Service No. 5 -- March 5 at the Philly UU

I could make a hundred excuses for why I haven't attentive to pledge for like three weeks -- and many of them would be valid -- but I'll spare the exercise. Even in my head, it sounds like whining.

Suffice it to say: the fact that I walked into a church on this particular Sunday was something of an upset in itself.

The normal pleasures were there -- music, fresh air, quiet time, smiling people -- as were the usual annoyances -- smiling people, pleas for cash, etc. And I still haven't stood up and introduced myself. They made the same old request, for visitors to stand and give their names and what had brought them into the church that day. One man -- a 50- or 60-year-old black man -- said, "I live just round the corner and I would have come in long ago, but I was afraid somebody was going to make me stand up and introduce myself." That got a big laugh, which made me feel better for a second because others shared my fear. But then it was worse again, because those others overcame it, and I continue to hold back.

So I had to laugh a little inside when I saw the title of the sermon, "Do Not Withhold Yourself." But it turned out to be more about the cash. The minister talked about tithing, and that the old 10 percent standard is no longer realistic. He said 2.5 percent of total income is what the UU church hopes for from its members. Not to totally give away my wretched state, but for me that would be about 13 or 14 bucks a week. It's not an astronomical number. It's certainly better than the 50 to 60 dollars of the old 10-percent expectation, but it puts the weekly cost outside that of a movie. And I like movies a lot. To get my money's worth at 2.5 percent, this place would have to be part of my life in lot more ways than a weekly opportunity to sit and listen, and I have to figure out if I can give enough of myself to get that sort of thing back.

The sermon wasn't just a naked play for money. The minister did soften it with some reason and wisdom. He quoted Joseph Campbell in saying, "Life is perfect -- it's a mess. Our job is to sort out our own lives." I haven't been doing a great job lately.

One more thing: the simple minds out there will advise me to turn my problems over to Jesus, and I wish they just wouldn't. It's been funny to me at other times in my life, but those cow-eyed suggestions lately get under my skin in a way I can't even explain. If you really want to save a soul from eternal damnation, pick on somebody who believes in hell.

My job will again claim my entire weekend, so I'll probably have to wait until the 19th to trudge on. At this rate, my promises wot myself will dissipate in the warming spring of May, but I'm hoping for some breaktrhoughs over the next couple of weeks.

Service No. 4 -- Jimmy Graham's funeral

James D. Graham died about a week ago, alone in his Fishtown home. He's the son of my father in law's older brother, and one of the most welcoming members of my wife's family. The Christmas after we got married, for instance, we sent out cards with our wedding photo on it, and Jimmy got me in the family pollyanna. In addition to the gift, he included a holiday photo of his own: it was him, passed out on the sidewalk with a bottle of Jack, one pant leg soaked in urine. On the card, he wrote, "What kind of people are you hooked up with now?" Apparently, he did a whole series of what he called "the bum pictures" and gave them out to everybody that year. That sense of humor made me feel right at home. It's something somebody in my own family might do.

Though the urine wasn't urine, and he was just pretending to be passed out, Jimmy did not take care of himself. He was unabashedly corpulent, a smoker, a drinker. To be honest, when my wife called me to tell me he'd been found in his house in Fishtown, dead at the age of 44, I was thrown but not at all surprised. It's like we borrowed some money from a friend, who said, "I'll just ask for it back when I need it." You're grateful for the help -- or for the time you had with this person -- but you know the end is going to come too soon.

There were tears, nonetheless, but I think the way Jimmy lived infused a more jovial tone to his wake and his funeral. I found out lots of things I didn't know about him, heard lots of stories about his days as a Korean translator in the Army and his life since. Jimmy was what I like to call "a good Democrat." A ward leader, he was very active in local politics and he worked for the City of Philadelphia, facilitating the welfare-to-work transition. Though his section of the city, Fishtown, is known as one of Philly's most racist corners, I was happy to note that his mourners were incredibly diverse, and great in number.

The wake was Friday night in Port Richmond, and the funeral very early Saturday morning, 10 minutes away by car in Fishtown. His father, my wife's Uncle Jimmy, asked me and a bunch of other people to be pallbearers, and I kind of wondered why he needed so many until I thought about it for a second. I've been a pallbearer a couple of times before, and usually it's taken six. There were 10 of us this time, and the casket was so huge that it was still dicey at a couple moments. I was glad to be able to help, of course. Honored even. The more I learned about Jimmy the more I liked him, and mourned him.

