Fireworks At the Fancy Church

Yesterday, as is my usual habit on Sundays, I attended services at the congregational church in Berkeley, California. A church that styles itself "progressive". Intellectual. Au fait with the issues of the day. And suddenly I found myself among 500 people who were all pantomiming fireworks.

Now those of you who read this blog regularly surely have figured out that I don't belong to a church out of fear of some Divine Dictator. I don't expect to be greeted by some hairy guy in a camel's hair toga under any gates, pearly or otherwise, after my body goes to join whatever worms can get through the walls of my casket. I don't expect to be sitting around for eternity gorging on white grapes, whatever my record on ... what? You haven't heard that the word translated "virgins" in the Qur'an really means "white grapes"? At least that's what some scholars think. As if the idea of blowing yourself up for God wasn't already silly enough. For that matter, the word in Isaiah 7:14 that has been translated "virgin" (cf. Virgin Mary) doesn't mean "virgin" either. Though at least in this case the mistranslation doesn't reduce Ave Maria to Hail to the Pomegranate; the Hebrew means "young woman". State of play unspecified. Except that she's giving birth. Which should imply something.

No, I attend because the metaphor of God stands for "community". Human Band 1, Saber-toothed Cat 0. It's about the only metaphor of "community" left in a world that celebrates the Individual, especially the Individual that is carrying $15,000 in credit card debt from buying all the stuff that TV insists the Individual must have. It is a metaphor of great power, resurrecting the Individual from the self-defeating guilt over the mistakes we all make. "Been there done that, buddy. C'mon, get up, dust yourself off and come over to my place for a shower and a beer." OK, apple juice. A good church/temple/synagogue/mosque will do that for you.

But this Force too has a Dark Side. Which brings me back (in case you were wondering) to fireworks.

It started as a children's story in which the theme was a comparison of the excitement of seeing fireworks shooting off with the joy of being a follower of Jesus. Hey - it may be a progressive Christian church, but it's still a Christian church. The forms must be obeyed. And it's the Sunday before the Fourth of July, and kids are thinking about fireworks. Or, if they weren't, they are now. And the kids are on their feet, bending down to touch their toes and then shoot themselves into the air, shrieking, hands outstretched, fingers wiggling. Little human skyrockets. Just ask their mothers at about 4 PM on a rainy summer's day.

OK, it's the kids. You've got their attention, and maybe they'll remember the link between fireworks and religion. Good for you, pastors. But then they call on the adults to do it! And they all do! Five hundred supposedly sensible adults in various stages of gray-headedness and arthritic bone-ness bending down to touch their toes and then shoot themselves into the air, shrieking, hands outstretched, fingers wiggling. Little human skyrockets. A little license for the 300-pounders, please.

No I didn't. I was too stunned. I had just witnessed the Dark Side in action. A minor case, to be sure, but a case nonetheless. You join a community, and the community decides it needs to do something, you do it. Willingly, even. Like pantomiming fireworks. Or invading Iraq.

Yeah. As if fireworks weren't gunpowder. Stone Age shock and awe. The rocket's red glare, / The bombs bursting in air in deadly earnest.

As if the United States of America won its independence by wiping out the British army, instead of by years of guerrilla attrition tactics, and enough outrageous luck to bankrupt the entire race of leprechauns, which is what really happened.

As if millions of people who will be camped out under fireworks displays this Fourth of July won't get into their SUVs with the yellow ribbons on them after the show, and go back home to gossip about how terrible it is that our forces are still in the Middle East. Including lots of those next to me with their fingers high in the air, wriggling.

You desire real fireworks? Have a chat with your local military recruiter. Get you a nice front-row seat. In Baghdad.

America is a great place to live. Really. Has a lot to offer. But sometimes ... oh, argh.

   - O Ceallaigh

Copyright © 2006 Felloffatruck Publications. All wrongs deplored.

All opinions are mine as a private citizen.