As most of you know, I was born and raised in the south and lived there until my self-imposed exile to California in 1998. When I was a kid, my parents dragged me to church—usually as I kicked and screamed—not only on Sunday mornings and evenings but also on Wednesday nights (youth group) and any other time an event of even the most minor of magnitude occurred (choir practice, vacation bible school). Except for an often-frightening recall of Christian hymns ("Onward Christian Soldiers" being the fave), I got little out of this. It wasn't for lack of effort on my parents' part. I was lucky enough to be both christened (Presbyterian) and baptized (Southern Baptist).
The most difficult part of this Christian rearing was the de- and re-programming in adulthood, mainly because I did it by myself with a little help from a heathen professor and Albert Camus. I estimate that between the ages of 0 and 17ish, I attended nearly 3,000 church related events; since then, less than two dozen (and all either funerals or weddings with a midnight mass while drunk thrown in). Along with all of this, I lived in Pensacola for a year and a half, site of the longest running Christian revival in the world (as seen on 20/20) and home to an angry army of abortion clinic protestors who have been known to both bomb and murder, not necessarily in that order. I once allowed a wandering evangelist to sleep in my Lay-Z-Boy to avoid frost bite, only to have her nearly faint with fear after she saw a pellet gun sitting on my coffee table, mistaking the gun for a real firearm. (I eventually assured her that a) I wasn't a crazy rapist; b) I was too drunk to care; and c) the pellet gun was a pellet gun.)
Anyway, none of this is about me, really. I just wanted to give you a few qualifications for my almost hour-long laughter spasm yesterday.
But first allow me to set a scene:
Easter Sunday morning in Pensacola, a family of four are stationed in their usual positions inside their just-rightly oversized SUV with its Pro Choice sticker on the bumper and the fish emblem just under back window. The father and mother, Paul and Esther Christiansons, captain this drive every Sunday, Paul with hands at 10 and 2, Esther looking in the visor mirror to check that her vanity doesn't approach a mortal sin. Meanwhile the kids, P.J. and Ruth, quietly pour over their respective Sunday school lessons with the attention of a copyeditor on a tight deadline. There is not a hint of anything but reverence in the air--radio tuned to the gospel station, clothes ironed, hair in place. How many dozens of times have they made this trip, just like this, with the only difference being the clothes they are wearing or the car they are riding in? But this morning must be different. Speechless, the Christiansons stare up at THIS!
If this isn't a clash of the zealots, what is? Christians fervently beating their Bibles in protest and PETA singing their own version of Cumbaya while hoping the whole world will just stop blaspheming the animals. I think the part that really got me was the pastor's quote at the end: "They are dishonoring the Lord." I couldn't agree more. Doesn't PETA know that Jesus was a black man? Seriously, though, this thing could end ugly. I'll try to keep you posted.
(By the way, I failed to mention that I was a vegetarian for seven years.)
