Blogging at a Funeral

I'm an asshole.

My friends and family would never say it, but I can't help believe that anyone who sees a funeral as a potential to write a "witty post" could have a very solid moral center. Not to mention I laugh at biblical puzzles.

So yeah, I'm an ass. But since you're already here, I'll have a go at it.

I made my yearly trek to church this past year. Sadly, it was to say our final goodbyes to my wife's grandfather, who had suffering through the dignity-stealing Alzheimer's disease. It was sad to see him go, but worse to see him suffer.

The funeral took place at my wife's family church -- though her mother has recently defected to a new church; a snazzy place with widescreen TV's and video kiosks (You can read all about my first/only visit right here). The church is over 100 years old and filled with very nice, well-meaning old people who say things like "have a blessed day" and throw salt over the shoulder to blind the devil (apparently a little Morton's is all you need to beat back Satan -- who knew?). Needless to say, I fit right in.

OK, a heathen I may be. But death visits us all and I've attended plenty of funerals. Still, I'm never sure what to say and when. I counted four times when the pastor (or passuh -- as he was readily reffered to) told every one to get up, but the section of pews I was in remained seated. So I was the asshole looking like slow kid in a game of duck-duck-goose.

Oh yeah, and what's the proper response to "God Bless You?" When I sneeze and someone says it, I say thank you -- you know, thanking them for acknowledging my brief discomfort. But the "God Bless You's" I was getting from the parade of sad strangers was more like a greeting (and even came with handshakes) and all my heathen ass could think to say was "Hey, how are you?" Like I bumped into them at Target. Awful.

Anyway, what really got my goat (I know you were waiting for me to get to this right?) was how this sad occassion, where family and friends are grieving and crying, was constantly barraged with warnings about hell.

Naturally, the deceased is heaven-bound -- no one wants to go to a funeral where the pastor says "Joe was great man, father and husband. Sadly, he was never baptised and is surely now fornicating with dead mules in hell." Truth be told, my wife's grandfather was pretty pious and died singing "Amazing Grace," so even by my standards, he's heavenbound. But what about the rest of us? Well as the passuh said "I know you didn't come here for this but heaven and hell are real. You have to ask yourself, if you don't go to sleep in Jesus, where will you wake up?"

(First off, sleeping IN Jesus sounds as icky as sleeping WITH Jesus. Better phrasing next time. )

And then, as the funeral is ending, he calls for anyone who wants to accept Jesus to come up to the pulpit because, you know, there isn't anything else happening -- might as well shore up some more business.

However, what struck me most about the funeral and all the speeches was this constant talk of death and the fear of it. As I gather, Christians are free from death because they will be resurrected in heaven where all the Starbucks are open 24-hours and your sides don't jiggle when you hit a bump on the road. It's called everlasting life and you only get it when you believe in the The Father, The Son and the Holy Ghost. It's like Comcast's Triple Bundle Package except without HD channels or multi-room DVRS.

I understand that no one wants to die. It's like being forced to take a nap while there's strippers downstairs shooting mojito mix out of their nipples and throwing free cash at you. Life is fun and death, from where I stand, looks to really suck. But I don't know that it's anything to be afraid of. Not when everything alive has to do it. Now, I wouldn't want to be the first motherfucker to ever die because I'm sure that was pretty scary. But I'm sure no one wanted to be the first person to get on an airplane, but now we all do it.

But Christians are afraid. They're afraid because, as my wife points out, the idea of hell is real. All of their life choices could leave them with permanent sunburn (don't forget mule fornication) so those last moments are really frightening. Thankfully, I don't have that baggage. And I don't want my children to either.

I'm already going to have to take Santa away one day, no need to replace him with Satan.

Bible Toys Suck Part 2

So I wasn't really sure how my parents would take the blog, seeing as they are often cited in them as being fairly bad parents -- at least by Black standards -- since they didn't bother to indoctrinate me with any religion.

Yeah, turns out they love the blog -- they share it with their friends, laugh out loud. All the things I want YOU to do. They don't leave comments, so I suppose they're not perfect but, hey neither are any of you (starting to get the hint there thirdsies?).

Anyway, we were at the beach during our yearly summer excursion when I birthed the masterpiece "Bible Toys Suck." You know it and love it.

I shared it with my parents who laughed. A lot.

Shortly after reading it, they ran out to get some puzzles for my children.

They returned with two bible puzzles -- The Ten Commandments and Parting of the Red Seas -- at which we all laughed heartily which got me to wonder, if there is a hell, is laughing at bible puzzles something that gets you there faster. I don't suppose God ever thought about such an occurrence as cheap pharmacy toys hadn't been around back when God was born/invented. But surely in his/her/it's supposed infinite wisdom, I imagine there has to be a punishment meted out for mocking the sanctity of a $2, 12-piece puzzle featuring a biblical miracle.

Jesus -- I hope I'm wrong (in this case).

Bible Toys Suck

Bible toys suck.

Case in point: My wife recently held a birthday party at our house for one of her friends' children. Not ours, mind you but a child I had never seen before was now having a birthday party at my house with cake, games, the whole shebang. Not to say the kid wasn't deserving. As a matter of fact the kid is super deserving since he's got a brain tumor and really hasn't had any parties on account that his two brothers are also really sick. So as you can imagine, it's kind of tough for me to find an opportunity to be a snarky asshole when presented in the face of such unabashed goodwill.

That is until . . .

One of the mothers shows up with a Samson doll (see picture above)

Hey kids, are those comic book and movie franchise heroes getting a bit too worldly? Looking for soemthing a little old-school, self-righteous and boring to play with? Well, great news! The geniuses who brought you "All Jew Babies Must Die" Old Testatment Action Set (complete with lamb's blood on every door) have banded together to bring you . . . bible action figures! Just think, now you can experience hours of mind-numbing church lessons in your very home! EVERY DAY will be Sunday -- yippeee!

Now, I was already aware that people made bible "action" figures (with both White skin AND historically-accurate beige) but I didn't think anybody, outside of ironic college students actually bought them. Much less, for real children who, I can only imagine, would be supremely disappointed to find a Moses or Nebuchannezer doll instead of Batman, Superman or a mutated, turtle trained in martial arts.

I think it's important to restate that the kid who opened said gift only has six birthdays under his belt, and of those six years, perhaps two included actual parties so he was ripe to enjoy pretty much anything that had been wrapped up and given to him. So while he wasn't as let down or shocked by the gift as I was, he never actually opened it either.

But here's why biblical toys suck. Not because they're biblical, but because bible toys aren't for kids, they're for the adults who buy them. I've done my research and found there are exactly TWO motives for buying bible toys:

1. To keep actual cool toys away from your kids for fear that the toys are satanic, evil or fun. I submit that this is parental abuse and should be a crime (I suggest starting a drive or a fund or contacting your congressman)

2. To show off your righteousness as a god-fearing parent the same way some parents love to announce "well my little Jimmy only watches two hours of TV a week, so he doesn't know anything about this Sponge, uh, Bob character."

Neither motive really takes in consideration that the kids who have to play with these toys live in the real world where teenagers bitten by radioactive spiders are actually heroes and NOT demon spawns out to teach kids about sodomy and gay marriage (which, may be the same thing in some cases).

Most importantly, the knuckleheaded parents who buy these toys seem intent on ruining a kid's imagination. Sure, I think the Bible is mostly make-believe, but 90% of this country does not, which puts bible toys in a new and possibly worse category -- HISTORICAL toys. And when's the last time your kid asked to play with an Abe Lincoln action figure?

Your kid's rampant imagination is only going to last a good 10-11 years, so why ruin it with your moral, theological hang-ups? Let them imagine a world where an orphaned boy will avenges his parents' deaths by wearing a cape and cowl. Or one where a woman named Barbara can be an astronaut, a singer AND a stay-at-home mom.

