So this is not to insult any Methodists I may know and love, but the Methodist service I experienced this morning was quite possibly the most somber and awful hour of my life—which was then followed by the most socially intense and terrifying 15 minutes of my life.
THE HYMNS
To start, I didn’t get the memo that only Grandma and her bridge partners attend the 10:30 a.m. service, giving me such a level of self-consciousness that I actually found myself starting to pray to instantaneously develop wrinkles. What I did find delightful/depressing though was that, as an older crowd, they didn’t immediately stand up for the hymns. For each hymn the leader would say, “Please stand for Hymn ____” and then there’d be like an hour or so where everyone would contemplate how to get away with not actually standing, and finally (about halfway through the hymn) they’d realize that they had no choice but to just stand for the damn thing. Their general sentiment was one of “Aw eff, gimme a minute…,” the same feeling of defeat that requires people to make two attempts at getting off the couch.
Then there was the issue of hymn choice. As soon as I had arrived and opened their book of hymns, I got really excited that they had “Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing.” That’s the first thing I do in any church, and I immediately judge any church whose hymnbook doesn’t have it—I recognize that this is completely irrational and also that as a Jew I have no right to dictate what makes a good hymnal, but this doesn’t stop me from judging up a storm whenever I come into a church.
Anyway, I thought any church that has “Come Thou Fount” can’t be half bad. But then instead of the glory of “Come Thou Fount” they chose to sing “Rejoice in the Lord,” which I would describe as a cheerful funeral dirge. Hell, even “Come Thou Fount” aside, the hymn right above “Rejoice in the Lord” in the book was the “Battle Hymn of the Republic,” which is undoubtedly the most epic song—religious or otherwise—EVER. And to confess something embarrassing, sometimes I like to sing it to myself when I’m feeling particularly smug and self-righteous about something I’ve just done. So my question here is, WHY WOULD YOU CHOOSE THIS PILE OF SHIT WHEN THE BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC IS RIGHT ABOVE IT? It’s just racist is what it is.
No, instead of badass war songs about how God is trampling shit we had to sing the sort of crap we used to have to sing at elementary school concerts, accompanied by the muzak-y Nordstrom’s piano. I felt that same sense of “Fuuuuuuck, this song is so shit it almost isn’t even worth the math lesson I get to miss to perform it.”
THE PASTOR
All I know is that this lady seemed to be pissed off about something. The sermon wasn’t a sermon, it was a scolding from my mom. If my mom were Scottish. And if my mom were in any way capable of being stern and awful, for that matter. See, it wasn’t even a sermon about how we should all be better people, which would at least make her chastising tone at least a little understandable. No, it was basically Mom standing there with her arms crossed, saying in a stern, angry and disappointed voice, “So Jesus is going to return in all his glory and I want you all to sit and just think about what you’ve done.” “Once in Heaven we will all know perfect peace with God and you should be ashamed of yourself, young lady.” “Nothing comes close to the joy we will feel at the return of Jesus and I am severely disappointed in you, I really expected better from you.
Just to emphasize how incredibly ashamed of itself the congregation should be, the pastor littered her speech with pregnant pauses. Like, literally pregnant, as in they would last for nine months. They lasted so long that there were several moments where I thought maybe the meeting had devolved into a Quaker meeting, and then I’d very suddenly be startled back into reality when this crazy bitch remembered to continue with her train of thought.
Damn, that’s some good sermoning.
THE CONGREGATION
I did find the people to be delightful. I particularly liked the woman sitting next to me, who would respond with an enthusiastic “YES” whenever she agreed with something someone had said. Which, being a Methodist in a room filled with Methodists saying Methodisty things, happened quite frequently. I wish I could have seen how she responds when someone says something she disagrees with. Does she give it a “NO” or does she go for the more emphatic “FALSE”?
My God though, I think Methodists are too friendly.
So friendly were these Methodists that at the end of the service I felt like Simba in the Lion King when he’s caught up in that stampede of wildebeests as this horde of Methodists descended upon me. After tackling each other and breaking hips in their desperate rush to shake my hand, the herd of grandmas would then tell me EVERYTHING THAT IS GOING ON IN THE CHURCH EVER. I thought I had nearly escaped, but as I started to pull the exit open an old man literally blocked my path so that he could speak to me. And as he spoke to me yet another receiving line of eager Methodists formed, and I was once again welcomed and told of EVERYTHING THAT IS GOING ON IN THE CHURCH EVER.
So friendly were these Methodists that I’m pretty convinced that, should I ever return to this church, everyone will immediately throw themselves to lie prostrate on the floor as they offer up prayers of thanksgiving to God for my return. The congregation will weep tears of joy, and once they’ve blown their noses they will start planning a parade in my honor. The level of excitement for my Second Coming will match or maybe even exceed their excitement for Christ’s.
So friendly were these Methodists that I considered staying for coffee, simply because I thought my slipping out before fellowship coffee might actually cause some of them to commit suicide with Dido-like levels of flamboyance. Gosh though, never thought I’d miss the days of unfriendly and unwelcoming cliques at Hillel Shabbat services…
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