Naked in Church...

Right here at the outset, let me clarify something for anyone reading these words. I detest mathematics of all sorts. My completely imbalanced system of intelligence affords me great mental acuity when dealing with words and phrases, but this very same brain leaves me sweating and crying with the mere mention of anything even slightly numeric. Nonetheless, I’ll beginning this (much overdue) blog posting with some calculations because I need to present you with some data.
When I say that I have spent much of my life in church, it's no joke. My dad has been a minister all my life, and we averaged 3 services a week for the 18 years I lived with my parents. So...3 services a week times 40 weeks a year (SUCH a conservative estimate, and I haven't been a conservative in years!) times 18 years equals...2160 church services. When you factor in Sunday School, choir, youth group, prayer meeting, etc, I'm going to round it off at 2500 hours before the age of 18.

Now thirty years old, sometimes I feel like I’m using up more lives than a cat with an identity crisis. In my various lives, I've worked in four different churches and attended several others. (Incidentally, my new church in Nashville is a wonderful place beyond my wildest imaginings. But I digress.) All this math is beginning to give me a migraine, but I'm guessing I've accumulated AT LEAST another 2500 church hours since 18. Again, a way conservative estimate...7 day work weeks, lock-ins, committee meetings, choir practices, and more. If you're not a church person, these things sound ridiculous—and well, they probably are—but no matter. Welcome to life on my home planet.

All those hours. All those experiences. All those different churches. Baptist. Methodist. Charismatic. Episcopal. Catholic. African Methodist Episcopal. Independent. Fundamentalist. Liberal. Mega. Moderate. Mini. I thought surely I had experienced it all.

I've cried at funerals and crooned at weddings. I’ve celebrated baptisms and observed communion.

Over the course of this life, I’ve sung in talent shows. I’ve accompanied children’s choir, and on a very few occasions, I’ve played the organ (albeit not very well!). Once I nearly slung a handbell into the front row of the congregation during a particularly rough passage. I’ve even performed the rare—and ill-advised—liturgical dance. (Perish the thought!)

I’ve prayed for miracles and recited liturgies. I’ve taught Bible studies, fed refugees, and fasted. I’ve rocked babies, talked to little old ladies, and even had a panic attack in the bathroom stall after a particularly difficult confrontation with a group of rowdy teenagers. I’ve eaten hundreds of meals—some of the best fried chicken in the world.

I’ve smoked cigarettes behind the Sanctuary during Easter pageant practice (decked out in my full ancient Palestine Jesus costume). I've laughed at bumbling preachers who say things like "sexual excription" (what?) when they mean to say "Scriptural exception." That was quite a sermon! I have laughed so hard that my stomach ached, and I have cried so hard that my eyes were bloodshot for days afterward. All these memories...All these experiences, and yet now there's something new.

At my dad's church in south Alabama, every Christmas the Sanctuary Choir presents "The Living Christmas Tree." My brothers and I call it "The Monroeville Christmas Spectacular." It really is an incredible worship experience the likes of which the town has never seen, but behind the scenes it can be a comedy of errors. Imagine 55 adults—some of whom are in no way petite—crammed into 18-inch crawl spaces surrounded by oversized ornaments and white-hot tiny twinkling lights. All the while during this Yuletide feat of physics, the choir looks like a human vocal puppet show while singing various pieces from memory, their faces shining with religious and devotional fervor. Quite a tall order, wouldn’t you agree?

This year I was all set to join the Spectacular, "robed and ready," as we choristers sometimes say. I had practiced my solo—“Sweet Little Jesus Boy”—for the last time, taken a valium, and I was ready to go. I had painstakingly diagrammed out the lyrics, agonizing over each dialectical affectation, trying to eliminate any racially offensive pronunciations in the old spiritual. I had reviewed every note and turn of phrase, hoping to emote the mystery and beauty of that long ago morning “when the cry of a baby pierced the universe.” In good voice, I was ready for a perfect night.

About an hour before the evening performance, the cast ate a light meal together. While chatting with a friend on a strict no-carb diet, I noticed that she held a plate of picked-over mayonnaise bread. Apparently this friend was observing some sort of no-carb diet, and had disassembled her sandwiches in favor of a pre-performance ham feast. At this point the age-old march of time seemed to slow as I reached across to pluck a piece of the mayonnaisey goodness from her plate—and managed to knock a large glass of ice water from my friend’s hand right onto my lap.

Imagine my chilly Christmas delight when I felt said ice water soaking right through my pants all the way to my Calvin Kleins. Brrrr. What's the soloist to do? I certainly had no time to go home and change clothes. I quickly grabbed a calf-length choir robe from a nearby hanger and headed to the nursery suite—and the church’s only clothes dryer.

I zipped the robe over my wet concert attire with plans to sneak in the empty nursery, drop trou, read Dr. Seuss, and vocalize while I waited for the dryer to buzz. This was not to be. Upon arrival at the nursery, I stopped in front of the dryer, poised to remove my pants. Only then did I glance across the hall to see a familiar stern-faced nursery worker. She was wearing the standard nursery lady denim jumper, looking very much like she had not moved from that spot for several generations. I summoned all my reserves of holly-jolly gaity, spouted a quick explanation, and darted to the restroom to remove my pants. I tried not to notice my icky feelings at standing pants-less in a church nursery restroom complete with mini toilets and cutesy cartoons testifying the love of Jesus and the importance of washing one’s hands. I emerged from the restroom, pants in hand, and threw them in the dryer—all under Mrs. Nursery’s hawk-like gaze. I have long been one to at least attempt an escape from such awkward situations, so clothed only in a thin veneer of off-white synthetic fabric, I departed the nursery in search for somewhere else to lurk until I could don my trousers once again.

The next twenty minutes were a totally foreign experience. Other-worldly sensations wafted around parts of me that have never felt a breeze, because I can promise you one thing. I may have experienced lots of life underneath that steeple, but in no way have I ever been naked in church.

Stay tuned for "Naked in Church, Part Two: The Brush of Angels' Wings"