It has been a less than enjoyable week at the Last Homely Shack.
I had a very, very rough few days at the office; I can't go into details, but let's just say that I received some negative feedback that was not necessarily fair or correct but cannot be challenged, and thus have some work to do to redeem myself. Even better, this feedback was rescheduled so many times that I didn't receive it until Friday, meaning that I spent much of the week with my stomach in knots.
Add in a bit of financial trouble, the looming possibility that I'll have to figure out a way to replace or repair my car in a way that doesn't bust the bank, and the lingering aftereffects of my recent bout of digestive troubles (can we say "adult onset lactose intolerance," boys and girls? can we?), and this week has not been conducive to writing, not one bit.
This is why tonight's diary is only the first half of the scheduled entry. I really did try to finish the second half, but I'd rather give you something good than something rushed. The second half will appear next week, same bat-time, same bat-channel.
For now, venture with me below the Class 0.5 Orange Kaiju for the beginning of a little foray into Badbookistan I'm calling:
ANTI-CATHOLICISM FOR FUN AND PROFIT
People keep trying to convert me to another religion.
I'm not talking about the usual "Jehovah's Witness/Mormon elder/random evangelical shows up on the doorstep early on Saturday morning to ask if you've heard the Good News of Our Lord Jehovah/Father in Heaven/JEE-zus" type of conversion. Oh no. That would be way too easy. I get the odd attempts at conversion, often completely at random.
You think I jest? Me? Always serious and sober-minded and anything but funny -
Uh.
Well.
Maybe that wasn't quite the questions to ask. Maybe I should just give you a few examples and let you judge for yourself:
- The odd little boy in my high school Creative Writing class who attempted to get me to attend Youth Life at the local Presbyterian Church right after he showed me a first-person poem he'd written about a Vestal Virgin being raped on the altar of Jupiter.
- The nervous man who struck up a conversation in the checkout line in the Purity Supreme in Everett, Massachusetts, then invited me to the local storefront Pentecostal revival meeting so I could have my tendinitis healed by a minister who had the "Word of Healing."
- The Murderer's Row of disparate cultists in Downtown Crossing who offered me (and everyone else on their lunch hour), in order:
-- free copies of Dianetics (refused because I already knew about L. Ron Hubbard through fandom).
-- invitations to Shabbos sponsored by Jews for Jesus (refused because I was baptized a Methodist, raised in the United Church of Christ, and was a practicing Unitarian).
-- free copies of Back to Godhead by saffron-robed Hare Krishnas (refused because I had zero interest in chanting until my vocal cords burst).
-- a chance to buy overpriced wilted flowers by grinning devotees of Sun Myung Moon (refused because I'm allergic to ultra-conservative Korean whackadoodles with a penchant for performing mass marriages between strangers).
Yes. Really.
Of all these, however, the best, the very best and weirdest attempt at conversion happened a few years ago at the Kalamazoo Medieval Studies Congress.
I was on a very tight budget that year, which meant I stayed in the student-quality architectural masterpieces called “Goldsworth Valley” among the cognoscenti. It is a wild exaggeration to term these unlovely brick and cinderblock confections “hideous,” but I defy anyone to find better accommodations for $30 a night than one of the four-person suites with a shared bathroom and doorless toilet.
If that weren’t enough, your generous hosts provide a teensy little cake of cheap, harsh soap! A plastic drinking cup so you can drink your fill of Kalamazoo tap water! A bed, with freshly laundered polycotton sheets and a Polyfil pillow! You even get towels! Actual, genuine towels to dry yourself after a shower, and never mind that they’re barely big enough for the average twelve year old, let alone a middle aged adult!
Yes, Goldsworth Valley provides true four-star accommodations, never mind that the stars are white dwarfs instead of big blue first-magnitude beauties. Who could ask for more?
