The guest priest at my parish this week was significantly less formal than my Anglo-Catholic heart is comfortable with.
But I subscribe to the theory if you’re always comfortable in church, you’re doing Christianity wrong.
I sat in the back practicing my patience. Has anyone ever mastered patience, I wonder? I know I practice a LOT. And as with anything you’re busy practicing, whether it’s patience or ukulele, practice means you mess it up a LOT.
(But you keep trying, which is important both for the ukulele and for patience.)
The priest opened the sermon with the question, “Is there life after death?” Every time he repeated it, I practiced that patience thing and didn’t shout out, “I’ll tell you when I get there!”
I’m sure I looked like I was chewing on a lemon, but I felt secure enough in the wayfarback of the Sanctuary that the guest priest couldn’t see me. About halfway through, though, I had a realization.
He’d never died.
Matter of fact, it was statistically likely I was the only one in the congregation who had.
It wasn’t that flashy, folks, it wasn’t like the television where there were medical personnel working frantically to save me. I calculated a toxic level of a medication, doubled it, swallowed it, and I lay down to die.
I sat up, and began to speak. That was the first day of my life after death.
I’ve had about 6300 days of life after death now.
The priest said in his sermon, he straight out said, “What do we do in the life after death? It sounds boring, doesn’t it?”
It’s not boring.
Dull and frustrating and angry and brilliant and happy and awe inspiring and cranky and depressed and joyous and glorious and dusty and new and stinky and electrifying and with all that going on before 10am on a Monday morning, how could you possibly be bored?
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go pay some bills.