For the Love of Bubbles and Bacon

I grew up in the Greek Orthodox tradition where the priests circulated through the pews puffing clouds of incense smoke at the parishioners. In some denominations, religious leaders sprinkle holy water indiscriminately on the attendees. On Easter Sunday, our minister walked slowly down the center aisle floating bubbles from her bubble wand over the heads of the people sitting near the middle of our packed church. Bubbles are not quite as intense or meaning-laden as smoke or water. I liked it. It felt springy and fun.

While blowing bubbles, she asked us to shout out things we like. “Easter!” yelled a kid from the back, surely still thinking about the bounty the bunny left him. “Family.” “Flowers.” “Music.” The people played along and gave her the kinds of answers she was looking for.

I was standing in the back corner of the church after moving some additional chairs into useful positions (as the husband of the children’s minister, I am voluntold into duty on big Sundays). Standing next to me was a young girl, maybe a third or fourth grader. I recognized her, but I couldn’t remember her name. I leaned down and asked her if she usually watches church from the back corner, alone and away from her family. She nodded her head in a way that convinced me that she was both OK, and also not receptive to further inquiry. When Reverend Sandi asked the congregation to shout out things they liked, the little girl said quietly, “Bacon.” Bacon indeed. Who doesn’t like bacon? Bacon is probably the single leading cause of vegetarian relapse. It was a shame she didn’t say it louder as I am sure her interjection would have brought many nods of approval. “Oh yes, bacon. Did I say family? I meant bacon.” Alas, I was the only one who learned of her passion for smoked pork belly. Easter is the holiday of passion, so I found it quite appropriate.

Easter is also the holiday of Christian ridicule. I love smart, sarcastic, divisive comedy, and the algorithms put more than a few comedians in my feed this weekend who pointed out the lunacy of believing the resurrection story. I must admit that I lost just an ounce of respect for some otherwise funny people I love – not because they don’t believe in Jesus, but because they don’t understand the value of organized religion.

I get it. Religion might be the most complicated topic in existence. People have been killing each other for centuries over strips of land because certain deified historical figures crossed paths on that mountain or in that cave or across that patch of desert. At the core of all the major organized religions is a central, foundational, undisputable belief in the power of, and human need for, love. Nothing seems to make humans hate more than in defense of our own particular doctrine of love. It is no wonder that aliens visiting earth seeking intelligent life have never made their presence known.

And if we aren’t killing each other in the name of our religious icons, we are extorting each other because, “Without your donation, we will lose the war against the devil!” The devil is in short skirts and homosexuality and a second piece of pie and gambling and thought-provoking books and pornography and mixed-race marriage and in curiosity and LSD and working on Sundays and touching your own body and in stigmatized honesty and in un-acted-upon thoughts. He’s everywhere! Better crack your wallet, because some of the world’s most popular religious sects believe he’s even in bacon. That poor, ignorant, young satan-enabling girl in the church corner.

OK, so we kill and extort over religion. We wage religious battles in political arenas. We manipulate entire societies of people with particular religious affiliations to bend at our whims because we name drop the historical figure of their devoted worship. Oh yes, humans are impeccably effective religious gaslighters. We look for truth in ancient religious texts, written by gaslighting men, by the way, that are full of contradictions allowing us to weaponize literally any particular belief or notion. The case against organized religion is stronger than average. I get it.

So maybe I am the naive one when it frustrates me to hear my favorite comedians ridicule the resurrection story. The truth is, I am not even sure how I feel about the resurrection story. I mean, Jesus was God’s son, but aren’t we all the children of God? Is Jesus special because there is a story about him walking on water? I mean, I tell stories for a living, and I’ve been accurately accused of embellishment from time to time. So am I going to hell for my skepticism? It did happen before we all carried supercomputers with high-res cameras in our pockets, so maybe the scribe thought he’d spice up the story and try to get a few more clicks.

