Dime-Store Preacher

A young pastor stood before his Maine parish in a purple polyester blazer with a faux gold chain atop his hunter-orange tie. During his sermon, he spoke about a child and how she unselfishly gave up her beloved dime-store necklace to prove her love.

The pastor began to cry-no weep. He reached into the breast pocket of his tear-stained blazer to resurrect a handkerchief-a thick, pink, Las Vegas-dinner-show-napkin handkerchief. He proceeded to blow his nose as if he were trying to purge something from his soul. I held my son tightly.

The pastor then announced that the organist, Sister So-and-So was ill and Brother Such-and-Such was recovering nicely. The pale parishioner who sang hymns at the particleboard altar coughed in between choruses and all over the front row. The pastor said he too was recovering from the flu as his wife and children sneezed intermittently. I prayed for a shot of Amoxicillin and a graceful exit.

Stained, multi-patterned cinema carpet made me queasy as I noticed the color scheme of the Church of the Fashion-Forgotten-glossy "hot mama" red and dingy yellow. Not colors of heaven and earth, but those of a clearance section next to a big yellow smiley face.

When did I become so judgmental? Admittedly, I likened the church décor to that of a dime or discount store. Instead of listening to the preacher's message, I heard words like, Blue Light Special in Aisle 16 for the next 10 minutes. As I noticed dusty plastic flowers, chipped paint, and anointing oil (contained within a recycled vanilla extract bottle), I longed for the stained glass windows, ornate gold-leaf bibles, polished mahogany pews, republicans, and post-mass donuts of my Catholic childhood in Southern California.

In that moment I was also reminded of the materialism of my misspent youth. Designer clothes, tanning salons, Cosmopolitan magazine, and acrylic nails made up my vapid world. But I thought I had changed. I moved to Maine, I recycled, I watched Michael Moore films, and I learned about composting.