The Voices, The Voices

Strange things happen on Sundays. Especially in Methodist churches. Last Sunday I heard a voice in my head. It competed with the preacher’s words of warning. Scary to hear ‘voices’ in church.

I was born into the Methodist denomination. Like being born itself, I had no say in it. But I knew every door of the church. I memorized the times they opened and closed. Why? Because when they opened, I was shoved inside. I later began to enjoy it. Girls were there.

Methodists are a liberal denomination at the core. They realized long ago that sin and money are inseparable. So they simply affirmed the marriage of the two. Since then Methodists have been welcoming all denominations into their services, especially denominations of $10’s and $20’s. No political debate here.

Parental voices reiterate the ‘train-up-a-child’ maxim, hoping beyond hope that it has some redeeming efficacy. The words should carry the caveat, “No Guarantee.” I admit to sometimes having strayed. Confession is good for the soul, and all that, y’know.

My wife and I were anxious to attend church last Sunday. It was the day following Doomsday, the idiotic prediction of Rev. Harold Camping, a California kook mathematician. Because we still live gave us concern that we had not been among the ‘Raptured’ souls. The numbers of these vary ~ 144,000 or 200,000,000 ~ depending on which kook you believe.

I’ve always been suspect of mathematicians. They think from a small brain node located next to the nerve center that handles certain bodily elimination functions. The IRS favors these types. Universities are now graduating more of ‘em. New math, they say, ‘Spread-sheet’ accounting. Simple equations of 2 + 2 = 4, the old ‘deal-on-a-napkin-formula,’ no longer suffice…blank computer screens now secrete ethereal iterations of numbers.

Apparently Rev. Camping is acquainted with this form of accounting. After all, he’s a civil engineer. I’ve had dealings with engineers. Their offices are dark, windowless closets next to an office bathroom. The voice of a toilet’s constant flushing is what they hear. Ask ‘em what time it is and they’ll tell you how to build a clock.

His prediction is one of those things that got flushed. He’s not alone. Since Nostradamus began teaching ‘spread-sheet’ theories, kooks down through the ages have made judgment-day predictions. They proliferate, now that the media affirms them.

The Reverend now concedes to a slight mathematical error. Napkins are superior to spread sheets. So Apocalypse is now going to occur on Monday, October 21. I suspect churches will experience full houses until then. No more Rolling Stones on radio…Nearer My God to Thee will be the voice du jour.

But I’m straying again, this time from my subject. So last Sunday I find myself on my knees, next to my wife, at the altar. I’m accustomed to being on my knees near my wife. I once bought some Home Depot rubber knee pads to make the posture tolerable. At least the church has cushions.

Communion is being given. Not the ‘drive-thru’ kind, like certain unnamed denominations. This is the real deal, the repentant-posture communion. What married man’s not familiar with this one. No quick high here! While waiting for my portion of bread and wine, I hear a voice. It says, “You’re embarrassing me.”

I don’t know about you, but voices heard in this vulnerable position in church are not to be laughed at. I answer in a whisper, “Why?” A still, small voice says, “Later.” I take a double portion as the elements pass. I pray. The silence inside is deafening.

We return to our pew. I whisper, “I heard a voice at the altar. God spoke to me.” She said, “Really, what did She say?” I repeated the words I heard.

She giggles quietly and says, “That was not God speaking to you…it was me. Your fly is open.”

So much for voices in the heads of kooks, and the value of knee pads.

Bud Hearn
May 26, 2011