Trust me, they'll have the rest of their lives to stress over what small infraction they've incurred to deserve hell without you dangling the Jesus, Mary and Joseph "Immaculate Conception" playset in their faces.

No Mormons Allowed

Don't let this entry's title fool you thirdsies (hey, if I don't keep this trend up, who will?), I am a very tolerant man. My father, however, is not.

OK, that's not really true. OK, it is but not when it comes to religion. He honestly doesn't care what faith you profess, but like most Black men born in the 1940's, he can smell racism at a million paces. In films, cartoons, cereal boxes -- the man is like a golden retriever for bigotry.

So when you see my father and want to start espousing your faith, don't be afraid -- he'll listen and only silently judge you.

But if your faith has even a whiff of racist doctrine be prepared for this Baltimore-born, West Philly raised Negro to hop directly in your face.

Case in point:

It was the year of our lord 19 and 87; Michael Jackson lost his third shade of melanin, Prince's masterpiece "Sign O the Times" was still a year away and I was in the seventh grade. It was summer, and despite the fact that we lived in Pennsylvania, I remember the day felt distinctly Houston-ish -- hot and humid enough to melt your face like a Nazi in "Raiders of the Lost Ark."

Now, like most children, I grew up thinking my father was Superman. And like supes, my dad has his own kryptonite -- heat. Remember "Superman 3" with Richard Pryor where Superman encountered red kryptonite and turned into a badly-shaven asshole? Well, that's what heat does to my dad. Not that he becomes an asshole or badly shaven but he does get damned cranky. He starts cursing more (though that might be hard to notice) and complains of sweating. Keep in the mind, this is a man who turns the AC on in the car during WINTER. Nutshell: Dude does not like heat.

Next on my father's shit list is grass, specifically, tending to it. However, since we were one of three Black families in our neighborhood, so racial pride kept him mowing, edging and weeding our lawn.

And it was on this fateful day of heat and lawn care that two Mormon boys strolled up to my father with recruitment on their minds.

"Sir, have you heard about Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints?"

Now, I don't know exactly what they said because I was inside enjoying the air-conditioning and NOT doing the lawn, but one thing I can be sure of is that my father had indeed heard of them.

Having spent years in hotel rooms during company trips, he took it upon himself to read the Mormon bibles while staying in Marriots. Now, without reiterating everything ( see what Mormons believe right here), the Mormons believe that Black people have dark skin and kinky hair because they were cursed by the biblical Cain (the first brother-on-brother crime in history).

So you have to imagine -- heat + lawn + racism parading as religion = the perfect storm.

Sorry -- back to the story.

"Sir, have you heard about Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints?" -- I imagine them asking in unison.

"Get the fuck off my lawn!" -- That part I know is true.

"Sir?!"

"I said get the fuck off my lawn. Don't come to my house with that racist bullshit!"

"Bu ---"

"How the hell do you expect me to buy into a religion where I'm a second-class citizen? I can't even get into the same heaven as White people and you expect me to join your little cult?"

"Bu ---"

"You know why Brigham Young started that shit out in the midwest? It's because he couldn't hack it in New York? The only way he could get people to swallow his bullshit was to move to the middle of fucking nowhere."

"Bu ---"

"How would you feel if I came to YOUR house and asked you to join the Black Muslims? Do you know what they think of you? How about you do that? Does that make any fuckin' sense to you?"

"Bu ---"

And then my father punched them both in the face with a single punch.

OK, that part isn't true but it's a great way to end the story as I really have no idea what happened next.

The Jehovah Witnesses' Giant Mistake

To be honest, nothing terribly interesting has happened to me lately, so I figured this would be a good time to revisit my wife's spirtitual life. I understand this blog is supposed to be about me, but since we've agreed to live together forever, I might as well start co-opting her life for blog fodder. It's the least she can do.

So, for those who have been following along (I call you Thirdsies), you know that my wife's grip on her native christianity is tentative at best. Ironically, this was helped along by actually studying the bible -- or at least the Jehovah Witnesses' version of it.