And then the eeriest thing happpened.

Kristen and I were in the car, in the procession, and listening to WXPN. As we drove through this close-knit section of this city, guys stood at attention on corners, hat in hands, watching the caravan roll past. And as we rolled up to the church the radio played a song called, of all things, "My name is James," by Randy Newman. Here are the lyrics I remember hearing:

There's a city that I dreamed of, very far from here
Very very far away from here, Very far away
There are people in the city, and they're kind to me
But it's very very far away you know, very far
They'll say James, James, James how are ya?
Isn't it a lovely day, James, James, James,
Were so glad you came here where we are, from so very very very far.

And it was a lovely day, and we were there to say goodbye to James, and to celebrate the fact that he came around for a while. Sometimes I think funerals are the truest thing human beings do.

The service was the first Catholic mass I'd been to in a quite a long time. I actually can't remember the one before this, but it might have been the funeral of my great uncle, Monsignor Richard Callahan, whom we all called "Unky." That was about nine months ago. In many ways, the last strings of my Catholic self were cut with his death. I long considered myself Catholic by ethnicity instead of belief, but he was a great and gentle man, and when he died I and many of the other members of my family found that our feeling of Catholic obligation died as well.

I sat near the front of the church, with my fellow pallbearers. Since I wasn't sitting with my wife, it was harder to take notes. She puts up with my scribblings as an extention of myself, but the other members of her family might not appreciate it, so I didn't have the freedom I usually do to make sure I remembered everything possible. So here are some things I do remember:

As a former altar boy and way-practicing Catholic, the mass is ingrained in me. If I just stand there, unthinking, the words of affirmation and worship will just leave my mouth of their own will. So I had to practice active non-participation. By this I mean I listened carefully to everything, and added my "Amen," or whatever proscribed response, only when I actually felt it. And I didn't say the prayers, or sing the hyms, or recite the Nicene Creed, and I did not take communion. That's the only moment of the experience that was at all awkward, because as I stayed silent through the liturgy, I looked around and was shocked at how few of the Catholic devotees actually did say the prayers and recite the creed. But they all took communion. Maybe they were just really hungry.

The altar boys in this particular church, Holy Name, had to kneel on bare marble. Ouch. I hope they were getting paid well to be there on a Saturday morning.

There was a co-celebrant, a deacon from South Philly who also happened to be Juan Ramos, a high-ranking member of City Council. Jimmy was not a personally powerful guy, but he was very close to power, which is almost the same thing.

I was amused to see way the priest sat in his chair, with his legs crossed neatly at the ankles underneath the seat just like we all did back in my days at St. Patrick's School.

The singer was what I call "a warbler," with that too-high wavering voice that old folks seem to find so beautiful. And another thing that was funny about the priest was that he wore a microphone and only chimed in on the singing when he knew the words by heart, which was seldom and sporadic. So the warbler would be warbling, the mourners murmuring, and every once in a while, the priest would broadcast one booming line and then go silent again. Nobody laughed, but I thought it was a riot.

His homily was unmemorable, and he's probably given it 100 times or more. He had it down pretty good, with no digressions or pregnant pauses. He did say one thing that struck a chord, and since I was pretty much indisposed to the entire message, I remember it without any of its context. Here's the line I stole a moment to write down: "God made us all to do the impossible." I thought about it and decided it's doctrine-free and worth believing in, no matter what the source. I'd like to think our job is to fire up as many small miracles as possible. The miracles of creation, reproduction, compassion, they all contribute to the collective, connecting godness that I usually believe runs through and binds us all.

And so, when a rousing rendition of Amazing Grace sent us back out into the cold, bright city morning behind this huge casket, I could feel the words in my heart. I was grateful to Jimmy for that, and when my wife came to me, sobbing, I cried too. It felt good, a justice done.

Service No. 3 -- Feb. 5 at Philly UU

It's taken me a long time to get around to this post because my feelings about the service were of a particularly low wattage. And I still don't know how much I can say about it.

As it was Super Bowl Sunday, it was fitting that the guest homilist was from Detroit. Her name was Diana Heath. Maybe she was renting out her home to some visiting Pittsburghers or Seattlites, and took the opportunity to get away from the craziness that descends regularly on the Super Bowl host city. She had good intentions, and I imagine her sermon has worked well on other days, in other years, but I wasn't feeling it.

