Opinions about religion

 Entr’acte: Opinions about religion 

Analytic Philosopher                              
Another thought came to him.
Brain clenched, he tore it limb from limb.

Opinions about religion are exactly and only that, opinions. There is nothing about religion that isn’t opinion, since nothing religious can be proved. This is Gaspar again – at least my take on Gaspar.* But, to go on,
     There are hard (hard-headed but also hard-hearted) opinions, and there are opinions like mine, soft as cheese. When he characterizes me that way, “soft as cheese,” Gaspar has Camembert not Swiss in mind.

 “I hope he isn’t converting you,” Roz says. “Faith is important to you.
     “It may be odd and addled,” she says. “Still.”
     “I’m okay,” I say.
                                                                      * * * * *
Yesterday. Uncle Albert and I went to St. Jude’s for the first time since February of 2020. It was the first eight o’clock Rite One service since March of 2020. Miss Virginia presided, or she celebrated, pushing the cup high into the air, after preaching the raising of Lazarus, whom Jesus called out then said, “Unwrap him and let him go free.” We can only assume they did because there he is left, arms bound, feet bound, head wrapped in a napkin.
     The psalm was 24, the first reading I ever did in public, loudly because I was nervous because it was my first time but also because I wanted everyone to hear. And instead of “the
Lord mighty in battle,” I yelped out, “the Lord mighty and batty.” Then, I blushed, I’m sure, but I carried on if not so powerfully. I didn’t go back to correct myself.
     Later, much later, carrying on generally even less powerfully, I wondered if I hadn’t been right, at least partly. If God came in Jesus of Nazareth, he had decided not to be mighty; but the strategy was certainly batty.*

Miss Virginia held high the cup, and we celebrated the eucharist with the usual celluloid wafer and watered-down wine, except the priest and a deacon stood at the bottom of the steps to the chancel. She handed each a wafer, and he handed us a plastic cup he had poured from the main cup, and we tried to eat and drink as we walked to the tray we were supposed to put our cups down on. It was awkward for Uncle Albert because he had a cane, too, so he was walking on three legs juggling two things into his mouth and trying to get them to go down his gullet as he walked three-legged.
     He muttered about it afterward. “I’ll sit out next time,” he said. “Or, we can just sit toward the back and leave after the homily,” I said.

“Where was Mr. Virginia?” Uncle Albert asked in the car on the way home to watch Arsenal and Watford. 
     “They split up. You didn’t you know that?”

     “How would I?”
     “It was in the newsletter.”
     “It was what? Never mind. I don’t read the newsletter unless you print it out for me. Which you don’t.”
     “Apparently, he ran off with another woman.”
     “And that was in the newsletter,” he said sarcastically.
     “Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. Chaia Chevapravadumrong. She’s Thai.”
     “Say that again?
     “She’s Thai,” I said.

 11.08.21 

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  * This Gaspar thread begins here. “Analytic Philosopher” is by our epigrammatist there, R. S. Dietrich.