The JW's have been studying with her for years now and even got her (and me) to attend their Kingdom Hall for Saturday service (an event lovingly recreated in words for you right here). And while they definitley helped her challenge her fear of hell, their years-long recruitment campaign started to wear thin when they realized they weren't making the progress they had anticipated. So, like most organized religions, they resorted to their last and best line of defense -- the fire sale.

That's right, they brought out the big guns and jumped right to Revelations a.k.a. the crazy shit at the end of the bible. It's filled with multiheaded lions, apocalyptic events, robots that turn into camaros -- it's a show.

Not to mention, they threw in this nugget: "Based on the bible, people live to their 80s. You are in your mid thirties, so your life is almost half over. And it's time to make a choice." Now what the JWs didn't know is that by erasing the concept of hell, they had affectively given away their best bargaining chip. With all the pressure to buy off the plate, my wife had no real reason to commit.

Somewhere during their "end times" spiel, they started regaling my wife with stories about giants who were the offspring of angels and humans. When my wife asked how the angels mated with humans (considering the fact, well maybe not FACT, but the idea that angels have no gender) the JWs said the angels heard so much about this "sex" thing that they took human form and started boffing Jewish women. Turns out, none of the angels wanted to be bottoms and they ALL chose to grow penises.

Apparently, that is where my wife got off the bus. She had had enough and she told them so. Ok, not immediately.

It took some time and lots of hand-wringing, but eventually my wife had to work up the nerve to tell the JWs that she was no longer interested. Seriously, it was like she was breaking up with a boyfriend, a boyfriend who looks like a 50-ish year-old Carribean woman.

But they brought it on themselves -- not just with the fornicating angels and their over-sized offspring -- but by implicating that my wife had to join up now or never. My wife would turn down a free mortagage payment if the person offering it pressured her to "act now." It's a good thing she was pregnant when we got married, otherwise I'm pretty sure my bended-knee proposal would have been nicely rebuffed with a "can I get back to you on that?"

Anyway, I say all because as a heathen, it's hard to know where other peoples's bullshit meters are. Mine tends to go off when mortal folks say they know everything about the afterlife. My wife's? 12-foot-tall angel/man hybrids.

Go figure.

In a Neighborhood Far, Far Away

Now that I think of it, I can pinpoint the exact moment when I could have become a Christian. I was literally being offered a ride on the Jesus bandwagon and at the tender age of four, my heathen tendencies were already raring strong.

Intrigued?

Good.

So it was 1970-something and I was at home with my mom in our tract home in New Jersey. All you need to know is that I was a probably the most adorable child you had ever seen. Imagine Gary Coleman but without the guilt of knowing he was really a teenager trapped in a toddler's body -- wait, I'm watching "Spider-Man 3" on demand and the part where Peter fights Harry for the first time is on, gimme a minute . . . aaaand I'm back. Where was I, oh right, I was cute as a fucking button on a baby bunny.

So, as they are wont to do, a well-intentioned Christian woman was going door-to-door looking to --- wait, Sandman is being born --- recruit fresh, young minds to a lifetime of believing they are sinners by way of a Sunday school program that picked kids up right from their homes. Being four and knowing that a couple of the neighborhood children were going, I naturally wanted to go, too. You may not remember but riding on a bus at the age of four is like being offered a ride on a space shuttle now.

The crazy thing is, when I asked my mother about it, she was down for the bus ride -- kinda. Truth is, my mother was convinced everyone was trying to steal me. Actually, I'm not sure she doesn't believe it now. But surprisingly kidnapping was her ONLY objection to sending me to Sunday school. See, I was under the impression that my parents were committed to non-committal. That their own issues with religion had opened their eyes to the traps of organized religion and steeled them against any idea of raising their own precious (and incredibly adorable) son in the same idealogical quagmire.

Turns out, not so much.

Seems my mother was basically keen on the idea of sending me to Sunday school if it weren't for the threat of kidnapping. So she invited the Christian lady in to see if I was Sunday-school worthy. Naturally, the woman wants to know how much I know about Jesus and the Lord to which my mom for some reason thinks I know enough. Thank God (yeah, I said it), my father comes home from work at that time. Perhaps having a better grip on my situation, he has doubts about my theological leanings.

