I always get a kick listening in on the conversations of the devout. Narrowmindedness, self-importance and general silliness abound. And unfortunately even if I didn’t want to listen on them, I can’t help it. Because those sorts of conversations immediately creep into that back part of my brain and circle around and around and around, reminiscent of that Lewis Black line: “If it weren’t for my horse, I wouldn’t have spent that year in College…”. So, I’m screwed.
An excellent example of this occurred in the Panera store just last week. My sister and I were studying – me, Geology; her – Nursing Infomatics. (We each thought our material was more boring). The next table over were two twenty-something men. One dressed in a polo shirt, shorts and shoes, the other dressed in a t-shirt, cut-offs and sandals, all (except for the sandals obviously) which look like they were freshly ironed. The first gave off the impression of a t-shirt person trying to dress up and then look casual. The second one was more nature boy look picked out of a Sears catalogue. In other words both failed at their “look”.
They were talking religion. Specifically about their religious experiences. It took a few minutes to pick up on the finer nuances of the conversation, but it seemed to be some sort of ministerial interview. Polo boy was a preacher or pastor at some Christian church while Nature boy was going for the job of reverend or priest or minister or whatever that particular sect calls the guy on the altar.
We had come in, apparantly, in the middle of Nature boy explaining his past. I suppose Polo boy asked him about his past, but maybe not. Both seemed the type to fill any sort of silence with useless information about themselves. Truly dangerous people to be around (well, dangerous to the eardrums). Nature boy had been a minister before, it seems, of a fairly large church in New Orleans at the wide-eyed age of eighteen or nineteen. He was an up and coming thing, it seemed at the time. And then it all went awry.
And now we come to that point in the story where my brain comes to a screeching halt and consumes itself in the Lewis Black fashion as the ultimate last resort. This is because the thing that went awry was Hurricane Katrina and Nature Boy – and I kid you not – said:
“And then I realized that everything was too easy. My life was going too well and I needed to be tested. So God sent a hurricane to test me by destroying everything in New Orleans so I would be forced to start over.”
No. No no no no no no no no no no (no)^1000. Hurricane Katrina was not a divine wake-up call for one person. It was a large cyclonic event which killed over a thousand persons. I’m not sure what sort of messed-up life you have to go through to come to the above conclusion, but it absolutely does not follow at all.
Further revelations followed. Polo boy then had his chance to make an ass out of himself. Would he be up to the challenge? Nature boy claimed one of the largest natural disasters in the US in the last decade was directed specifically at him. How could polo boy top that? Here’s his entry in the “I’m special, you’re not” department.
“So I used to not know what God’s voice sounded like. But now I do. I can tell you exactly what God is saying to me when he speaks to me. I understand his voice perfectly.”
Really? So polo boy claims insight which has eluded all the theologians of the past 2000 years. How did he manage this? I, apparantly wasn’t the only one curious because nature boy wanted to know as well. The answer:
“I spent years thinking God was saying things to me, only to be mistaken. Finally I learned what his voice sounded like. How? I took a class.”
A class. Yes. I think I’ll take “Contact Outer Plane”. Oh, it’s a 400-level course which isn’t in my major but it fills a Gen-Ed requirement. I tried to get into “Parting Oceans”, but it was full. I figure this was a good backup.
Harry Potter, in all his supposed demonology and wiccan horrors has nothing, I tell you, absolutely nothing on two twenty-somethings so full of themselves they firmly believe they are the Old Testament revisted. I like to think that when they die, St. Peter will meet them at the Pearly Gates, take them over to the side and kick them square in the nuts. He’d do it too. He’s got a temper. Go ask any Roman Centurion.