Maybe Jesus wasn’t special because he walked on water. Maybe he was special for his unwavering devotion to love. Now that’s a story I can get behind. Think about it. Through history, morality changes. Slavery was completely acceptable until it wasn’t. Homosexuality was an abomination until it wasn’t. Talking about sex with young people was taboo until it wasn’t. Almost every time in human history that we legislate morality we eventually get it wrong. But love is never wrong. It never waivers. It never feels bad to support a neighbor in need. It is never evil to be a good listener or to help an elderly person up the stairs or to check on a little girl standing alone in the back of the church. Love will always win. Eventually.

So back to the ridicule of the resurrection story, I am not frustrated that smart comedians poke holes in a fantastical tale told by agenda-laden men trying to convert other men to a particular new belief system. I am frustrated because they aren’t making fun of the story, they are making fun of the people who believe the story. They are othering people who are trying like hell to come together and love each other. I don’t go to church because I believe the word-for-word accuracy of the bible. I go to church because it is a safe place for me to express love for people who, just like me, run better with a tank full of 92 octane super-unleaded love.

One of the greatest hurdles people battling alcoholism have to overcome is finding fun, charismatic, intelligent people with whom to interact in a place other than a bar. Or beer-swilling sporting event. Or wine-intermissioned theater performance. Or beer-coolered neighborhood barbeque. Church is a pretty good place. Don’t get me wrong. When I was a drinker, one of my favorite groups of drinking buddies was my church mates. There is plenty of indulgence within organized religion. But on Sunday mornings, unless someone is like I was in the depths of my addiction with a travel mug full of vodka-spiked coffee, church is full of at least temporarily sober people. In fact, church is really just one of the few remaining organized social gatherings without even a hint of societal pressure to consume alcohol. So if you are newly sober looking for some friends, maybe find a congregation that doesn’t care what you believe, and welcomes you to meet some people while you explore with curiosity. If they tell you who to hate and how much your hate will cost you, maybe keep looking.

If organized religion makes the TV news or has gone viral on the internet, there is probably a lot of money or a lot of death involved in the story. I would caution us all, however, against throwing the baby out with the bathwater. The real value of organized religion will never go viral.

I met and had a conversation after church on Sunday with an older gentleman recently diagnosed with some cognitive issues that limit his ability to come up with the word he is looking for. I could feel the frustration oozing from his pores as he tried to relate to me a story about his dog that sleeps under his bed. I listened patiently, and I tried to help him find reasonably adequate substitutes for the words that eluded him. His story wasn’t perfect, but I got the gist, and my innate curiosity gave me pleasure from the interaction. Also, I missed putting away all the extra chairs because of that conversation, so it was a double blessing.

That conversation between me and a former stranger would not have been remotely possible without organized religion. If I had seen that man walking down the sidewalk mumbling to himself in frustration, I would have crossed to the other side of the street to avoid contact. The sidewalk just isn’t as safe as a church that leads with love. Neither is a bar or ballfield or ballet. No matter what you think about the resurrection story, organized religion still plays an important role in our society. A role that is much less about the historical recordings of fallible men trying to win readership, and much more about the safe expression of love.

In case you are wondering why the little girl was standing in the back corner of the church alone, my wife later explained that she wanted a head start to get out the door for the post-service egg hunt. So she’s a competitive little bacon lover. Putting those pieces together made me smile and giggle. That’s literally what church is all about for me. No celibate priests or abortion debates. Just humans revealing their humanity in a place safe enough for love to flourish because of our common struggles and unique idiosyncrasies.

Has there ever been a time in our global history when a place for love and community was so desperately needed? That’s why I go to church. Bacon love is optional, but tolerance and curiosity is an absolute requirement. Maybe check one out. If they are short on seats and long on love, someone will be voluntold to get you a chair.

For an alternative, religion-free, place to fill your tank and avoid the need to self-medicate with alcohol, please consider joining us in SHOUT Sobriety.

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