Dispatches from the Desk
Blessed Are the Clueless, for They Shall Wing It
Blessed Are the Clueless, for They Shall Wing It
Holy crud, it was an awkward moment.
Let me back up a little first.
My parents were already in early empty-nesters mode by the time I was born. My closest sibling was 10 years older, and my parents had let the sun set on their parenting skills. Not sure that they ever went to a parent-teacher conference or asked about homework one time. They put me on the bus in the morning, and I stepped off the bus alive at the end of the day. Mission accomplished.
There was plenty of love in the house, no doubt, but they’d adopted the “he’ll figure it out” style of parenting. I’m not complaining. I was having a blast. No other six-year-old knew olives made a martini “dirty” or that three different meats went into Stringtown Road Vegetable Soup.
[Editor’s note: This upcoming transition is so subtle it’s almost subliminal.]
I said that to say this:
This whole family setup fostered a rather dysfunctional religion experience. My parents came from different non-practicing religious backgrounds. My mom’s side of the family was Jewish, and my dad came from some sort of generic H&H Green Stamps Midwestern Christianity.
Churching it was a lot like the jazz my parents listened to at the time—improvisational. We occasionally attended a Lutheran church, which was basically a mixtape of their religious beliefs. It had all the spiritual nutrition of room-temperature soup served with polyester communion wafers. Every sermon translated directly from the original Ambien. But the Lutherans were just a pit stop. We also went to Temple and occasionally to a Catholic service. And then one place that was led by someone who looked more like an HOA Board President than a person of the cloth. Not sure what that was, but we left with cleaning supplies that cleansed our souls and toilet bowl at the same time.
Wherever we ended up, it usually matched the type of meat Dad needed from the butcher. A path to salvation was fine and all, but if that path went by the deli where we had a coupon, that was a direct message from God right there.
But for a six-year-old, it was a lot to remember. Especially since the only time they talked about church was the five minutes before we left for church. Which was also the exact moment I found out we were going to church. I was always playing catch-up in clubs and social groups that operated on inside jokes.
“Is this the one where I dip the lit candle in wine or kneel and make the sign of the cross?”
“The candle one. And try not to singe off your eyebrows this time.”
Holy Hell, even at an early age, I could tell life was going to be complicated.
Oh yeah, that awkward moment.
So I became a fairly good distance runner. I followed a simple formula. Running more makes you a more better runner. I latched on to that concept like a dog with a bone.
I eventually became good enough that people thought I did other things well. Mistake. I could do that one thing well. Nevertheless, the Fellowship of Christian Athletes thought I could bring some of my insightful religious experience to their fellowship.
I had not yet learned to say “no.” I mean, they asked for it, right?
So there I was. A theological Frankenstein and tri-state area Trivial Pursuit semifinalist who relied on pop culture for context.
I launched into my 1980’s TED Talk with bonkers enthusiastic teenage zeal. Oddly enough, I was a lot like the early version of ChatGPT. Sounded kinda smart, but I had some major hallucinations going on. During my “speech,” I referenced Julius Caesar, Saint Michael Angelo, Stonehenge, Quasimodo, Erich von Däniken, and lyrics from a Carpenters’ song. Rainy Days and Mondays hits different when you're referencing long-distance running and the afterlife.
I’m pretty sure I mixed in some accidental blasphemy, and at least two people spoke in tongues afterwards, but their reaction broke the silence. As I look back on that awkward moment now, I’m not sure everyone’s look of stunned amazement was what I thought it was.
Apologies. And amen.
Now I need to run get more olives.
The Night Desk will return to its regularly scheduled descent into meaning soon enough.
—Adam