A week and a half before Valentines Day, the sermon -- entitled "Love and Other Aggravations" -- was about love, and the true nature of love. It was the basic stuff, as I recall these many days later: Love is hard work, and it's often not that lovely, but it's the only thing that really heals us. It was just the wrong sermon on the wrong day for me, because I felt like the romantic I used to be is gone, bled pale and dry. Even the sound of the word -- love, l-o-v-e -- was so insipid, I was getting nauseous.

Ms. Heath's talk was constructed of a series of seveal stories, vignettes, depicted people made whole by love. It went on for a while, and I confess I stopped listening, and retreated into my own thought about the people I love and certainly my marriage. I don't feel like this is the time and place to delve there, but my sister attended this service with me and the post-church talk we had gave me a release that I didn't expect.

So I guess is was good, because we certainly wouldn't have come to that place together without the sermon. I hope my sister got as much out of it as I did.

The service itself was beautiful, as always, and the choir continues to be worth the five bucks I customarily put in the collection plate. I was grateful to my sister that she didn't ask to stay for coffee/tea afterwards, because I didn't really want to mingle. It was cold enough feeling like I was beyond the healing reach of love, but to be reminded of my own insecurities, and the fact that I'm stuck in this anteroom of a welcoming community with no clear way in... that wouldn't have been fun, and I might have abandoned the entire exercise right there.

As it is, I'm coasting along on less than inspired wings. If it weren't for the goal -- the 30-service resolution and the knowledge of the pace that I need to maintain to get there -- I might not still be looking for a spiritual space within myself right now. It's work, and more work is something I don't need. But my leap of faith for the time being is that I won't always feel this way. Breakthroughs will be made, with love or without.

Prayer I

This is the first in what I anticipate to be series of prayers. For further explanation, I refer you back to this post on prayer. I don't know what I expect to happen, but anyway:

During the UU service in Philly two Sundays ago, I occasionally glanced over to my right, across to my father, who was sitting a few feet away. I realized that my dad is good at praying. His eyes were closed, he leaned slightly foward. His hands were clasped not in a pious or overly serious pose, but as if he were trying of consolidate his energy, to focus. Anyone who looked at him whould have instantly known that he was in some kind of prayer.

It made me feel good that he can still pray, because it takes some scrap of faith. He's always been one of the most faithful people I've ever met. He's always had faith on both god and people, which I always thought was a beautiful thing. I have no idea where his faith in god is right now -- both my parents have been part of the recent exodus from the Catholic church, not so much for the sex scandals (although those didn't help) but there just got to be too many qualifiers attached. It's hard to be a pro-choice, pro-tolerance, post-feminist Catholic these days. Anyway, I was more worried about that faith in people that was so unique.

I remember a time, more than 10 years ago now, when I was at college in Missouri and fell into the most abject depression I've ever felt. I was suicidal. I was mercifully hospitalized, but I was also 1,000 miles from the family that was really the only reason I was still alive; I could not bear the guilt of having caused them pain. I spent a couple weeks in the hospital, among strangers, without shoelaces or pens or pencils or metal utensils or anything that I might use to kill myself. And my only daily contact with the outside world was a couple of phone calls, including a few with my mom. I can remember her saying to me, "Your dad's really in bad shape. He's losing his faith."

Now, in hindsight, that probably wasn't the ideal thing for her to say to someone in my particular situation, but I was effectively in a big old padded room with no way to hurt myself, so I guess any and all honesty is fair game. But it hurt me more than any hypothetical pain I might have caused by jumping off the eighth-floor balcony. Here was this irrepresible faith that I had always been able to count on, and I was breaking it.

This is what I thought about when I saw my dad praying so hard. He lost his job in a most humiliating and unjust way a couple months ago; it was a job he'd given a lot of his life to, and now -- understandably -- he's adrift. In his mid-50's, it's hard to start over, and none of us know exactly how to help him. The worst possible thing would be to watch him see all that he's worked for disappear, and that seemingly unshakable, almost childlike faith in the goodness of people with it.

So I guess this is my prayer: that his prayers, which I saw him offering to whomever, still have that faith behind them. I believe we'll all get through this time of crisis no matter what, but I want that quality of his to survive as well, because I rely on it more than either of us can truly know.

Prayer

My streak dies at two weeks in a row.

I didn't mean to miss a week of church, and truth to tell, I could have seriously used some quiet contemplation on Sunday. But my mind and body were sapped. It was as if I had so many reasons to look for help that I couldn't move. The work week had been hellish, Kr. and I were in the middle of a huge and cold fight, and the regimen of healthy living I'd maintained for more than two weeks completely collapsed. As much as I needed to just drag my ass out of bed and hit the restart button in my mind, I could not do it.