Here's how, I'm told, the conversation went:

"What does your son know about the Lord?," Ms. Christian Bus asks my folks.

"Oh he knows, I've been teaching him," my mom insists.

My father responds with a disapproving look that says "Bloody hell he does" (FYI --he's not British).

So, naturally they call me downstairs to see what I really know.

And down I come, "Star Wars" action figures in hand, afro at full puffitude.

"Baby, do you know who the Lord is?"

Now I have no recollection of any of this, mind you, but my answer to this question pretty much sums up my life.

"Yes mommy, Lord Darth Vader."

That's right, I knew then where my alleigance lied. More to the point, it was evident that the only place I had heard the word "Lord" was in reference to the baddest Sith bastard to roam deep space.

You could pretty much say it was a wrap after that. The woman left disgusted and my parents spent the rest of the night laughing their asses off. My spot on the Christain bus was taken by some poor sap who is probably now fretting about his eternal soul.

However, when my mother recounted the story to me earlier today, I was confused as to why she thought I knew anything about Christianity at the age of four -- as I had always remembered my life as being pretty much areligious. She replied that she had taught me a few Christian songs and a bit about the story of Jesus but in her words, "You weren't very interested."

"So was your intention to raise me as a Christian?"

"Yes, but I guess I never really got around to it."

And that, my friends, is the story of my life.

Oprah: My Wife's New Pope

There are a few things you never really expect to hear your wife say:
1. "I'd LOVE to have a threesome with Sanaa Lathan!"
2. "If you don't mind, I'm going downstairs to watch Revenge of the Sith."
3. "I agree, my ass does look nice and big in these jeans."

About a month ago (I've neglected the blog, I know), my wife dropped this gem on me: "Maybe I'm not a Christian."

If you knew her you'd know this was a big deal. And if her mother read this, she would literally shit a brick. I'm half tempted to actually make my mother in law read this so I could tape the brick-shitting and a make a grip by selling the video to Guinness. Ok, that's gross (but I'd do it).

So why is this a big deal? Because like most Black folks, she has always defined herself as a Christian. She was raised in a typical Baptist church (collection plates, little white dresses, hooting and/or hollering) and unless you go whole hog and take on Buddhism or Islam, you don't just up and leave the table and cash in your chips. Why not? Because you'll go to hell.

One of the biggest advantages of being me (aside from the obvious) is that my complete lack of a religious upbringing has left me without a concept of hell. I mean, I know what people say it is, but I have literally no faith that such a place exists so I have no fear that I, or anyone else for that matter, will ever go there. In that sense, it's a lot like Lynchburg, Virginia.

But as bad a place as hell is, its a hard place for my wife to turn her back on. Despite her vocal questioning of Christian doctrine, she never really broke camp because to NOT believe -- more importantly to SAY you don't believe is punishable by an eternal trip to God's oven.

Now, I have to give credit where credit is due. The Jehovah's Witness who have been "studying" with her have opened the door to a "hell-less" spirituality. Too bad they're not coming any more (I'll explain more next time).

But the one who really drove it home was none other than the biggest spiritual leader in the freeworld: Oprah.

My wife is completely in love with Oprah's latest book choice Eckhart Tolle's "A New Earth" which my wife says "feels right." More right than the Christianity she grew up with. I think most of that has to do with Tolle's similar hell-less spirituality and idea that there is more than one way to connect with a higher power. Curiously, none of these ways mention Sanaa Lathan but I suppose I shouldn't hold that against anyone.

Anyway, my wife seems to be finding a new spirituality, one that does not fill her with dread or remorse and I can honestly say I'm thrilled -- not just because it cuts down on my church-going (once a year is a tough schedule for me), but because she seems a happier person, and isn't that what a connection with God should be about? Seriously, I'm asking because I don't know.

I look forward to your answers.