Worship

It’s Sunday, about 11 AM, and a man I’ve just met hands me The New International Bible open to Psalm 8. It’s page 503 (my area code back home)-holler! Rows of benches face an altar inside a wood-paneled room. The man takes his place at an altar in the front of the room. A projector displays crosses and a 노래방 (noraebong-karaoke) machine trademark on a screen fixed next to the altar. The man’s wife, 시느, gives me a ride to the ferry on Monday and Friday. She belts out the 노래방 lyrics louder than anyone in the room. I can’t remember her husband’s name, but he’s the leader of this little congregation. Something about this rings familiar. I’m not home, but I’ve been here before.

My reminiscence is triggered by childhood memories of Sunday, when my mom would pry my sister and I from the tube (it was always “Ren and Stimpy”-my favorite, goddamnit) and haul us to church; Catholic Mass @ St. Pius X. In fact, nostalgia kicked in earlier when I slid-shut our ride’s van door. The unmistakable slide-and-crash sound of our 92′ Ford Aerostar’s rear side door comes to mind when I manually slide-shut a van door. It’s a sound that will forever precede many childhood. My father rarely attended these Sunday rituals. His church was behind the reigns of a dual bladed Ransom lawn mower. Tending his 2 acre kingdom of partially landscaped suburbia was, and is, I believe, the nearest to God my father may ever get in this lifetime.

This knotty wood clad church, half full of mother’s with 2.5 squirming kids, reminded me of my mother doing her duty as a good Catholic school mom. There wasn’t a single father in the joint.

After a few songs the pastor launched into his sermon. My eyes started to glaze over.

Some people slip into a holy trance by the words of a preacher. Others are deeply stimulated. I, however, hold it together in a state just slightly more conscious than sleep. As a kid, to stay awake, I would simulate my next move in the video game I had on pause, or come up with novel concepts for the characters in audience (there was this one guy with a hook for a hand…). In Korean mass I stay awake thanks to the ahjumma behind me who pokes me and turns the pages of my Korean language songbook. My girlfriend, is characteristically, showing a sick face of irritation. “I feel like I’m about to blow,” she whispers to me. To her credit this is even more difficult as “my wife.” Everyone is being extra Korean by not addressing her and ignoring my motions to include her in conversation, or introduction. After several instances of “Kelsi did this…” or “Kelsi likes that…” 시느 continues to refer to her as “my wife.”

For example: “My Wife like 김 치(kimchi)?” and “Go home with My Wife,” she says.

The woman behind me is one of the alpha females in the congregation. I know because she sings almost as loud as 시느 and her children are the best dressed and take part in the mass. At one point her daughter goes forth to recite a memorized passage (her mother coaches her from the pew). Her son plays a song on his recorder. Back in the day I avoided these kids-sons and daughters of the over involved parishioners. They had a holy aura that meant fatal ignorance of mainstream kid culture. For me, these kids existed in an inexplicable world of youth groups and bible studies. I often wonder what happened to some of them. It common for those inundated with Catholic rhetoric at a young age to be something of ticking time bomb. I should know, my childhood bubble wasn’t much more liberal.

Mass ends. I stand just in time to recover the sense of feeling in my ass and get some blood to my frozen feet; the little slippers that can’t reach my heals have epically failed. The pastor beckons us to his home next to the church. We enter the main room and sit down on the padded floor. 시느 and her cohorts are hustling in the kitchen to bring out the lunch. The women present us with a fine spread of delicious chicken, kimchi, yogurt w/fruit (good for health), and pickled radish. A woman says the peppers on the side are not hot. This is a kind gesture; everyone knows that foreigners can’t handle Korea’s fiery cuisine.

The pastor speaks some English so we do the routine exchange of age, height, religion, number of children, and countries we’ve visited. For a moment I forgot that I’d been to SE Asia. I tell him I was raised Catholic, but do not go to church anymore. He asks me if I believe in Jesus Christ. The smart-ass that I am answers: “Well that’s a difficult question. I don’t know what you mean by believe?”

He runs it down, “Jesus was born, died, and rose from the dead.” He wanted to know if I believed in the death, resurrection, ascension of Christ.

I reply: “I don’t know. I think it is an interesting story.” I know he gets the “interesting story” part because he repeated it back to me.

Then he says: “We believe in four things. God is love, man is sin, Jesus died for man’s sin, and, if we believe in Jesus, God will forgive sin.” Clear enough.

I go for a simple reply: “I believe that God is love. If I love then I can be like God and Jesus. I will be happy and have no sin.”

I don’t want to inadvertently agree with any totems or taboos constructed in a language I don’t understand. I do that enough as it is. That being said I keep it polite. It’s clear we’re both trying our best to be good folks. I’d just rather observe the sabbath by my couch and ritual. That being said I might consider coming back if I ever need a delicious chicken fix. The pastor say I’m welcome anytime (think that goes for “My Wife” too). They are good people, just not stepping to the same Sunday strut.

After a few last exchanges we leave with our ride-a mother and daughter from the parish and luncheon. The daughter keeps looking at me and taking pictures with her cell phone. She’s trying to be covert, but I can tell that she’s trying to capture the strange foreigners in the back seat. I put on chap stick and she explodes with excitement; my strange behavior. Her mother points out the “Mu Flowers.” The little yellow radish buds blanket the countryside plots. Sure, it’s beautiful. I’ve got to get home and prepare for Monday’s lesson.