But of course, spirituality needs to be more than a once-a-week deal or it's nothing better than what I used to practice as a child. Back at St. Patrick's School, every gesture, every utterance of prayer and attendance at church was an act of streamlining. We did it mostly because if we didn't, we'd get in trouble and what did it hurt? Even becoming an altar boy was more about acceptance than anything, and the mechanical perfection of ritual even more important because I was doing it in public. To be honest, the goal as an altar boy was more funerals and more weddings, because that's where the money was.

In the second grade, reconciliation and pennance were the doors to first communion, where you got the party and the presents. In the eighth grade, confirmation was another opportunity for cash, but it would have been more apt if they'd just called it conformation instead. Once again we memorized the prayers and the creeds -- and I'd even go so far as to say I understood what they meant -- but a profession of faith didn't necessarily grow from an examination of faith.

Introspection was never encouraged back in those days. And though we all knew lying was wrong, the penalties for nonconformity were immediate and real, while the penalties for lying to ourselves and hollow systems of faith were distant and uncertain. Even now, when I know that nebulous price much better, I still would not go back and lift the veil from my my 10- or 13-year-old eyes. In a bass-ackwards way, I'm grateful to the structure of Catholicism for the educational path it put me on and for the focus it continues to lend me as an adult. After all, we all need something to rebel from, to leave behind.

For all the Hail Marys and Our Fathers and Apostles Creeds I said on my way to a brief Catholic adulthood, I never really learned to pray. That I learned from life, and those lonely, vital moments when the worries, stresses and even opportunities get to be too much to bear. At those times, I always found it useful to unload things on the universe, or God, or whatever. I'd just say to myself, "You know, this puzzle is way complicated. Some of the pieces are going to have to find their way on their own."

Now, if Kr. is reading, she's probably thinking, "That's where I come in and do the dirty work." And to some extent, that's true. If we're facing a financial crisis that threatens vacation plans or something, she'll say, "How the hell are we going to be able to afford this?" To which I reply, "I don't know. Let's go on vacation and find out." Then she throws up her hands and gets miffed at me. She goes on worrying, and a few days or a few weeks later, she gets a free-lancing gig that solves the whole thing. To say that the reason things turned out well was that I gave my troubles to God would certainly take for granted my wife's hard work in figuring things out, but I can say with all honesty that I'm glad I didn't twist myself out of shape over it.

So, that's what I think prayer is. Whether you're happy or sad, desperate or determined, it's the act of consciously sharing that feeling with the collective soul, in search of greater well being. As recently as the moment I started writing this post, I assumed prayer required faith in an intelligent God-force, which might theoretically be able to answer, but I've changed my mind because I'm not certain I have such faith.

I do know that I have enough troubles, crises, hopes and worries that seem unsolvable. I'm going to start laying them down as they surface, sending them out into the world to find their own solutions. If anyone reads them, there's that much better chance of good things happening.

For my part, I'm going to do my best to empathize with those I read or hear about, to hear the prayers that go out in stories and in life every day. I may not be able to answer a single one of them, but I know I'd feel better if I merely knew someone heard.

Service No. 2 -- Jan. 22 @ Philly UU

There's something very strong in me that is wary, even fearful, of crowds. I much prefer to be somewhere few others want to be. Maybe the more people are around the less I feel I'm going to be able to offer. Those others are bound to be more outgoing, more attractive, more perfect for the group's hopes and needs than me. And practically everyone I've ever met makes friends more easily than I do, so it's hard not to imagine becoming that strange guy in the back who keeps showing up but never talks to anybody.

The Universal Unitarian service this past Sunday was extremely crowded. Again they asked newcomers and visitors to stand and introduce themselves, and again I was too intimidated. So another dozen bright-eyed, confident candidates for inclusion stepped ahead of me, into the warmth of wantedness, pehaps even neededness. And I felt like shit again.

But at least I wasn't alone; my family was there with me. The more I think of it, though, the more I realize we probably weren't good for each other in that situation. We share many of the same traits, socially, and so we all -- myself, my mom, my dad, my sister and even my little month-old-niece Miriam -- just stood there, cloaked in a self-defensive diffidence that will never, ever get us what we want, no matter what that might be. Even my father, whose natural inclination is to be friendly and outgoing, gets sucked into the vortex of our collective fear. My dad is the kind of guy who will step onto most any common ground, however unstable, when meeting a new person, whereas the rest of us -- especially my mom and I -- tend to dwell on differences in that same situation. It gets cold and lonely on that solid ground, but I was not surprised when my dad did not stand up and set the outgoing example. He's just not in that kind of place right now.

