheless,” she said. “And, we can meet the great man.” More cynicism. I shook my head.

She was more right than wrong. The images of God’s love were parental, homely: Mom holding one close, reading stories at night, tucking one tightly into bed, kissing one on the cheek, Dad correcting rough drafts of high-school themes, playing catch, hitting grounders and pop-ups into the dark. But also: gravity surrounding all of us invisibly, so we can count on, when we get up and swing our legs over the edge of the bed, they will come down on the floor; we won’t begin floating upward to knock our heads on the ceiling or go crashing down through the first floor and the basement and into middle earth.

   Still, the whole thing was well organized; and it managed to get back to Jesus, the way to find, the truth to seek out, the light to follow, the life to embrace. “Stop Look Listen” as the old railroad sign said – that was our job. And he had a lovely, rhythmic speaking voice, a comfort to old ladies and the old lady in all of us.

“Aren’t you going to introduce yourself?” Roz asked, when she saw me looking around for another exit.

   “No. He was grades ahead of me. I was a punk. He wouldn’t remember.”

   “But, he’ll play like he does. Come on. It’ll be fun.”

He did. It was. For her.