While on a typical weekend excursion with the family at our cabin in a small town of the upper peninsula of Michigan, Mom decides we should go to church. In theory, it was a good idea. It never can hurt to be a little spiritual, not to mention a bit adventurous. So we set off on Sunday morning in our fanciest sweatshirts and jeans without holes in search of a church. To be perfectly honest, we were not headed to just any church, but the one that was preached to by a pastor who Dad met at the bar a few weeks back. Again, a good thing, as new friends are always exciting.
After several missed turns and non-churchy words, we arrived at a large church that has all of two cars in the parking lot. Either we walk in late and immediately double the occupancy of the service, or just find another place. We opted for plan B and skidded out of the driveway in search of another religious facility. By the time we had circled the town twice, desperation began to set in, and just as Sam had Mom convinced it was okay to just accept defeat and head home, a chapel with a large cross came into view. “Aha!” Mom exclaimed and we hurried into the church, a mere fifteen minutes late.
Little did we know our special luck, as it was not just any northern Michigan church service, but a confirmation ceremony with several uncomfortable teenagers lining the front pews in their white robes and carnation corsages. As in every church, it seems a rule to fill the pews from the back to the front, so any one who arrives late is forced to either stand for the rest of the service, or walk up the aisle past the entire congregation. Attempting to be “quiet as church mice” we sneak up the aisle and take our seats. Finally, we have gotten to the easy part where we just listen to bible stories and look around at the few townspeople who are seated in front of us.
Suddenly, from above us comes a strange noise. “Poof...poof… poof!” A foil helium-filled celebratory balloon has bounced along the ceiling into the ceiling fan. The fan batted it away and the service continued. A cute young girl walks to the altar and reads a passage, but is of course interrupted by the balloon again. “And then Je-‘poof’-sus said to ‘poof’ the disci-‘poof’-ples…” At this point the balloon has been swatted away from the fan several times, but now the ribbon hanging from the spotlight-hogging “Celebrate” balloon has gotten caught and wrapped around the base of the fan. The thwapping of the hearty balloon is startling, disturbing, and then funny as we realize that the four of us are somehow the only ones who seem to notice this strange disturbance. Furthermore, no one has even attempted to turn the fan off and the sound continues to repeat as the fan ruthlessly beats on the balloon…until “Pop!” Yes, during the priest’s sermon, the balloon finally surrenders and there are no more thwaps.
Okay, now we have reached the homestretch of this strange religious ceremony and the priest invites the congregation to join him in the consumption of the last supper. In most churches, the last supper represents the body and blood of Christ with bread and wine. Going by the unorthodox or downright odd antics of this church I should not have been surprised by the substitution of a special substance to replace the bread. As the priest held the host up and blessed it as the body of Christ, I noticed that the substance was not bread or cracker, but a strange, floppy consistency. It is hard to concentrate on forgiveness of sin when anticipating the inevitable consumption of an unknown substance that looks much like raw meat…or flesh. The line that had formed to take the communion was getting shorter as I apprehensively opened my mouth and closed my eyes so as not to see the raw flesh the priest was to place in my mouth. Seconds later it was all over and the taste in my mouth was surprisingly not meaty, but the usual flavorless taste of any other host I have eaten. Still confused as to what we just ate, the four of us return to our pew for the remainder of the service.
Following the benediction, we quickly put our jackets on and bustle back to the comfort of our mini-van. Sam often gets in the car first, but something made us all anxious to be out of there. The mini-van swerved out of the parking lot as Sam muttered to me in the back seat, “I would have been more comfortable