Perhaps fittingly, the sermon was about Emerson's ideal of self-reliance, and its modern UU interpretation into a call to interdependence. The worship associate read a poem that contained the line, "Forever I forgo the yoke of man's opinion." Now, I could interpret that as a confirmation of my nature, that I should not seek the approval of others by wishing to join or be wanted or needed, that my diffidence is perfectly just. I should not care to be accepted or welcomed, but carry my life on my own shoulders. Who cares if I arrive alone and leave alone and never speak to anyone in the interim. I am my own man, reliant on no one.

But the message of the sermon, delivered by the visiting minister from the Germantown UU church, offered that the self-reliance that Emerson advocated is no longer an ideal way to go through life, and that its virtues have grown stale. "I feel that, dog," said something inside me. In the wisdom of far too much loneliness, I choose to see it another way. That self-reliance ought to grant me freedom to offer myself to interdependent relationships regardless of others' opinions, or -- more to the point -- of fear of others' opinions.

Of course, it's all pie in the sky until the moment I actually reach out to be reached out to. Thanks to my sister for insisting we stay for the coffee/tea gathering after the service on Sunday, but we made precious little use of it, huddled in the newcomer's corner talking to each other, despite the fact it was the third or fourth time we'd all been there. In fact, the church president came over to make small talk and wondered why we were still considering ourselves visitors. My thought was, "Because that's what we feel like," but I didn't say anything. I just sipped my tea, smiled politely. I'm in some kind of limbo between first contact and meaningful relationship, and I never wished so hard for the hard sell. It would make things so much easier if someone just came up and said, "So what's it going to take to get you to drive home in this beautiful church today?"

The service was gorgeous, if not quite as overwhelmingly so as the Christmas Eve and Martin Luther King, Jr., services. The highlight was the choir's haunting rendition of the song "You Are the New Day," which I've heard before but never in person. Even days later, I can still hear the notes being sung and remember the tingle at the back of my neck. It's not often that you have an experience that you consciously try to hold onto, but by the end of that song there wasn't another single thought in my mind.

Next week, I think I might try to go alone, wherever I go. I have not been to a service alone yet, and i wonder if the leaps of faith might not be easier to make my myself. I don't know. The Philadelphia UU is scheduled to talk about its future, near and far, this coming Sunday. This would be an important, can't-miss kind of thing if I were sold on joining up. Because I'm not, it's almost like sitting in on the family meeting of a new friend. I'd feel superflouous at best, and at worst uncomfortable.

Service No. 1 -- MLK Jr. Sunday at Philly UU

"We shall hew out of the mountain of despair a stone of hope."

There could hardly be a better sentiment with which to start this spiritual search. As someone spoke those words -- Dr. King's words -- during the Universal Unitarian service yesterday, that stone got its start deep in my throat.

I feel more than a little silly. Nothing in my life is desperate. My wife is a loving and caring partner, my job is one that can be fulfilling if I let it, my iPod has plenty of space left, my family is a living miracle and relatively healthy, I'm not hungry, poor, trapped or afraid, and I don't think the government is watching me as closely as some others. To think that I can leave my suburban home, ride the train past the unspeakable poverties of Camden for which we are all responsible, cross the bridge, buy breakfast, walk into church and grow teary-eyed at the idea of my own mountain of despair... it's kind of shameful.

And yet, there I was.

I was thinking about my dad, who could look around and despair if he chose to. I was thinking about the thin ice my marriage is walking on, about the stagnation I feel every single day, about the helplessness I feel at the sight of all the ignorance and injustice around me, and about how just getting up out of bed is sometimes the biggest act of faith I have in me.

When I thought about Dr. King, the obstacles he faced, the courage he showed and the message he delivered, I realized that I am not a great man, and never could be. The mountain of my despair is not a great man's mountain, and the stone of my hope is a small, soft, porous one. But I added my mountain to the pile in that sanctuary, joined it with the ones already there, and I found that my stone grew too.

That's what I'm looking for, I know now.