Best of all, there’s a campus dining hall just a short walk up the outdoor staircase between Valley I and Valley II. The gentle 85% grade is not good for asthmatics, but the rest of the population gets a fantastic workout guaranteed to raise the heartbeat well into the “aerobic benefits/fat burner” zone. Good thing, too, since the delicious breakfasts (sugary cereal from the nearby paradise of Battle Creek, fried triangles of what might have once been potatoes, rubbery strips of fatty meat-like substance allegedly taken from pigs, yellow glop with a passing resemblance to the unfertilized eggs of domestic hens, table syrup on the flying saucers called “pancakes” in the Common Speech of the West) give you plenty of calories for your $9! You’ll need all the institutional coffee, tea, and orange juice you can guzzle just to wash this feast down to your digestive tract!
Surprisingly enough, a lot of attendees prefer to stay at area hotels. I can’t imagine why.
The morning someone tried to convert me, I was on my first cup of coffee, my second fried triangle, and a surprisingly fresh apple when the morning chatter at my table turned to the practice of religion. This is not as odd as one might think – a surprising number of K’zoo attendees are monks, nuns, or scholars studying various aspects of medieval monasticism – and we spent several lively minutes discussing relics studies, indulgences, Cluniacs, Cistercians, Popes, vows, and similar delights.
It was all very nice, and I was savoring my second cup of coffee when a nice youngish man asked for my views on the question of female ordination.
I set down my cup and smiled softly. “My denomination started ordaining women before the Civil War and we haven’t had any problems. The more the merrier, I say.”
The nice youngish man blinked. “What denomination is that?”
“I’m a Unitarian Universalist,” I said. “Our first female minister was Antoinette Brown Blackwell sometime in the 1840’s or 1850’s. They weren’t all that common until the 1970’s, but at this point a little over half are women. We’re the first church with majority-female clergy, at least in the United States.”
“Really? And no one objects? That’s so interesting!”
“Why would anyone object? Like I said, we’ve been ordaining women for over 150 years. It’s just part of who we are.”
The NYM sorrowfully shook his head. “You’re so lucky. I can’t see Pope Benedict allowing married men to be ordained, let alone women, even though we’re so short on priests. I wish he would, but – “
“That’s too bad.” I forbore to tell the NYM about the college buddy who’d been waiting since Pope Paul VI to lift the ban on female ordination, and how she’d eventually given up and become an Episcopalian so she could answer her call. “It seems like a real waste of talent, but it’s not my church so it’s really none of my business.”
His eyes lit up like the headlight of an approaching IRT train on a dark winter’s night. “You know, you could make it your business.”
It was my turn to blink. “I don’t understand. I’m a Unitarian, not a Catholic.”
“But you could become a Catholic!” he cried, and without warning he leaned across the table, hands almost touching mine, eyes fixed on me like Super Glue on the bottom of a big steel girder. “The more people we have working for female ordination from within, the better! Wouldn’t that be great?”
I leaned back as quickly as I could without knocking over my chair. “Why would I want to do that? I’m a Protestant.”
He made a dismissive gesture, white gold wedding ring gleaming in the fluorescent lights. “Oh, they’re not so different! You’d be helping other women, you know.”
“Uh,” I managed. A couple of people were staring at us, and I quickly gulped down my last swallow of coffee. “I – I just don’t think it would be a good idea. Transubstantiation, you know.”
He stared to rise as I did, and I pasted on my best “this would have been absolutely lovely if you weren’t completely insane” grin. “I have to get to an early panel. Have a great day!” I said, snatched up my tray and my purse, and fled for the dish line before he could extricate himself to pursue.
To this day I have no idea what he thought he was doing. The Unitarian movement, which incorporates everyone from liberal Christians to neopagans to atheists, is about as far removed from the hierarchical majesty of the Church of Rome as it’s possible to get. A friend later suggested that the NYM might have been trying to hit on me, but that really doesn’t go with the fevered gleam in his eyes or the delicate glitter of his wedding ring. I did my very best to avoid the NYM and his buddies for the rest of the weekend so I never had a chance to ask.
Not that this was a conversation I particularly wished to continue, mind. Some mysteries are much too annoying to solve, even for me....
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So... has anyone ever tried to convert you to another religion? Urged you to give up your faith out of solidarity with the struggle? Shoved a copy of Dianetics in your face and asked if you have a moment to discuss the savin' love of Our Lord ZE-NU? Invited you to partake of Lord Krishna's cuisine? Now's your chance, so spill....
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