I cannot in good conscience condone this type of behavior. Really. I can’t.
On my way to some nebulous nether region between Hillsborough and Durham Tuesday night (on a map it says “here be monsters”), I passed a church that proclaimed “Wal-Mart is not the only saving place.” I can’t even begin to express all the reasons why that wigs me out, and if you’re the type of person who reads this blog, I probably don’t have to.
I’ve often wondered if there was a web site where pastors could find snappy new slogans to entice passing motorists, and lo and behold, there are dozens. (I’m not going to link to them, and I’m trying to be careful not to write too many words that might lead one of those pastors or members of their flock to this site, because the last thing I need is a bunch of Hallmarky Christophiles trying to redeem my soul. If you really want to find them, do a search using the word commonly used to describe the house of worship of the dominant religious affiliation in the Southern U.S. – rhymes with “lurch” – and the word for a thingy with words written on it.)
Most of the ones cataloged on those sites are pretty lame, but some are more than a little scary. How about “Jesus is returning – resistance is futile”? Or “Firefighters rescue – only Jesus saves.” Yeah, take that you prideful firefighters! Or “Going to church does not make you a Christian anymore than going to McDonalds makes you a hamburger.” (Best not to think through the logic of that one too carefully.) “As sure as God puts his children in the furnace, He will be in the furnace with them.” Thanks, God, but how about we just not get in the furnace? “May your teenage head banger meet The Ageless Heart Knocker!” (I’m not sure, but I think they mean Elvis.)
One church even saw fit to quote that famous model of piety and chastity, Lord Byron: “Profanity is the linguistic crutch of the inarticulate.” Fuck, I wish I’d said that. Still, the one that takes the biscuit for sheer Jesus-meets-Madison-Avenue icky crossover hatefulness is the one I saw a few years ago in front of a church near Pittsboro: “For all you do, His blood’s for you.”
The reason I was thrashing Plooblewagon about in BFNC is because I was trying to find Greta’s parents’ Colonial manse for her birthday dinner, at which a good time was had by all. Her father the doctor led us in all kinds of Fun With Your Brain activities. For instance, I learned that because I have to visualize the route before I can give someone driving directions, that means I am parietal-lobe dominant. So all of you parietal-lobe submissives, drop me a line.
He also taught us something else that led to Ingrid doing this, but it’s funnier if I don’t explain it. But it’s not just Ingrid: all the cool, hip kids are doing it.
And finally, in case you were wondering, this is what I will look like when I’m 72. Not too shabby, huh?
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