That room was made for the conception of great things, I know it. The service was beautiful, touching, genuine. The children's section of the program, what they called "the Story for All Ages," was an exquisite little piece called Martin's Big Words, by Doreen Rappaport. It was a two-part script, with the worship associate -- I think her name was Elizabeth, but I could be wrong -- reading one part and the congregation responding with the other. To stand there with a diverse group of people all searching and hoping for faith and strength and speak the words, "I have a dream..."

Chills. I didn't want it to end, and it's been a long, long time since I've felt that way about a church service. Maybe never. I didn't even feel that way about my own wedding, but that was more because I had to stand for the whole thing, and the incense they used was making me light-headed... but I digress.

So this was a good start to the work I have to do. It wouldn't be fair for me to expect every experience to affect me in the way that Sunday's did, but I'm going to try and remember those feelings -- the shared despair, the strengthened hope, the exhilaration -- and get back to them when I can. It would be easy for me to simply say, "That was great, where do I sign up?" but I owe this process more care than that. The need for community is strong, but like the lonely and heartbroken, I am vulnerable.

Still, I'm planning to return this coming Sunday. We'll see.

The Resolution

Last January, I resolved (among other things) to find my faith, and possibly even join a church. The one I had in mind was the Quaker congregation in Haddonfield, the next town over. I called up and found out that services were held at 10 a.m. every Sunday, and that everyone and anyone was welcome. The idea was a fine one -- nice brisk 20-30 minute walk every week, perhaps getting to know the folks along the route so I could exchange a wave and a friendly greeting, and a grounded, contemplative experience with which to begin and end every week.

Well, I'm a sports reporter at the Courier-Post newspaper, and my hours get a little crazy. Add to that my tendency for procrastination and a slate of big-ish projects and I'm pulling all-nighters maybe once a month. That just wrecks your sleep patterns, and suddenly 10 a.m. on Sunday morning feels like 3 a.m. on a Tuesday, only the latter is now kind of doable.

So I wrote my resolution down on a piece of paper with a bunch of others. I posted that paper on the board above my desk at home, and gradually covered it with other things until I'd forgotten all about it. I never forgot about the need for more spirituality in my life, or for community, but that promise I'd made to myself went the way of hundred, even thousands, of promises I'd made to myself and others over the years.

I didn't exactly break it. Let's just say it drowned.

But this new year came around, and I'm a year older and a year closer to the crises that will define my life. The urge surfaced once again with the holidays, and once again I resolve: I will work on my spiritual life.

But this time I set myself a numeric goal. I find that this always helps me, by the way, especially if I can make some kind of chart to fill up. I can sit there for hours and just look at a chart if it's full of little scribblings that have come from adherence to some kind of personal regimen. It's an odd compulsion given all the left-brained stuff that rules so much of my life, but if I can't explain it, I'm not going to apologize.

Anyway, the magic number is 30. Thirty services this calendar year, and everything counts. Weddings count. The obligatory Christmas Eve at my wife's Lutheran church in Northeast Philly counts. God forbid I have to attend a funeral, but it counts too. A really great piece of pie, often likened to a religious experience, does not count however. Nor would a 300 game in bowling, a Phillies playoff appearance, the return of the West Wing for a seventh season or any other such miracle.

I thought about the number a lot, and I feel good about it because it demands discipline but allows for circumstances. My first impulse was 40, but I realized that would mean I'd have to go three times every single month, and four times in a few months. So if I miss the first week because I'm working, or even because I oversleep, there's no wiggle room. I thought about 20 or 25 as well, but both of those numbers represent less than half the weeks in the calendar, and that idea would defeat my feeble mind. It would have been too hard to overcome the inevitable "I'll go next Sunday" conversation in my head.

I need to feel like I have to plan to go every week, knowing that at least one quarter to one third of the time, some unforseen thing is going to intercede at the last moment.

Sometimes I wonder if everyone is this fucked up. I'm doing all this shadowboxing with my own mind just to get myself to do something that I've been wanting to do for a long time. Now I understand why people wander into the wilderness, or go live on a farm where they have to wake up before dawn just to scratch out a living and go to bed exhausted every day. I bet they come back to civilization and just do stuff when they want to do it, without having to set up an elaborate system of neurotic rewards to continually convince themselves of what they already know it right. A little trail of little carrots for our bored little minds to follow all year. When your entire life depends on whether it rains this week, boredom never sets in so easily again, I'll bet.

Anyway, I'm hoping that after a while, I won't even need that number out there, that I can forget about it and attend services because I look forward to them and get a lot from them. But to tell you the truth, this blog is even part of that cat's cradle of neuroses: the shame of the neglected site is bitter, indeed.