So I went back to the Methodists today. You may remember that
the last time I was there I was surrounded by old women who seemed to be under
the impression that failing to throw themselves upon me would cause the
universe to implode.
I figured I could use this nice break from my traditional
stomping grounds in the Anglo-Catholic tradition, though I was slightly
disappointed that the lack of incense exposure today would require me to take a
shower. (Oh my God, that is such an attempt at a joke. I know I’m vile but I’ll
have you know that I do wash biannually.)
And so, after wading through a sea of people eager to shake
my hands and talk to me about the fact that it’s wet and windy outside, I
finally made it to my seat. I swear to you I had the same conversation six
different times. It went a bit like this:
Extremely Earnest Methodist: “Hello, are you a visitor?”
Me: “Yup, I am!”
EEM: “Ah, well done for braving the weather!”
Me: “Ah, well, I don’t live too far from here, to be fair…”
EEM: “It’s quite cold out!”
Me: “Yes, it is, but it’s thankfully very warm in here.”
EEM: “Yes, we have a timed heater! See, we set it for a few
hours before church and then…[*insert detailed exploration of the heater’s
workings, thoughts and feelings.*]”
Me: “Um…gosh…it sounds like a pretty amazing heater.”
EEM: “Oh it is! Oh hi, [*Fellow Extremely Earnest Methodist
who has approached*], I was just telling this young lady about our heater!”
FEEMwha: “Oh yes, it’s set to a timer, you know!”
I promise you I had this conversation about six different
times, to the point where I’m strongly convinced
that Methodists are not actually a religious group but instead the love
children of an affair between John Wesley and a furnace.
But they are lovely people. Or lovely people-furnace
hybrids.
So anyway, I sat down in one of the chairs and waited for
the service to begin. And before the service they have someone playing on the
piano some hymns that sound a bit like what the piano player at Nordstrom always
sounds like. It’s like all the soul is sucked out of the song, as the notes
echo around the escalator atrium and bounce off the fake marble.
I can’t do a good job of explaining it. All I know is that
when I heard the Methodist hymn piano I wanted to buy clothing. Or rather, as I
normally do in Nordstrom, I wanted to make grumpy huffing noises as my mom
drags me around and—can you believe how awful this is—actually tries to buy me
nice things. (If my mom is reading this: I love you, Mommy!!!)
Right. So the piano. It was playing “How Great Thou Art”
I love the song, but now instead of getting my Methodist thang on, I was
imagining Fat Elvis walking around Nordstrom asking saleswomen if this rhinestone jumpsuit
comes in any larger sizes, and then inevitably being told by some
severe-looking foreign woman who works there that he might have better luck on
Nordstrom.com.
I sat in my seat, waiting for the service to begin, as the
Methodists continued to chat with each other and occasionally give me heart
palpitations by approaching me (“Oh God Oh God I don’t know if I can act excited
about the timed heater for a seventh time!!!!”). But then I heard this weird
noise. It sounded like Beaker from the Muppets. What the eff is that?
After a few squeaks the sound petered out. Maybe it was the
timed heater? But then it came back again. Wait a minute. Wait. A. Minute. The
squeaking is squealing along in time with the music. It is wordlessly quacking
along to “How Great Thou Art.” Oh my God. There is a woman who looks older than
Yoda sitting a few seats away and she is scat-ing along with the music, singing
what can only be transcribed as “neener neener neener.”
Eventually they stopped talking about the heater for long
enough to start the service, and we got to sing some hymns. And for some reason
that is completely beyond me, the singing sounded really deep and low. I would
have had a sneaking suspicion that the minister may have been Johnny Cash, but Johnny
Cash sounded like a soprano compared to this guy. There were only a couple of
other men in the congregation, but they too had terrifyingly low voices. Though
the congregation was overwhelmingly populated by old woman who sang like a
chorus of Beakers and sang earnestly (as that’s how Methodists do everything),
for some reason the singing sounded like a low dirge.
It really was terrifying. It was like a new dimension had
opened up. Oh my God. We are all going to die. I am surrounded by old women but
for some reason our singing sounds like a Roman slave galley filled with beefy
men from Gaul.
Thankfully though, we didn’t die. I made it off the slave
galley, and even got invited to coffee afterwards.
I have nothing to say to really end this, so I’ll just say
that I’ve also felt a bit low lately and a bit like Fat Elvis. And this blog post
has made me think of Elvis. So in honor of that, I bring you VIVA FAT ELVIS:
